The Thread (30 page)

If the main concentration of the army had not still been in Albania, then perhaps there might have been a stronger front to resist the next attack made on Greek territory. This came with terrifying and irresistible force at the beginning of April.

Sweeping over the border from Yugoslavia, the German troops came with such speed that the Greek and British forces could not stop them.

The people of Thessaloniki held their breath. Even the spring leaves seemed not to stir. The streets were silent as everyone waited. Theirs was the first major city that the Germans would reach.

‘Isn’t there something we should be doing?’ Kyria Moreno asked her husband, tearfully wringing her hands. It was an extraordinary situation to know that it was only a matter of time before the Germans arrived.

‘I really don’t think so, my dear,’ he said calmly. ‘I think we just have to see what happens. We’ve all got work to do, haven’t we?’

‘Yes, I suppose that will keep our minds off it all.’

Kyrios Moreno was right. There was nothing that anyone could do.

Though many had loathed the man, the death of Metaxas three months earlier had left the country without strong leadership and resolve, even within the army itself. The strength to resist the German invasion was lacking.

On 9 April 1941, the tanks rolled in.

I
N THESSALONIKI
, people were well used to hearing different languages: Greek, Arabic, Ladino, French, English, Bulgarian, Russian and Serbian were all distinguishable to people even if they did not speak them. These sounds were like musical compositions that flowed around their streets. They did not need to be understood, but their intermingling notes were part of the city’s texture and, like chords, made music that was pleasing to the ear.

Now there was a sound that was less familiar to most ears: German. As soon as the occupying troops arrived, the people of Thessaloniki heard the orders barked between Germans to each other, and then at themselves. It added to their sense of unease.

‘I think we just carry on as normally as we can for now,’ said Kyria Moreno to Katerina, a few days after the occupation.

It was not really as though they had a choice, but in the Moreno workshop there was so much work to be done that they had little time to worry about what might be taking place outside in the street. The Morenos, as all Jews in Thessaloniki, were not unaware of the way in which the Nazis had persecuted the Jewish population in Germany. It made them anxious, but not unduly afraid. They felt some level of safety in numbers. There were, after all, nearly fifty thousand of them in Thessaloniki. The Moreno workshop was a cocoon within which they could very happily continue as though nothing had changed and, once bent over their various tasks, the act of concentration helped distance them from the outside world.

‘Perhaps Elias will come back soon?’ Katerina ventured.

She knew that her employers were losing sleep over their younger son and, now that the Germans had invaded, Katerina hoped that both he and Dimitri might come home. After all, what was there for them to do? The Germans were on their way to Athens and the Greeks were as good as defeated, even if most people did not like to admit it.

‘I hope so, Katerina,’ Roza said, with the hint of a smile. ‘I hope so.’

Meanwhile, it was important to keep their spirits raised, and that week, in spite of Esther Moreno’s obvious disapproval, they did not wait until the end of the day to put on the gramophone. Sofia Vembo’s sweet and tuneful voice sang out every day over the finishing room. It cheered them all as they stitched to the rhythm.

For the first week after the invasion, life continued almost as normal except that olive oil and cheese became almost immediately unavailable.

‘I’m sure they’ll reappear on the shelves again soon,’ Eugenia said to Katerina optimistically. She had lived through plenty of shortages before.

For Katerina, the first significant indication of change was when she got to the workroom and the magnificent wedding gown that she had almost completed was no longer hanging on the dummy. It had been removed.

‘Where’s …?’ Katerina started to ask, with a hint of indignation in her voice, striding up to the naked tailor’s dummy.

She turned to Kyria Moreno and realised that she was in tears.

‘I’ve put it away for now,’ Kyria Moreno answered, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. ‘The wedding has been postponed.’

Katerina was speechless. She had been working on the dress for four months and she knew it had to be completed by the end of May.

‘But why? What’s happened?’

Katerina was dry-mouthed. Something awful must have happened to the poor bride.

