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  After about a minute Allegra replied, ‘No. It’s a bit blurred, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t a member of our community.’

  ‘All right, thanks. We’ll be in touch.’

  Mavros watched Baruh and his companion. They were having an animated conversation. Then the waiter was called. It looked like the bill had been asked for. He rang the driver.

  ‘Can you come now, please? About twenty metres before the taverna?’

  ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir,’ came the reply, in English. Like many Greeks, the cabbie had spent time in the US; or had a predilection for old movies.

  Mavros got in when he arrived. A few minutes later a new mid-range Peugeot drove up, another young man at the wheel.

  ‘Follow that car?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Go, go, go,’ Mavros replied, in English.

  They went.

  The Fat Man waited for his old friend and comrade in a café in Victoria Square, about a kilometre north of Omonia. He never tasted the coffee made by his former competitors, but couldn’t resist cakes. He was on his second piece of sokolatina when the familiar figure approached.

  ‘Yiorgo.’

  ‘Apostole.’

  The other man, in his late sixties and with an extremely wrinkled face, sat down opposite and offered his hand. ‘That chocolate sludge will kill you.’

  ‘Not as quickly as those.’ The Fat Man pointed his fork at the foul-smelling cigarette between Apostolos’s yellowed fingers.

  ‘See you in hell.’

  ‘But we don’t believe in it.’

  ‘Sure we do. It’s where we meet up with the great comrades of the past and kick the shit out of the rich.’

  Yiorgos beckoned to the waiter.

  ‘Orange juice,’ his friend said.

  ‘It’s too late to get healthy.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s what I told the wife, but she and the doctor don’t agree. Of course, they didn’t spend five years in the mountains or ten in prison.’

  ‘Not forgetting the three on Makronisos.’ The Fat Man had miraculously escaped being sent to the notorious prison island off the coast of Attica during the dictatorship, but he was in hiding for its seven-year rule. ‘They were what turned your face into a shrunken pomegranate.’

  ‘Hm,’ Apostolos said, screwing up his eyes as he took a sip of the freshly squeezed juice. ‘Yeurch.’

  ‘I should have thought the nicotine engrained in your mouth and throat would hugely improve the taste.’

  The comrade extended an arm, fingers spread apart, to send him to Hades’ realm as he drained his glass. ‘So,’ he said, lighting another cigarette, ‘why the sudden interest in Jewish party members?’

  Yiorgos knew he couldn’t get anywhere without satisfying Apostolos’s curiosity, even though the archive search had been unofficial.

  ‘That Aron Samuel who was supposed to have died in Auschwitz? Someone saw him in Thessaloniki last week. Reportedly.’

  The comrade was almost invisible behind acrid smoke. ‘What do you care?’

  ‘My friend Mavros is working the case.’

  The smoke was waved away. ‘Spyros’s boy?’

  The Fat Man nodded. ‘He could do with a haircut, but his heart’s in the right place.’

  ‘I hope so. Because Aron Samuel is on the hyper list.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  Apostolos coughed harshly. ‘You know how the system works. It was hard enough for me to find the first of those out. Why he’s hyper is well beyond my abilities.’

  Yiorgos regretted eating the two pieces of cake. When someone was classified as hyper – as in hyper-not to be talked about – it meant one of two things: either the subject was or had been engaged in top-secret work for the party; or he or she had been cast into the deepest of outer darknesses. Whichever was the case with Aron Samuel, it was bad news for Alex.

  ‘I told you that stuff was poison,’ Apostolos said, blowing out another pollution cloud.

  The Fat Man had an exaggerated coughing fit and then called Mavros.

  SIXTEEN

  The next day, those of us new to the Sonderkommando were woken in the grey Polish dawn. We were given bread and margarine, the latter a rare sight in the Lager.

  ‘Don’t eat too much,’ Valais said, leaning against a bunk. ‘Your stomachs are going to be tested today.’

  Anjil’s mouth was full of bread. ‘I thought we had to work up to the worst jobs,’ he said, spraying crumbs over his grey suit jacket.

  ‘You think there’s anything pleasant here?’ Valais turned away. ‘Come on.’

  He marched us through the enclosed area around our huts. Ahead, the smoke from the chimneys was less dark and the air clearer.

  ‘There’s a transport from Greece coming in,’ the capo said.

  Anjil and I exchanged glances.

  ‘What will we have to do?’

  ‘What I told you yesterday. Help them into the changing room and get them undressed. They’re to have a shower, right? They all have to take their clothes off. The women will be embarrassed, but you have to talk them into it. If they ask about the chimneys, tell them that prisoners’ old clothes are being burned.’

