Enemy and Brother (28 page)

I shrugged and passed it off as not mattering: I’d found him interesting to talk to. I returned to Elsa and led the way back toward Lord Byron Street. I had left Paul at the corner there the night before. He had a room in one of the cheap courtyard hotels under the name Michael Panyotis. I walked us slowly up one side of the street and down the other, pointing out this and that within the yards, the architecture in one, the common pump within another, children playing. The children’s presence somewhat alleviated my uneasiness. I had to content myself with that and go on.

It was Elsa who observed the conspicuous number of men in business suits on the street who did not seem to be going anywhere, and each of them alone. She pressed my arm. “Secret police?”

“Are there such in Greece?”

“I should suppose there would be with the ceremonies today, the Princess and all. The curious thing is they seem to be the same everywhere. I’ve seen such men in Britain and in the States… you know, at Embassy affairs and such. It gives one a feeling of security, recognizing them.”

“If they are what you think they are,” I said.

Elsa glanced at me. “I’ve never known an American intellectual who wasn’t suspicious—if that’s the word, it’s close to it—of the FBI.”

“There’s an obvious answer which is only partly true—but there is truth in it. It’s because the FBI is suspicious of the American intellectual.”

What might have been said to me at that moment I had to say to myself: under those circumstances, what are you doing here? But to that the answer was: John Eakins has never been political.

Elsa said, “It gives one pause. That should be characteristic only of what we call a closed society. And America’s not that.”

“No,” I said, “America’s not that.”

“What about the CIA?” There was a touch of mischief in her eye. “I understand it’s virtually staffed by intellectuals.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Also, I’d require a definition of intellectual. For example, I don’t consider myself…”

She interrupted. It wasn’t rudeness. I was mumbling as I’m apt to, dragging out my own condition by way of illustration. “You wouldn’t tell me if it were so, but I shall ask anyway: are you a CIA man?”

I smiled, sadly I think, not that she should have the notion, but that no matter what I said it would not entirely satisfy her on the point. “No. I assure you I am not.”

“I shouldn’t have minded really.” And after a moment: “Actually I may be a little disappointed.”

We narrowly missed being sucked into the mainstream of traffic heading back toward Averoff Street. Shops were closing. The children were running, hand in hand so as not to be separated, to their appointed places. They wore the short blue tunics, boys and girls, with high puffy bloomers underneath. Women were coming into the streets in the Epirot costume, the heavily brocaded skirts of red and black, the tight bodices with loose-flowing sleeves of lace and the ornate silver buckles at the waist.

“I love the costumes, but I hate parades,” Elsa said. We saw the soldiers, standing now at ease, but their ranks extending as far as eye could see. “Especially military parades.”

We turned back and started toward the lake. It was a long way round, but the most interesting. In all the side streets little organizational groups of native cultural origins were forming. Many of them were singing to bide the time. It was the singing, I think, that made me look at them more closely. I think I knew before I saw him: there was Paul in the midst of a chorus and clad in the costume common to all the group: the black-belted tunic coming to above his knees, the white, narrow-legginged breeches, a small round cap atop his head. My brother, I thought, was Everyman.

It was after twelve o’clock when we got back to the car and drove the few blocks to the hotel. People were returning from the parade by then. We met Helmi in the lobby, pacing and waiting, I supposed, for Elena.

He kissed Elsa on either cheek. “Have you seen my little Cassandra?” he asked with unabashed sentimentality. “She is like a child about parades. Well! Shall we have a drink and allow her to find us?”

We proceeded to the terrace. Poor Elsa, I thought, she was never going to get settled in properly. But she caught my hand as I offered it to guide her down the step, and squeezed it reassuringly.

Helmi left us briefly to instruct the hall porter on where Elena might find him. Elsa said, “This Colonel Frontis, is he a handsome man? I meant to ask you.”

“Rather. What some people would call an aristocratic face.”

“Whatever in God’s name that is,” she said, but lifted her head and smiled as Helmi rejoined us. “Elena is playing Cassandra! She will be lovely.”

He was immaculately dressed in white linen. The ring on his finger glittered as he offered his cigarette case. “Tell her that, Elsa. From you it will mean something special.”