Kyria Moreno was wringing her hands. A few other workers had arrived in the workroom, and all of them asked the same question.

‘Where’s the dress?’

The wedding gown had become a great focal point. Even in the Moreno workshop, it had pushed the boundaries of ambition and extravagance. The bride, Allegra Levi, who had been in for a fitting the week before, had wanted to look like a European princess, and this was what they had achieved for her.

Kyria Moreno began to explain. She spoke quietly, as though she did not want to be heard outside the room.

‘They’ve arrested Kyrios Levi.’

She faced a barrage of questions: ‘When?’ ‘What for?’

‘He is not the only one. They have arrested other council members and community leaders. For no reason.’

Isaac had come into the room.

‘There is a reason, Mother, and we all know it,’ he said bluntly. ‘It’s because they’re Jewish.’

There was silence in the room. The spectre of anti-Semitism had returned, and the hope that they could ‘carry on as normal’ ended there. Within a month, other anti-Jewish measures had been implemented. The Jews were obliged to hand in their radios. Kyrios Moreno rarely bothered with the music that was played on the radio, but he always listened to the news.

‘Let’s simply
not
hand it over,’ said Isaac. ‘They aren’t going to know, are they?’

‘It’s too much of a risk,’ said his father.

‘Well, they haven’t said we can’t have gramophones, have they?’ said Kyria Moreno. ‘So I’m going to hide that away. They’re not going to take away our music.’

Three days later, they had their first visit from two German officers. They were accompanied by a young Greek man, who interpreted for both sides.

Having carried out the order to hand in their radio, the Morenos were unsure of why the Germans had come.

‘They are here to inspect your premises,’ said the interpreter. ‘And you appreciate that a lot of Jews have had their businesses taken out of their hands.’

The young man’s confidence that the Germans spoke not a word of Greek allowed him to be very free with how he talked to Kyrios Moreno.

‘I don’t think that’s what they want to do here. If you’re careful, you should be all right,’ he added.

The officers asked to see every room. The tailors and seamstresses automatically stopped what they were doing and stood up when they entered. It was not out of respect, it just seemed the safest thing to do.

The younger of the two officers ran his hand along the rolls of wool in the storeroom. He seemed particularly interested in some fine woollens and stopped to examine them. Finally, he pulled out a roll and dropped it with a thump on the cutting table.

‘
Dieser!
’ he barked. ‘That one!’

‘They want suits, you see,’ the interpreter told Saul Moreno. ‘With your skills, you should be safe. There’s no point in them kicking you out of here. It’s not just the fabric – they could get that elsewhere – but your workmanship. Your reputation has already reached them. You’re lucky!’

‘So, better get measuring.’

Saul Moreno called in his top men’s tailor and, with almost obsequious attention, began to note their measurements.

The interpreter skilfully moved between German and Greek, speaking with obvious respect and formality to the two officers.

A conversation of sorts began between Kyrios Moreno and the more senior of the two officers.

‘Let me tell you how we heard about you …’ the officer said.

He described, gloatingly, the house they had requisitioned for themselves to live in.

‘It is somewhere close to the White Tower,’ he said. ‘A marvellous place and the family are very cultured and give us such excellent hospitality. They have two daughters and a very fine Steinway – and an excellent cook in the house.’

There were not many people in Thessaloniki with a Steinway piano. Isaac, who had not left his father’s side, exchanged a look with Saul.

In the next breath, the officer confirmed what they had already guessed.

‘I complimented Kyria Levi on her dress. It looked like something from the best couturier in Berlin or even Paris!’ he said. ‘So she took us on a little tour of her wardrobe, and there they were! Rows and rows of beautiful gowns – all with your labels! I hope to bring my wife over in the next few months, so I know this will be her first port of call. May we congratulate you!’

The younger officer then joined in. ‘And then we had a look at Kyrios Levi’s suits. Pity the trousers end halfway up our shins. We wouldn’t be here now if he wasn’t so short!’

Something followed that the young Greek did not bother to translate and the two officers laughed together.

