Spies of the Balkans

Emilia Krebs when she’d tried to bribe her way past the customs officials.

In the event, it was the train’s engineer who made the decision. He did not slow down for Kavala, he sped up. Zannis soon saw why. On the station platform, a huge mob of people yelled and waved as the train rumbled past them.

And then, another two hours on, at Alexandroupolis station, the same.

“Where’s he taking us?” the man next to Zannis said.

“Edirne. Turkey.”

“Well, my wife is waiting for me in Alexandroupolis. She will be extremely annoyed.”

Zannis shrugged. “We’re at war,” he said.

Edirne. 3:50 P.M. Slowly, the passengers climbed down off the train and joined a long snake of a line, maintained by Greek and Turkish gendarmes who tapped their palms with wooden batons by way of enforcing discipline. Rumors ran up and down the line-some people had visas, and they were allowed to enter Turkey. Those who didn’t were being sent back to Greece. This was apparently the case, since a crowd of passengers, looking weary and defeated, began to gather on the Greek side of the customs post.

“Will we get in?” Demetria said.

“We’ll try.”

“Do you need money?”

“I have Swiss francs, more than enough.” If they’ll take them.

But they wouldn’t.

When Zannis and Demetria approached the desk, the Turkish officer said, “Passports and visas, please.”

“Here are the passports,” Zannis said. “We have no visas.”

“You will return to Greece. Next!”

Zannis brought his hand from his pocket, holding a wad of Swiss francs. The officer met his eyes and began to tap a pencil on his table. “If you dare-” he said.

“Excuse me.” This was reeled off in several languages: German, Spanish, French, and English, by a man who had somehow appeared at the table. The officer stared at him-what did he want? Who was he? Bald, with a fringe of dark hair, eyeglasses, and a sparse mustache, he wasn’t much: a short, inconsequential little fellow in a tired suit, Mr. Nobody from Nowhere. Now that he had their attention, he consulted a slip of paper in his hand and, speaking to Zannis in French, said, “You are Strathos?”

“No, Zannis. Constantine Zannis.”

The man studied the paper. “Oh, of course, my mistake, you’re Zannis. Strathos is somebody else.” He turned to the officer, drew an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, slid out a letter typed in Turkish, and showed it to the officer. Who stood, saluted Zannis, and said, “Forgive me, Captain Zannis, but I didn’t realize…. You are not in uniform. The lady is with you?”

“She is.”

“Please,” he said, his hand extended, welcoming them to Turkey.

As the little man led them toward a dusty Renault, Zannis said, “Captain Zannis?”

“That’s right. You’re an officer in the British army. Didn’t you know?”

“I didn’t,” Zannis said.

“Oh well,” said the little man. “Always surprises, in this life.”

Once the suitcases had been put in the trunk and they were under way, the little man got around to introducing himself. “S. Kolb,” he said. “That’s what some people call me, though most don’t call me anything at all. And, unfortunately, there are those who call me terrible names, but I try, when that happens, to be elsewhere.”

Zannis translated for Demetria, sitting in the backseat. Then said to Kolb, “We’re going south, not to Istanbul.”

“We’re going to Smyrna, I mean, Izmir. I can never get used to that.”

He was a woeful driver, gripping the wheel as though he meant to choke it, squinting through the cloudy window, slow as a snail and impervious to the horns honking behind him. After battling his way around a gentle curve, he said, “You’ll work there, in Smyrna-ah, Izmir. Though I think they meant for you to be in Alexandria, to begin with. Meetings, you know, with the big brass.”

“We couldn’t get to Alexandria, a bomb hit the ship at the dock.” Zannis wondered, briefly, how Kolb knew he’d come to Edirne by rail, then recalled Sami Pal, sitting in the lobby of the Lux Palace.

“The Bakir?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, too bad, I liked the old Bakir. Anyhow, a lot of Greeks are coming out of the country, and a few of them we’ll send back. Resistance operations, spy missions, the usual, into occupied Greece. And we want you to run the Smyrna part of that-it’s an important job. Ever been there?”

“I haven’t.”

“Well, there’s a big British expatriate community, and you’ll find a way to get along with the Turks, no?”

“Of course,” Zannis said.

“You’ll have to sign a few papers, but there’s time for that.”

Zannis turned halfway around in the seat, hung his arm over the back, and told Demetria what Kolb had said. “Smyrna, of all places,” was her only response, though she took his hand for a moment. A small gesture, for a couple who had indulged themselves in every possible intimacy, but it meant something, that late afternoon in Turkey, we’re safe for the moment, safe from a brutal world, and together, something like that.

On 27 April, 1941, Wehrmacht forces occupied Athens and, at 8:35 that morning, German motorcycle troops appeared at the Acropolis and raised the swastika flag. Some weeks later, at the end of May, two Athenian teenagers slipped past German sentries and took it down.

From the Tulsa Star-Tribune, 5 June, 1942:

A new bookstore is coming to town. Two of our newer residents, the sisters Hedy and Frieda Rosenblum, will be opening The Bookmark tomorrow at 46 S. Cheyenne Ave. next to Corky’s Downtown Cafe. The Rosenblum sisters, who’ve been working at the library, were brought to town under the sponsorship of Dr. Harry Gutmann, a local dentist, from New York City. Before that, they managed to escape from Hitler’s Nazis and are writing a book about their experiences. The Bookmark will carry all the latest bestsellers and will have a special section for children’s books.