The Road to Ithaca Read online

  Under escort, the City of Moscow banked widely to the south, approaching the runway with a tail wind. Manoschek put away the book, yawned into his fist and looked over. On the starboard side, beneath the broken clouds, the roofs of the Majdan Tatarsky labour sheds grew visible, then slid past. “What’s that?” he enquired.

  Bora bit his tongue. “Clothing works.”

  What had Heidegger written to him? It’s all in freeing oneself from a concept of truth understood as concordance. Which meant he could answer “Clothing works” (the undersecretary not being a confidant of his, and the Russians perhaps eavesdropping) when Little Majdan, Majdanek, was well on its way to becoming a concentration camp.

  On the ground, a spartan Ju-52 was refuelling. It was Bora’s, not Manoschek’s. The junior diplomat, with extended stopover time, welcomed the chance to get lunch. An orderly took charge of his suitcases, allowing him to head without encumbrances for the mess hall.

  “See you in Moscow, Rittmeister,” he said.

  Will not, Bora told himself. You’re out of Russia for good, as we prune our embassy staff of non-essentials. “See you in Moscow,” he replied sociably all the same. A few minutes after eleven, Moscow time; ten locally. The half hour needed for the cargo plane to be ready could allow him to get a bite to eat, but Bora didn’t care to prolong his association with Manoschek. He set back his watch one hour and waited, pacing around in the chill of day.

  The southerly that compelled the Russian pilot to modify his landing became a headwind as Bora continued to Bucharest. The expected three and a half hours in the air became four, worryingly close to maximum range. Bora, the only passenger among crates of various supplies, leafed through Joyce’s novel so as not to stare at the co-pilot’s nervous tapping on the fuel gauge. At 14.48, in the lashing rain, the slippery runway of Baneasa airport felt pleasant under the tyres of the landing gear. It turned out it wasn’t the fuel gauge the co-pilot was knocking into reaction, but some other indicator. “Won’t be continuing for another hour, Rittmeister, maybe two. If you don’t suffer from air sickness, you’d better eat; it’ll be evening before we get to Athens.” Bora did as suggested. A kind of stolidity set in whenever he couldn’t appreciably modify his lot. Suspended between north and south, winter and summer, peace and war, he did what was strictly needed, saving energy. An indifferent plate of food and bottled water would bridge him over to Greece, and to an indifferent bed. Tomorrow, Crete. Day after tomorrow, back to Russia. He could nearly see himself from the outside at times like this, moving about or standing still. His thoughts, his censored thoughts became transparent then; there was no hiding them, or from them, or from himself. He padded layers of extraneous ideas over those thoughts, for safety. He ate alone in the mess hall of the Romanian Air Force. With nothing to read but dailies already gone through and the politically dubious Joyce novel, Bora searched his memory for Greek words to use in Iraklion, as if ancient Greek would avail him at all. The sole quotation that came to mind from his schooldays began Essetai e eos e deile… something-and-something. The Odyssey, maybe. Ulysses had travelled much less conveniently than modern man, for ten full years. More: he did ten years of war plus ten years of wandering, before making it back to his home, such as it was. Essetai he heos… “A dawn will come”: who the hell says that?

  It was 450 plus miles to Athens. The Junkers left Bucharest shortly after four, in heavy rainfall. When they reached the Danube, the weather cleared unexpectedly, as if the world were turning a page. Mountains, plateaus, eventually the distant blue of the sea: another dimension opened, where the afternoon grew increasingly bright. Bora reached Athens around eight in the evening, drowsy but not at all tired despite the long journey. Essetai he heos he deile: those few Greek verses rolled in his recollection as he dozed off.

  TUESDAY 3 JUNE, 6.36 A.M., ATHENS, GREECE

  It was impossible or too early to say whether the day would be sunny. Mist rolled in from the sea when Bora reached the harbour and climbed into the rowing boat that would deliver him to the plane. The mode of transportation for the final leg was an ambulance Junkers, an “Auntie Ju” marked by a red cross and equipped with floats. Its crew, making back for Crete after delivering to the city infirmaries German paratroopers injured in the fierce days of fighting, agreed to take Bora only on account of his higher orders.