The thought of these two rifling through the cupboards and dressing room of one of their best customers, who was currently imprisoned, sickened the tailor.

The interpreter then spoke to Kyrios Moreno: ‘I gather that they will be recommending this place to all their colleagues. So, if you work well for them there is no reason for them to shut you down. They aren’t planning to pay you the going rate, but I think you’re safe enough. They’re a vain bunch, these officers, so make them look as dapper as you can.’

As soon as they had left, Kyrios Moreno gathered his staff together. Everyone had seen the German officers.

‘We have some new customers,’ he told them, ‘and we must make sure we produce only our best work for them.’

They all went back to work, but the tension was palpable. Everyone in the workshop was Jewish except for Katerina. In the finishing room, someone put on a new rebetika record, with the volume turned down low.

Despite the strange tranquillity at night, parts of the city teemed with life during the day. Tens of thousands of refugees began to flood into the city from Bulgaria, swelling the huge number of people who were already on the breadline. Wheat, cheese, nuts, oil, olives and fruit were being shipped out of the country by the Germans, so the shortages deepened and the queues at the soup kitchens lengthened. Commodities that had disappeared from the shelves never reappeared and even basic foodstuffs were only available on the black market.

The evening of the day the Nazi officers had visited the Moreno premises, Katerina walked home with Kyria Moreno. As they passed one of the pastry shops close to Irini Street, she noticed a new sign in the window. Perhaps it had been there for days – she was not sure – or possibly she noticed it because there was not much else in the window. With the ever diminishing supply of raw ingredients available, the usual range and quantity of sweets no longer filled the display shelves.

‘
JEWS NOT WELCOME HERE
.’

There it was, in big, black, unapologetic letters, shockingly cold and rude. It was as much as Katerina could do to stop herself marching in to protest.

Kyria Moreno was looking in the other direction and had not noticed it. Katerina linked arms with her and the two women continued to walk up towards the old town. They talked about the news that Athens had fallen and a swastika now flew from the Acropolis. It was the ultimate symbol of defeat.

The streets were quiet. People were less inclined to be out, even in the early evening, and the sound of their footsteps on the cobbles of the empty street was an eerie one.

‘Whatever happens to our country, my dear,’ said Kyria Moreno as they approached Irini Street, ‘we will still have each other.’

The two officers soon returned to have their suits fitted. They were delighted with the results and ordered four more apiece. Then began a steady flow of other German customers. For every order that had been cancelled by a Greek customer, it seemed that a German order replaced it. The officers often browsed through the fashion magazines and examined the drawings on the walls. Once they had given their wives’ and girlfriends’ measurements, the cutters got to work. There were no fabrics to match these in Germany and they sent the gowns home, like tourists sending postcards. They were particularly impressed with the Komninos silk and though they did not pay the prices that Moreno was used to, they nevertheless paid a fair price. At least no one in this workshop was going to starve.

The
modistras
had little enthusiasm and inspiration for this work. They invented nothing new or imaginative, but did the most basic embroidery stitches they knew, with standard ruching, and none of their finest beads or braiding. Nevertheless, the Germans were always thrilled with the results and the women felt pleased with themselves that they had held something back. They were not used to working without passion. It felt empty, but it kept them from going hungry.

They sat closer to the gramophone now and had the volume on low, so that nobody outside the room could hear it. If they had a visit from a German, someone would knock loudly on their door and the gramophone would be wheeled into a cupboard and covered over with a blanket.

In a city where people were beginning to sell anything they owned in order to buy food, the employees of Moreno & Sons were among the privileged few. If an oil painting or a carpet would fetch enough for a loaf of bread, then it was sold without sentimentality. Such possessions no longer had any value.

There were some objects in the city, though, that were beyond price. After 1917, when much of the city had been razed to the ground, very few synagogue treasures had survived. Entire contents of libraries and archives had melted in the flames, and with few exceptions, ancient Torah and rabbinical writings that were said to have been brought over from Spain in the fifteenth century had been lost.