By the second week in November, Greek forces had crossed the Albanian border and taken the important town of Koritsa, several small villages, and the port of Santi Quaranta, which meant that Greece’s British ally could resupply the advance more efficiently. At the beginning of the war, they’d had to bring their ships into the port of Piraeus. Also, on Tuesday of that week, Zannis’s Yugoslav counterpart showed up. He was accompanied by a corporal who carried, along with his knapsack, a metal suitcase of the sort used to transport a wireless/telegraph. The two of them stood there, dripping on the tiles just inside the doorway of the school.
“Let’s go find a taverna,” Zannis said to the officer. “Your corporal can get himself settled in upstairs.”
Zannis led the way toward the main square, a waterproof groundcloth draped over his head and shoulders. The reservists had discovered that their overcoats, once soaked, never dried out, so they used what was available and walked around Trikkala looking like monks in green cowls.
“I’m called Pavlic,” the officer said. “Captain Pavlic. Reserve captain, anyhow.”
“Costa Zannis. Lieutenant Zannis, officially.”
They shook hands awkwardly as they walked. Zannis thought Pavlic was a few years older than he was, with a weatherbeaten face, sand-colored hair, and narrow eyes with deep crow’s-feet at the corners, as though he’d spent his life at sea, perpetually on watch.
“Your Greek is very good,” Zannis said.
“It should be. I grew up down here, in Volos; my mother was half Greek and my father worked for her family. I guess that’s why I got this job.” They walked for a time, then Pavlic said, “Sorry I’m so late, by the way. I was on a British freighter and we broke down-had to go into port for repairs.”
“You didn’t miss anything, not too much happens around here.”
“Still, I’m supposed to report in, every day. We have another officer in Janina, and there’s a big hat, a colonel, at your General Staff headquarters in Athens. It’s all a formality, of course, unless we mobilize. And, believe me, we won’t do any such thing.”
In the taverna, rough plank tables were crowded with local men and reservists, the air was dense with cigarette smoke and the smell of spilled retsina, and a fire of damp grapevine prunings crackled and sputtered on a clay hearth. It didn’t provide much heat but it was a very loud fire, and comforting in its way. The boy who served drinks saw them standing there, rushed over and said, “Find a place to sit,” but there was no table available so they stood at the bar. Zannis ordered two retsinas. “The retsina is good here,” he said. “Local.” When the drinks came, Zannis raised his glass. “To your health.”
“And to yours.” When he’d had a sip, Pavlic said, “You’re right, it is good. Where are you from?”
“Salonika. I’m a policeman there.”
“No!”
“Don’t like the police?”
“Hell, it isn’t that, I’m one also.”
“You are? Really? Where?”
“Zagreb.”
“Skata! A coincidence?”
“Maybe your General Staff did it on purpose.”
“Oh, yes, of course you’re right. You can trust a policeman.”
From Pavlic, a wry smile. “Most of the time,” he said.
Zannis laughed. “We do what we have to, it’s true,” he said. “Are you a detective, in Zagreb?”
“I was, for twenty years, and I expect you know all about that. But now, the last year or so, I’m in charge of the cars, the motor pool.”
“Your preference?”
“Not at all. It was a, how should I put this, it was a political transfer. The people who run the department, the commissioner and his friends at city hall, were reached.”
“Reached.” Such things happened all the time, but Zannis couldn’t stop himself from being shocked when he heard about it. “Bribed?”
“No, not bribed. Intimidated? Persuaded? Who knows, I don’t. What happened was that I didn’t hold back, in fact worked extra hard, investigating certain crimes. Crimes committed by the Ustashi-Croatian fascists, and great friends with Mussolini; they take money from him. Maybe you’re aware of that.”
“I’m not. But it’s no surprise.”
“Of course they consider themselves patriots, fighters in the struggle for Croatian independence-they sing about it, in the bars-but in fact they’re terrorists, Balkan Nazis. And when it was reported that they’d beaten somebody up, or burned his house down, or murdered him in front of his family-their favored method, by the way-I went after them. I hunted them down. Not that they stayed in jail, they didn’t, but it was a matter of honor for me. And not just me. There were plenty of us.”
Zannis’s face showed what he felt: disgust. “Still,” he said, after a moment, “it could have been worse.”
“That’s true. I’m lucky to be alive. But you know how it goes-you can’t take that into account, not when you do what we do.”
“No, you can’t. At least I can’t. I’m a fatalist, I guess.” Zannis drank the last of his retsina, caught the eye of the woman behind the bar, raised his empty glass and wiggled it. The woman quickly brought two more. Pavlic started to pay but Zannis beat him to it, tossing coins on the bar. “I’m the host,” he said. “Here in scenic Trikkala.”
“All right. My turn next time.” Pavlic raised his glass to Zannis, drank some retsina, reached into the inside pocket of his uniform tunic, and brought out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you smoke? Try one of these.”
On the packet, a bearded sailor looked out through a life preserver. “Players,” Zannis said. “English?”
“Yes. I got them on the freighter.” Pavlic lit their cigarettes with a steel lighter. “What do you do, in Salonika?”
“I run a small office where we take care of … special cases. We deal with the rich and powerful, foreigners, diplomats-whatever’s a little too sensitive for the regular detectives. I report to the commissioner, who’s been a good friend to me, for a long time.”
“Lucky.”
“Yes.”
“But you have something similar to the Ustashi: the IMRO-they used to work together, if I have my history right. What is it, Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization?”
“It is. And founded in Salonika, back in the last century. They’re Slavic Macedonians, Bulgarians mostly, who think they’re going to have a separate Macedonia. But, thank heaven, they’ve been quiet for a few years.”
“More luck-especially for your Salonika Jews. Because our Jews, in Zagreb, are right at the top of the Ustashi list. They’d like to get rid of the Serbs, and the Croat politicians who oppose them, but they really have it in for the Jews. If the Ustashi ever took control of the city, well …”
Zannis heard the words our Jews as though Pavlic had emphasized them. For some reason, a fleeting image of Emilia Krebs crossed his mind. “That won’t happen in Salonika,” he said. “Not with IMRO, not with anybody.”
“It’s a damn shame, what’s being done to them, up in Germany. And the police just stand there and watch.” Pavlic’s face showed anger, his policeman’s heart offended by the idea of criminals allowed to do whatever they wanted. “Politics,” he said, as though the word were an oath.
For a time they stood in silence, sipping their retsinas, and smoked their English cigarettes. Then Pavlic nodded toward the window and said, “Here’s some good news, anyhow.”
Through the cloudy glass, past the dead flies on the windowsill, Zannis saw that the wet street in front of the tavern was steaming. “At last,” he said. “It’s been raining for days.”
Pavlic stubbed out his cigarette, making ready to leave the taverna. “Once my corporal gets his wireless running, I’ll let them know up in Belgrade: ‘Pavlic reporting. The sun’s come out.’”
Zannis smiled as he followed Pavlic through the door. The captain stopped for a moment and closed his eyes as he raised his face to the sun. “By the way,” he said, “I’m called Marko.”
“Costa,” Zannis said. And they headed back to the school.