  That the conquest of the island had been a bloodbath, Bora knew from unofficial embassy reports. Sporadic enemy resistance in the hinterland still posed a major danger and would continue to do so. Nonetheless (or because of it), army reporters and photographers were flooding in to present it as a resounding success: after all, the Brits and Colonials had been roundly beaten, losing lives, equipment and vessels in their flight.

  Ahead of Bora, the medical personnel had already taken their places on board. He saluted and was at once the focus of their attention; his own, acutely aware of more disturbing odours under the whiff of disinfectant, plunged him for a moment back to Krakow nearly two years earlier, when he’d stared at colleagues torn to shreds in a grenade attack. Nurses, medics, a surgeon, all cramped in the facing rows of stretchers that replaced the seats, were clearly wondering who he was.

  There was nothing to be done. Feeling more out of place than ever before in his life, Bora had the choice between taking the last corner available on the backmost stretcher or trying to balance on his feet for the next two hours. Dignity won over comfort, and he sat down cramped, hoping to be ignored. The surgeon, however, scowled at him above his metal-rimmed glasses; the nurses gawked (one was pretty, with the upturned nose of a small dog, the others very plain and sunburnt). When the co-pilot made a last round before locking the door for take-off, the surgeon asked him directly, “Who’s the decorative young buck?”

  It had been unfeasible to secure tropical wear in Athens. Bora was still wearing his embassy gear, so the comment was justified. The co-pilot leaned over to answer something.

  “He’s going to Crete to do what?” the surgeon remarked loudly enough to be heard by all. Well, he would say that. Four thousand German casualties, whose blood and vomit were still staining Crete’s rocks and polluting the air inside this plane, and this spit-and-polish intruder was travelling there to procure cases of wine. Bora inwardly blushed at the words. A sudden urge, very much like a yearning to suffer in order to be somehow worthy, washed over him; whether his reaction was resentful, childish or both, the surgeon’s insult did not sting any less because of it.

  No one addressed him during the flight, too bumpy for seeking refuge in reading, much less writing. Before the floats touched the water of Iraklion harbour, Bora unhooked the silver cord aiguillette from the buttons and from under his shoulder strap, slipped it off from around his right arm and put it away.

  Essetai he heor he deile he meson hemar… The rest of the verses came back to him as the Junkers bounced and lifted great waves of spray to a rolling halt.

  “A dawn will come, an evening, a midday when someone will bereave me of life in battle by the stroke of a spear or a bow’s arrow.”

  Godlike, fair Achilles had spoken them, prophesying his own death as he readied to plunge his weapon into Hector’s throat.

  2

  3 JUNE, 8.25 A.M., IRAKLION, NORTH COAST OF CENTRAL CRETE

  The splendour of daylight pointed to a place that seemed nothing but a German depot. The harbour was piled with materiel. Bomb-damaged, being cleared now of rubble, the dock lay cluttered with carcasses of fishing boats blown out of the water, sails, masts, oars, crates, containers of all kinds. End to end, three sand-coloured, diminutive Italian cars one could barely fit into reclined on their sides like a disjointed, broken toy train. A British truck and a German tracked kettenrad sat parked next to each other under a veil of dust as if they’d been there for years instead of days, or hours. No wind, only powdery stuff still coming down after the air raids and battle. Along the breakwater seagulls picked at floating litter, wary about nearing the shore.

  A battered bus with a red
cross painted on it idled in the confusion. Surgeon and nurses filed towards it, climbed aboard, were gone. Bora – whose orders were to stay there until his contact arrived – watched, shielding his eyes, as it clattered to town. Sea odours, war odours were strong; the light was strongest of all. June days might be endless in Moscow, but being dropped into this southern light was excessive, like regaining one’s eyesight after an extended period of blindness. Two and a half hours south-east of Athens, the muted skies of the north seemed never to have existed. All appeared bright yellow to him. Yet from the air he’d seen green patches besieging the bony spine of the island; he’d seen and recognized the great saddleback of Mount Ida, but also squares of silver-green, olive groves and fields.