  I didn’t feel as bad about it as Anjil, who was gasping for breath and muttering prayers. Then it struck me that I might see people I knew. Would I be able to lie to them about their fate?

  We were lined up near the fence inside the extermination compound. Apart from the machine-gunners in the towers, most of them well into middle age, there were SS men moving around. Knaus ran a steely eye over us and then grinned as he talked to Valais.

  ‘The sergeant hopes you enjoy your first day at work,’ the capo said brusquely, his back straight; but there was pity in his eyes, I could see that.

  The SS men stiffened as a truck containing officers came through the gate. I recognised the smiling doctor from the selection at the station. He walked with a pair of other officers to the low wall near the steps that led down to the changing room. Their uniforms and boots were spotless, as were those of their guards, who were armed with machine-pistols.

  In the distance I heard the sound of engines, several of them, grinding along under heavy loads. Without thinking I looked over my shoulder and instantly received a blow from Knaus’s short whip. He glared at me and then sniggered manically. Valais shook his head as if he was disappointed in me when the SS man walked away.

  The trucks arrived. As they drove into the compound, I saw they were packed with standing prisoners; old men with long ringlets of hair below the brims of their hats, women and children – what had happened to Miriam and Golda? – and people who were clearly beyond physical labour. SS men signalled to them to move forwards till they were tightly packed outside the building.

  Knaus bellowed an order and Valais nodded to us. We followed him to the front of the changing room. After more trucks deposited their exhausted cargoes, the doctor stood up on the wall and started to speak, his voice loud but reasonable. Valais translated.

  ‘Welcome to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where you will find satisfaction in work and well-earned repose. But first you must have a disinfecting shower. It is unfortunate that the conditions of your journey were so difficult – for that, you must blame the Greek railway system. They failed to supply sufficient carriages and those used were fit for animals.’ He smiled widely as Valais got his message across to the masses: there must have been between two and three thousand in the compound by now. This false concern and readiness to blame others were standard features of the way the SS gulled their victims into cooperating in their own execution. And it worked. People listened intently and did not complain, though the SS men and their dogs nearby played a part.

  ‘As you proceed to the changing room and showers, you will find helpers of your own kind. Please follow their instructions and move quickly. There are many of you and we don’t wish to cause you further discomfort.’

  A hum of voices speaking Judezmo started. Valais got down from the wall and sent some of us down
to the changing room. Anjil was placed at the top of the stairs. His eyes were wild and I saw Knaus watching him.

  Then the flow of people started. They were almost all from Thessaloniki. I directed them into the long room, telling them to hang their clothes on the numbered hooks.

  ‘But we can’t undress with men present,’ said an elderly woman, her bloodshot eyes wide.

  I steeled myself. ‘But you must, madam. There is no time to separate you. Please, is this your daughter? She will help you.’

  My words rang hollow, but the women did as I said, moving to the far end of the cavernous chamber. I realised that I had power over them, even if it was false and evil. The truth was, I liked that power. I didn’t even bother trying to persuade myself that I was making death easier for them.

  The children started wailing, frightened by the crush and the sight of aged limbs and shrunken abdomens. Their mothers did what they could to calm them, some putting even their older offspring to the breast.

  ‘Tell me this is true,’ one of the women demanded. ‘Promise me no harm will come to my children.’

  ‘I promise,’ I said, without hesitation. ‘You will have your shower and come back here to get dressed again.’

  ‘But our clothes are filthy.’

  ‘You will be issued with clean ones later.’

  ‘You promise? As one of us? You are from Thessaloniki, yes?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Aron Samuel, son of Iosif.’

  ‘The jeweller?’

  ‘Yes. He is in the camp too.’ That wasn’t a lie, at least not a knowing one. He could have been dead by now.

  ‘Swear on the name of your mother – what is it?’

  ‘Sophie. She too is working here.’ Again, I was guessing.

  ‘Swear on her name that you are not deceiving us.’

  I did as she asked and she moved on with her children. My heart was beating no faster than normal. Perjury and oath-breaking were meaningless in that hell.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the last of the naked people went into the gas chamber. The SS and others of us formed a line behind them. The doubters had managed to stay to the rear, but they were swept up, this time with little pretence of decency. There was a loud hubbub in the chamber beyond, people pointing at the pipes and shower heads.

  ‘Do not believe them!’ one old man shouted. ‘They will kill—’ He went down as an SS man bludgeoned him from behind. Anjil, his lips trembling, and I were detailed to shove the motionless body past the heavy door.

  Knaus looked around. ‘All in? Very good, seal the chamber.’

  The door was slammed to and bolted.

  ‘You new men,’ Valais said. ‘Stay here.’ A couple of SS men hung back, their weapons pointing in our direction.

