Called Rosenblum."
"Who?"
"Two sisters, in their forties. They were librarians, in Berlin. Have they ..."
The line went dead. Zannis said, "Hello? Hello?"
Then the static returned. "... to Salonika. Hello?"
"Hello. Yes, I'm here. What did you say?"
"I gave them your name."
You did? "Of course, I see."
"Have they called?" Her voice was tense, barely under control.
"No, I'm sorry, they ..." Again, the line went dead, and this time it stayed dead. Zannis wasn't sure what to do. Wait for the connection to return? Or hang up so the operator could make a new call? He looked at his watch, let two minutes go by, then placed the receiver back on the cradle. What had she done? Clearly she'd sent fugitives, two Jewish women from Berlin, to Salonika. Where he was to help them. She could have asked, at least . But maybe she couldn't, he thought. He sat there, his mind working, staring out the window at a streetlamp on the Via Egnatia. Then the phone rang and he snatched the receiver.
"Hotel operator, Mont Blanc. Your call is reconnected, one mo--..."
The static was worse on the new connection. Emilia Krebs shouted, "Hello? Herr Zannis?"
"Listen to me." Zannis's voice was loud and urgent and he spoke quickly. "I don't know where these people are, they haven't contacted me, but if they do, I'll send you a postal card. It won't say anything special, simply a greeting from abroad."
"Meaning they've arrived safely."
"That's it. Now, if you want to write to me, just buy Panadon tablets, the aspirin. Are they available in Berlin?"
"Yes."
"Melt them in cold water, then write with the water between the lines of a letter and, if you get a letter from Greece, iron it, not too hot, the writing will appear."
"How ma--..." Again, the line went dead.
It came back a few seconds later. Zannis said, "Hello?" and started to speak, but, after a click, a new connection. Now the voice of a woman, some operator in some country, spoke angrily in a language Zannis couldn't identify, and then, with another click, the connection was cut off. He waited at the desk until ten-thirty, staring at the telephone, but it was silent.
He would never hear from the sisters, he was almost certain of that. Evidently they'd set out from Berlin, some days earlier, trying to make their way to Salonika, where Zannis could help them get to Turkey, or Palestine, or wherever they could manage to slip over a border. Slip over, or bribe their way over, because as Jews in flight they were welcome nowhere in the world. Nowhere. Not one single country. And now, not as adept and forceful as their friend in Berlin, they had vanished. Well, lately people did. And they were never heard of again.
Back in his apartment, Zannis couldn't sleep. He was exhausted, had expected to be dead to the world the instant his head hit the pillow, but he'd been wrong. He tossed and turned, his mind racing. What had happened to him at the banker's villa--that tight band across the chest? He'd always been healthy, he had to be, there was no choice. Now what? Or maybe it was just nerves, which was, he thought, maybe even worse. But it had reached him, he had to admit that, the almost certain knowledge that invasion was imminent. This banker was a certain type of man, a type Zannis knew well. He had friends who knew things, and you couldn't plan an invasion--recall soldiers from leave, resupply your army with ammunition, medical stores, and everything else--without people finding out about it. So the banker fled, and fled in a hurry--grabbed all the money he could and ran. Sauve qui peut! Run for your life! Write a note to the maids, do something about the dog, lock up the house, and go. Poor dog. They were, the dogs, considered special spirits in Greece: faithful friends, fearless guardians. I'm sure I was right about the dog , Zannis thought, flipping his pillow over. The maids, the "good girls," would take care of it.
And they were special spirits, faithful guardians.
Thus it was Melissa who
"Who?"
"Two sisters, in their forties. They were librarians, in Berlin. Have they ..."
The line went dead. Zannis said, "Hello? Hello?"
Then the static returned. "... to Salonika. Hello?"
"Hello. Yes, I'm here. What did you say?"
"I gave them your name."
You did? "Of course, I see."
"Have they called?" Her voice was tense, barely under control.
"No, I'm sorry, they ..." Again, the line went dead, and this time it stayed dead. Zannis wasn't sure what to do. Wait for the connection to return? Or hang up so the operator could make a new call? He looked at his watch, let two minutes go by, then placed the receiver back on the cradle. What had she done? Clearly she'd sent fugitives, two Jewish women from Berlin, to Salonika. Where he was to help them. She could have asked, at least . But maybe she couldn't, he thought. He sat there, his mind working, staring out the window at a streetlamp on the Via Egnatia. Then the phone rang and he snatched the receiver.
"Hotel operator, Mont Blanc. Your call is reconnected, one mo--..."
The static was worse on the new connection. Emilia Krebs shouted, "Hello? Herr Zannis?"
"Listen to me." Zannis's voice was loud and urgent and he spoke quickly. "I don't know where these people are, they haven't contacted me, but if they do, I'll send you a postal card. It won't say anything special, simply a greeting from abroad."
"Meaning they've arrived safely."
"That's it. Now, if you want to write to me, just buy Panadon tablets, the aspirin. Are they available in Berlin?"
"Yes."
"Melt them in cold water, then write with the water between the lines of a letter and, if you get a letter from Greece, iron it, not too hot, the writing will appear."
"How ma--..." Again, the line went dead.
It came back a few seconds later. Zannis said, "Hello?" and started to speak, but, after a click, a new connection. Now the voice of a woman, some operator in some country, spoke angrily in a language Zannis couldn't identify, and then, with another click, the connection was cut off. He waited at the desk until ten-thirty, staring at the telephone, but it was silent.
He would never hear from the sisters, he was almost certain of that. Evidently they'd set out from Berlin, some days earlier, trying to make their way to Salonika, where Zannis could help them get to Turkey, or Palestine, or wherever they could manage to slip over a border. Slip over, or bribe their way over, because as Jews in flight they were welcome nowhere in the world. Nowhere. Not one single country. And now, not as adept and forceful as their friend in Berlin, they had vanished. Well, lately people did. And they were never heard of again.
Back in his apartment, Zannis couldn't sleep. He was exhausted, had expected to be dead to the world the instant his head hit the pillow, but he'd been wrong. He tossed and turned, his mind racing. What had happened to him at the banker's villa--that tight band across the chest? He'd always been healthy, he had to be, there was no choice. Now what? Or maybe it was just nerves, which was, he thought, maybe even worse. But it had reached him, he had to admit that, the almost certain knowledge that invasion was imminent. This banker was a certain type of man, a type Zannis knew well. He had friends who knew things, and you couldn't plan an invasion--recall soldiers from leave, resupply your army with ammunition, medical stores, and everything else--without people finding out about it. So the banker fled, and fled in a hurry--grabbed all the money he could and ran. Sauve qui peut! Run for your life! Write a note to the maids, do something about the dog, lock up the house, and go. Poor dog. They were, the dogs, considered special spirits in Greece: faithful friends, fearless guardians. I'm sure I was right about the dog , Zannis thought, flipping his pillow over. The maids, the "good girls," would take care of it.
And they were special spirits, faithful guardians.
Thus it was Melissa who
Similar Books
