“Skata! My memory!” Vangelis said. Then, “It’s all my fault, Costa. But no matter, here we are.”
Vasilou was taller than Zannis, lean and straight-backed, with a prominent beak of a nose, sharp cheekbones, ripples of oiled silver hair combed back from his forehead, and a thin line for a mouth. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said, his eyes measuring Zannis. Friend? Foe? Prey?
They ordered a second bottle of retsina, with lamb and potatoes to follow, and they talked. The war, the local politics, the city, the weather, the war. Eventually the main course showed up and they talked some more. Zannis contributed little, his status well below that of his partners at luncheon. Smiled at their quips, nodded at their insights, tried not to get food on his tie. Finally, as triangles of tired-looking baklava arrived on the club’s French china, Vangelis excused himself to go to the bathroom.
The businessman Vasilou wasted no time. “The commissioner tells me that you need, how shall we say … private money? A secret fund?”
“That’s true,” Zannis said. He sensed that Vasilou had not made up his mind, so the instinct to persuade, to say more, to say too much, was strong inside him but, with difficulty, he fought it off.
“Money that cannot, he tells me, come from the city treasury.”
Zannis nodded. After a moment he said, “Would you like me to explain?”
“No, not the details,” Vasilou said, protecting himself. “How much are we talking about?”
Zannis gave the number in drachma, two hundred and fifty thousand, his tone neutral, and not dramatic. “It will have to be paid out in dollars,” he said, “the way life works in Europe these days.”
“A lot of money, my friend. Something short of twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“I know,” Zannis said, looking gloomy. “Perhaps too much?”
Vasilou did not take the bait and play the tycoon. He looked, instead, thoughtful-what am I getting myself into? The silence grew, Zannis became aware of low conversation at other tables, the discreet music of lunch in a private dining room. Vasilou looked away, toward the window, then met Zannis’s eyes and held them. “Can you confirm,” he said, “that this money will be spent for the benefit of our country?”
“Of course it will be.” That was a lie.
And Vasilou almost knew it, but not quite. “You’re sure?” was the best he could do.
“You have my word,” Zannis said.
Vasilou paused, then said, “Very well.” Not in his voice, it wasn’t very well, but he’d been trapped and had no way out.
Vangelis returned to the table but did not sit down. “I’ve got to forgo the baklava,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“They will wrap it up for you,” Vasilou said, looking for the waiter.
“No, no. Another time. And I really shouldn’t.” Vangelis shook hands with both of them and made his way out of the dining room.
“A valued friend,” Vasilou said. “He speaks well of you, you know.”
“I owe him a great deal. Everything. And he believes in … what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I know he does, he said he did.” Vasilou paused, then said, “He also told me you might some day become commissioner of police, here in Salonika.”
“Far in the future,” Zannis said. “So I don’t think about things like that.” But you’d better.
Vasilou reached inside his jacket-revealing a swath of white silk lining-and took out a checkbook and a silver pen. “Made out to you? In your name?” he said. “You can convert this to dollars at the bank.” Vasilou wrote out the check, signed it, and handed it to Zannis.
They spoke briefly, after that, a reprise of the lunch conversation, then left the club together. Walked down the stairs and out the front door, where a white Rolls-Royce was idling at the curb. As they said good-bye, Zannis looked over Vasilou’s shoulder. The face of the woman, staring out the window of the backseat, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Olive skin, golden hair-truly gold, not blond-pulled straight back, eyes just barely suggesting an almond shape, as though wrought by a Byzantine painter.
Vasilou turned to see what Zannis was looking at and waved to the woman. For an instant her face was still, then it came alive, like an actress before the camera: the corners of the full lips turned up, but the rest of the perfect face remained perfectly composed. Flawless.
“Can we drop you somewhere?” Vasilou said. He didn’t mean it; Zannis had had from him all he was going to get for one day.
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
Slowly, the window of the Rolls was lowered. She was wearing a bronze-colored silk shirt and a pearl necklace just below her throat. “Can you get in front, darling?” she said. “I’ve got packages in back.”
Vasilou gave Zannis a certain look: women, they shop. A chauffeur slid from behind the wheel, circled the car, and opened the front door.
“Again, thank you,” Zannis said.
Vasilou nodded, brusque and dismissive, as though Zannis, by taking his money, had become a servant. Then walked quickly to his car.
26 December. Berlin.
Only the wealthy could afford to live in the Dahlem district of Berlin, a neighborhood of private homes with gardens. The houses were powerfully built, of sober stone or brick, often three stories high, sometimes with a corner tower, while the lawns and plantings were kept with the sort of precision achieved only by the employment of gardeners. However, in the last month of 1940, hidden here and there-one didn’t want to be seen to acknowledge shortage-were the winter remains of vegetable gardens. Behind a fieldstone wall, a rabbit hutch. And the rising of the weak sun revealed the presence of two or three roosters. In Dahlem! But the war at sea was, in Berlin and all of Germany, having its effect.
At five-thirty, on a morning that seemed to her cruelly cold, wet, and dark, Emilia Krebs rang the chime on the door of the Gruen household. She too lived in Dahlem, not far away, but she might have driven had not gasoline become so severely rationed. When the door was answered, by a tall distinguished-looking gentleman, Emilia said, “Good morning, Herr Hartmann.” That was Herr Gruen’s new name, his alias for the journey to Salonika.
He nodded, yes, I know, and said, “Hello, Emmi.”
Emilia carried a thermos of real coffee, hard to find these days, and a bag of freshly baked rolls, made with white flour. Stepping inside, she found the Gruen living room almost barren, what with much of the furniture sold. On the walls, posters had been tacked up to cover the spaces where expensive paintings had once hung. The telephone sat on the floor, its cord unplugged from the wall-the Gestapo could listen to your conversation if the phone was plugged in. She greeted Frau Gruen, as pale and exhausted as her husband, then went to the coat closet in the hall and opened the door. The Gruens’ winter coats, recently bought from a used-clothing stall, were heavily worn but acceptable. They mustn’t, she knew, look like distressed aristocracy.
Emilia Krebs tried, at least, to be cheerful. The Gruens-he’d been a prominent business attorney-were old friends, faithful friends, but today they would be leaving Germany. Their money was almost all gone, their car was gone, soon the house would be gone, and word had reached them from within the Nazi administration-from Herr Gruen’s former law clerk-that by the end of January they would be gone as well. They were on a list, it was simply a matter of time.
Frau Gruen poured coffee into chipped mugs but refused a roll. “I can’t eat,” she said, apology in her voice. She was short and plump and had, in better times, been the merriest sort of woman-anyone could make her laugh. Now she followed Emilia’s eyes to a corner of the living room where a green fedora-like slouch hat rested on a garden chair. “Let me show you, Emmi,” she said, retrieving the hat and setting it on her head, tilting the brim over one eye. “So?” she said. “How do I look?”