  From where he stood, the town of Iraklion was difficult to judge. A squat fortress nearby jutted out to sea. Beyond, Bora made out a crowd of mostly two-storey buildings, gaps that marked narrow streets or demolished roofs. He imagined an atmosphere halfway between a Middle Eastern bazaar and an Italian piazza; given Crete’s past under Ottoman and Venetian rule, both applied. Around him, only German soldiers were in sight, and heavy equipment that forced him to stay out of the way. Among the makeshift directions to this or that command post, nailed or glued to their Greek counterparts, a sign to his right read, “Look out: live high-tension wires.” Bora picked his way carefully along as he reached the low wall bordering the wharf, because being electrocuted while requisitioning wine in Crete was not among his plans for the war.

  The name of the contact he’d been given in Athens – a Major Emil Busch, German Twelfth Army Abwehr – surprised him given the modesty of his errand, particularly in a place where Air Force Intelligence was expected to serve. Standing where he’d be visible (and all too recognizable in his winter uniform), Bora had no doubt his man was on his way now.

  Formerly attached to the DAK (Deutsches Afrika Korps), Busch looked every inch the part: pith helmet, colonial tunic, khaki shirt and tie, canvas top boots tied from knee to ankle. He seemed to have taken along the colours of the desert sand; the whites of his eyes, too, made dingy by the long-term use of anti-malaria drugs. They acknowledged each other routinely.

  “How was your trip?”

  Bora shook the outstretched hand. “Fine, sir, thank you.”

  “A bit long, I’ll bet.”

  A raised left eyebrow, as if an invisible monocle kept it up, gave Busch a perplexed or critical glance; his voice, however, expressed nothing but formal solicitude. It did not call for a reply, all the more since Bora didn’t feel tired at all. Only overwhelmed by the light. “I’m ready to proceed with the assignment, Herr Major. The pilot informed me there’s a cargo plane leaving tomorrow at seven. I expect to be on it with the shipment.”

  On Busch’s part, a small delay followed. Less than hesitation, more than an accidental pause. Bora had the distinct impression the interval meant, “That may not be possible”, which was odd, since the major had said nothing of the kind. It was just that pause, like a shadow that flits by and leaves nothing behind. From the level of the harbour, Busch led the way towards a tall, modern building on a rise just inland, along a street facing the sea. His gait was slightly off, the left leg pivoted a little outward, drawing a quick half-circle as it took the next step. He spoke up over the harbour noises. “You’ll recognize the Megaron. Five floors of hotel frequented by the best society in peacetime.” He glanced over his shoulder, “By the way, when were you here last?”

  “It’s my first time, Herr Major.”

  “I understood it wasn’t.”

  This too sounded strange. What difference did it make? Bora decided not to read more than there was into Busch’s nonplussed words. “Perhaps because Grandfather Franz August served as vice-consul in Chanià earlier in his career. My mother spent some years here as a child.”

  “You don’t know Crete, then.”

  “Not at all. I’ve only seen old photos of my grandparents’ residence at the western tip of the island.”

  “Hm.” At the entrance of the hotel Busch raised his hand in a half-wave, less than a military greeting, in reply to the guards’ salute. “That won’t help.”

  Ah-ha. This was more concrete than a pause. Bora followed, glad to get out from under the sun. “Forgive me, but why would I need to be familiar with Crete? I only have to pick up those confounded bottles and wait for the next flight out.”

  Instantly, and for a moment more, stepping indoors from the blaze of the harbour seemed cool darkness itself. Busch was standing in it, at the centre of a devastated lobby. “…You did, until this morning.”

  “I only arrived this morning!”

  The major summoned him closer. His movements were small, controlled to the extreme, a habit of working in the heat: lifting his forefinger and hooking its tip once or twice did it. “Something came up, Rittmeister.” In a lower voice, he added, “You can tell by looking around – I’m sure you saw the state of the harbour from the air – that the last two weeks have not been a picnic. In the middle of all this, counter-intelligence is in the political doghouse. As if our preliminary reports that the locals are fiercely independent meant they’d dislike the Brits and love us.”

  Underestimating enemy numbers sounded more like it. Bora only said, “It’s obvious there was no red carpet waiting.”

  “Right.” Busch inhaled noisily. Although only around forty, he had one of those faces that wrinkle up entirely and age years when grimacing. “I’d rather say no more about it. Follow me, please.” Something came up. From habit, Bora didn’t solicit details when orders were concerned.