And when Elena joined us—a wisp of beauty, I thought, her long hair flowing—I could not keep my straight-laced mind from judging: Helmi would be twice her age. Elsa repeated the compliment to the actress.

“You are so sweet,” she said, and then with a kind of limpid melancholy: “Ah, but it is not Hecuba I am playing.”

Helmi made a little noise of reproval. She put her hand on his.

I said somewhat sonorously, “What is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?”

Everyone laughed and before our drinks came we were talking of the parade, the spirit of the Epirots whom Helmi called more Greek than Greeks. Paul, I remembered, had said just the opposite of some of them.

Elena ordered luncheon, having to go to dress rehearsal shortly. I was myself beginning to get uneasy about the time. I suggested that we all have lunch.

“It is so very exciting,” Elena said, “and I simply must not think about it. Really, I don’t want to see you or you until tonight.” She looked from Helmi to me, and was at least half-serious. “Only my friend Elsa.”

“You are behaving like a bride,” Helmi said.

Elena blushed. It had the makings of an awkward moment, but Elsa leaped in: “You were at the wedding on Corfu, Elena.”

“Oh, yes. Everyone was there. I mean, well—I was so pleased, you see, to have been included. Constantin could not attend, poor man. He was in court that week.”

The lawyer stirred uneasily. He turned his empty glass and peremptorily signalled the waiter.

“I am grateful to you for tonight’s invitation,” I said, not helping Elsa in the least.

He murmured that it had been his pleasure, and gave the waiter his order. I demurred at a second drink. Meanwhile Elsa had spoken to Elena, so that it was the actress who said:

“He is so elegant—and so tragic. Constantin, you told once the story of Colonel Frontis.”

“I shouldn’t call him tragic today,” Helmi said. He seemed relieved to have gotten off the subject of the Braschi marriage. “He’s one of the most influential men in the army.”

“I’ve seen his name,” I said. “In some way he’s associated with the government crisis, isn’t he?”

“Remotely, you might say. It was his Intelligence that precipitated things.”

“But do tell his story,” Elena persisted.

The faintest smile of satisfaction glanced Elsa’s lips. She did not look at me.

Helmi lit a cigarette. “He was a junior officer at the time of the Italo-Albanian invasion, and I’ve been told one of the brilliant young field officers—with too much daring, as it turned out. He and a small platoon of men were cut off from our army, and taken prisoner. The Germans at that point were about to move. Frontis was turned over to them. Eventually he was interned at Auschwitz, where he remained throughout the war. Auschwitz, you will remember, was liberated by the Russians—who did not, however, liberate Frontis. He was charged with collaborating with the Nazis in Auschwitz and shipped to a labor camp—as though five years in Auschwitz were not enough for any man, eh?

“Our government made numerous representations—through the U.N.—through every possible intermediary. Finally—in what year? 1951, I believe; I know our troubles had finally been settled—he was repatriated….”

Nineteen fifty-one. I was a moment comprehending the significance. Then it struck me! While Frontis was supposedly in a Russian labor camp, Demetrios was Soviet liaison to the Greek Communists. Mother of God! Was he still with them? But of course! This was the real significance of the blinding of Paul Stephanou. It was not that Webb’s murder could be attributed to Frontis-Demetrios, but that Stephanou could name him as a traitor to Greece, a Soviet agent.

I forced my concentration back to what Helmi was telling of the repatriation, then the rehabilitation process.

“… There was the necessity of an international body taking testimony on the collaborationist charges. He was, needless to say, completely exonerated. He was restored to his army rank, promoted, and I would suppose given some choice in his assignment.”

“He would, of course, be a ruthless hunter of Communists,” I said.

“Understandably, wouldn’t you say?”

The waitress was waiting for our luncheon order. To this day I don’t know what I ordered or what I ate. When she was gone, I said with an affected detachment I should not have immediately managed: “It’s interesting, thinking back to our talk that night at Dr. Palandios’: wasn’t the same charge of Nazi collaboration made against Webb’s wife—in Iran, was it? It was how they met, Webb’s acting as intermediary for her release.”