  Clearly, they’d changed since his departure from Moscow. How, where, by whom, he might or might not be told. They couldn’t be worse or less useful than those he presently had, so he kept his mouth shut waiting for more. One step behind Busch, he crossed the lobby between piles of broken window glass, trying not to think ahead. Compared with Russia, the heat was brutal. He’d reconciled himself to winging it for twenty-four to thirty-six hours in his Moscow uniform, and having it laundered as soon as he returned to the National. Now…

  “You’ll have to secure tropical gear.” Busch seemed to read his mind. “You can’t trek around in riding boots.”

  Trek around? Again, Bora said nothing. They had meanwhile stepped into a large room, a breakfast or dining space freed of tables. Photographs of the Greek royals, taken down from the wall, sat propped up on the floor – a sad-mugged king who’d spent half of his life with the crown in his suitcase, and a childless Bulgarian queen with plenty of lovers. A stack of coffee cups crowded a sideboard. Some clean and bone-white, most of them dirty, they let out a whiff of strong coffee as Bora went past. Sturdy brew, Turkish-style, memories of Morocco and the Spanish Foreign Legion. Either left behind by guests fleeing in haste, or used by troops of one or the other army, that forsaken porcelain heap implied even more than the downed royal portraits.

  Busch reached a desk (the hotel manager’s?) near the far wall. Crowded with folders, and now topped by the discarded pith helmet, a huge mirror to its right reflected it, opposite a window just as large and paneless, also reflected. Two desks and two Emil Busches, bathed in a pool of splendour by the doubled, unmerciful daylight.

  Once he had removed his visored cap, Bora blinked in the glare. Something came up. He experienced something just below excitement, a physical unrest on the verge of becoming elation. He thought of Herr Cziffra in Aragon, or Colonel Kitzel in his own hometown, Leipzig: a brand of officers like Busch, who had for the past four years got him in as much trouble as they had kicked him into growing up. Outwardly, he waited without showing any reaction other than to the excess of light. When he estimated that no spontaneous explanations were forthcoming, he only asked, “Where may I secure what I need?”

  Busch squinted as he looked up from the desk, as did his mirrored twin. It would have sufficed to pull a curtain across the window or remove the mirror to diminish the glare, but clearly he liked it this way, or used it to unsettle his
interlocutors. “Maps I can give you.” He took a lengthy sip from one of several bottles of Afri-Cola set on the floor near his chair. “Do you by any chance read Italian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here you go, then.” A handful of folded charts came Bora’s way. “Clothing won’t be easy just at this moment – you’re tall, too.”

  “And I’m not Luftwaffe.”

  The half-empty cola bottle – pinched in the middle, with the relief of palm trees on the neck – balanced on the one corner of the desk that was free of papers. “You might have to mix and match. As long as you have the right headgear and insignia… There’s a deposit of English tropical uniforms down the street.” Busch scribbled on a piece of paper with the hotel letterhead. “See what you can find there.”

  Bora skimmed and pocketed the note, as he’d done with Deputy Chairman Beria’s. “May I know what my orders are?”

  “Oh, sure.” The major reached for the bottle. He tilted it more and more as he emptied its bubbly contents to the last. “You must have been wondering.” Again that snorting intake of air and a tight-lipped stretching of lips that expressed more discomfort than amusement. A manila envelope was retrieved from the pile. Out of it Busch pulled photo enlargements and a folder marked Ampelokastro, eyes only.

  One at a time, one on top of the other, the photographs were laid so that Bora could glimpse them against the confusion of papers. “And here’s the full report, to be read with utmost care. We need answers before the International Red Cross intervenes or Reichskommissar Himmler sends someone, and without stepping on the toes of the airborne troops too much. They’re foaming at the mouth. How about a cola?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You should be drinking lots in this weather. I learnt it after getting sunstroke in Egypt. Nerò is water, metallikò nerò is mineral water, which you should always ask for. As I was saying, our paratroopers have seen their comrades riddled with bullets as they came down or got caught in tree branches; there’s talk of torture and mutilations of those who fell into enemy hands, especially the Greeks’. I assure you, the airborne troops aren’t keen on anything Greek at present, and you can’t blame them.”