Helmi said, “Professor Eakins, if you will permit me, I would recommend that you forget the Webb case. It is closed, but there is nothing the Communists would like better today than to see it reopened.”

He believed what he said: it rang with the feeling of truth, and so would believe an entire strata of Greeks, honest patriots all. Who in Greece knew otherwise? That was the question now. Who knew Frontis for what he was?

I had murmured that he was probably right.

But Elsa said with a blithe persistence, “It is fascinating, you must admit, Mr. Helmi, that Count Braschi is a descendant of Scanderbeg.”

He had been about to take a drink. He put the glass down carefully, his eyes following it all the way. Then he looked at Elsa and at me. “Yes, it is fascinating,” he said, “and of course, it is so.”

She had, I was sure, put things in a new perspective for him, and one that for the moment at least disturbed him.

“Who is Scanderbeg?” Elena asked.

He smiled at her, a disarming, paternal smile. “It is another story I shall tell you, my darling. But not now. You have a mad scene to play tonight—and madness is a matter of concentration—all kinds of madness.”

“But I do not want to concentrate. I do not want to think until rehearsal. What time is it now?” He laughed at her abrupt concern for that about which she did not want to think. “He is a kind man,” she said then, a seeming
non sequitur
until she added, “What I meant to say: after so many years in a concentration camp, you would think…. I don’t know what you’d think, but in the parade this morning—he was taking the salutes, you know? He stepped out to speak to a blind man who was singing in a choral group. It was very touching.”

God in heaven! Fear for Paul rose like vomit in my throat. I wanted to run, but I didn’t. To run and search and call attention? He would have answered to a question, those blind eyes blinking: “My name is Michael Panyotis and I sing the glory of Greece!”

Luncheon was served. I forced myself to eat. No one spoke very much. Elsa told a little of Shepherd’s work in Knossos. I remembered that he was an expert in seals and signets. Mercifully, Elena announced against dessert. The driver would be waiting for her. Even I managed to wish her luck. I thought I would be able to get away then too and signalled for the luncheon check, but Helmi said:

“I wish to speak to you, Eakins. I’ll be right back. In the garden, perhaps, if you will excuse us, Elsa.”

Elsa gave my arm a comforting squeeze and went finally to check in at the desk.

Helmi took Elena to the car. It was one-fifteen. Paul would be waiting for me at the lake if… if. Helmi returned. He protested my having signed the luncheon check, took my arm and led me down the steps. The dining room and terrace now were crowded. We found a shaded bench. The sprinklers were on, the sunlight making rainbows of the watery arches.

“It is a rare experience to anticipate a pattern of history,” he said. “I should suppose the possibility has occurred to you also. I wonder if it is so?”

“One sees the pattern. It can be changed.”

“Ah, but can it? That is the question. And should it be? I wish before God my trust was greater in the personal integrity of certain people—the Deputy Chaconis, for example, who is our host tonight. He is a passionate nationalist. He is a wealthy man who is also a politician. There is no end to which he would not go to unite the two Epirots. What it is necessary to know: by whom is he being used—if indeed there is anything to what we are talking about except in our imaginations.”

“The people of Epirus are excited,” I said. “Someone is spreading the gospel.”

“I have noticed that, but it is not yet at a height sufficient. You do not know the Greeks!”

I said, “Suppose… just suppose there is a plan, a pattern set for—shall we be bold and call it the overthrow of the present regime in Albania: how would it start, and when?”

“It is what I have thought about during luncheon: it would be a matter of a border incident perhaps. But first the preparation, certain people on either side of the border—they are one race, one blood, and sometimes one religion. They have in common hundreds of years of Turkish domination. The incident, whatever it is, would perhaps occur on the twenty-first of February, the anniversary of Epirot independence.”

“Could Colonel Frontis command the loyalty of the Greek army?”

“It would not be necessary. Perhaps he might be doing the preparatory work now—it is a possible explanation of the army purges—but if an incident occurred, it would be perfectly in order for certain of our troops to move for the protection of the border. And the people: among them it would be spontaneous—and perhaps magnificent. That is what one wishes to know. One of the things I have been told and can now believe—your CIA is very active among us today. But one cannot forget, you will forgive me, Professor Eakins—the Bay of Pigs.”