  I heard the sound of another vehicle outside and caught a glimpse of a truck with a Red Cross on its side. I soon found out that was another SS ploy. The Zyklon B granules were transported to the gas chamber in a vehicle that supposedly brought succour to the suffering. No doubt Nazi leaders found the irony amusing.

  Knaus returned from the entrance, almost salivating. He spoke to our capo excitedly.

  ‘The sergeant hopes that you enjoy the show,’ Valais said stolidly. ‘He wants you to pay special attention to the sounds.’

  We waited in line, Anjil’s whole body quivering and twitching, even after one of the SS men kicked him hard on the back of his leg. The only symptom of potential concern that I displayed was a dry mouth, but that was standard in the Lager and may not have been due to the impending spectacle.

  Then the screaming started. There was pounding on the other side of the door, both from hands and lowered shoulders.

  ‘Look!’ Knaus ordered, pointing to the viewing panel. ‘Look!’ No translation was necessary.

  When my turn came, I watched writhing bodies and mouths gaping to take in some small part of the poisoned air that was still pure. Eyes were protruding and men tried to climb over the children and elderly in the mistaken belief that there was clean air under the ceiling.

  Anjil lasted a few seconds at the spy-hole before he collapsed. Valais went to help him, but Knaus drew his pistol. He placed it a few centimetres above the nape of Anjil’s neck and fired. The shot was hardly audible, though the noise from within was subsiding. I felt only relief – that Anjil had been spared further horror but, more important, that I had survived.

  Knaus grinned at me. I had passed the test.

  SEVENTEEN

  The taxi driver stayed about fifty metres behind the Peugeot as it headed in the direction of the airport.

  Mavros’s phone rang. ‘What news from the city of fat?’

  ‘Charming.’ Yiorgos didn’t sound put out. ‘Have I got bad news for you.’

  ‘Oh, great. Spill your – no, on second thoughts just spell it out.’

  ‘Your Aron Samuel’s a hyper.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Is that it? Have you any idea why?’

  The Fat Man laughed. ‘Not even your father would have been able to squeeze that information out. Though he might have known, of course.’

  ‘So was Aron pro or anti the party?’

  ‘First-name terms now, eh?’

  Mavros watched as the Peugeot went past the airport and joined the ring road. ‘You know how it is – you get close to the people you’re looking for.’

  ‘Close to a dead man? Nice. You realise he could be long dead. Hyper classification continues after death. Or have you found something out up there that suggests otherwise?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Predictably vague. Have you seen Shimon Raphael?’

  ‘Yes, he sent his best. He’s following up the party angle here.’

  ‘You know he won’t find anything. When Samuel was hypered, his name would have been removed from the files in all the offices.’

  Mavros grabbed the seat in front. ‘Jesus.’ The Peugeot had suddenly rocketed away. ‘Can you keep up with him?’

  The elderly driver shook his head. ‘One, this heap is no racing car and, two, I’m not breaking the speed limit.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Yiorgos asked.

  ‘We’re in the process of losing the car we’re tailing.’

  ‘You see, if I’d been with you, that would never have happened.’

  Mavros laughed, looking at the next exit but seeing no sign of the Peugeot. ‘No, because you’d have lost him a long time ago.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Good question. I’ll call Shimon and tell him about the hyper. Talk to you later.’

  The cabbie looked at him in the mirror. ‘Where to now?’

  Mavros sighed. ‘Back to the centre – the Electra Palace.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘If you like that kind of thing.’ He decided to pick the driver’s brains – he’d often found out useful things in taxis, especially in towns and cities outside Athens. ‘Did you hear about that foreigner who was shot?’

  ‘The Jordanian? Probably taken out by one of his own.’

  The cab slowed as the traffic increased nearer the city.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  The driver laughed. ‘Because they’re animals.’

  Mavros took a deep breath. The guy hadn’t struck him as a racist. ‘You mean Muslims?’

  ‘No! I don’t give a shit about what they get up to if they’re honest. I’m talking about gangsters. The Arabs here are into drugs, whores, whatever you like.’

  ‘Don’t the local outfits take exception?’

  ‘Yes, but the Arabs have got connections in the Middle East and they’ve got big money.’

  ‘You know there were swastikas sprayed at the scene?’

  The cabbie gave him a suspicious look over his shoulder. ‘What are you, a cop?’

  ‘No, I just watch a lot of American TV.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Any
way, they’re an obvious blind.’

  Mavros leaned forward. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Think about it. They’re trying to put the blame on the Phoenix Rises.’

  They turned off the ring road and went down a narrow street between apartment blocks towards the city centre. It wasn’t long before one of the neo-Nazi group’s graffiti appeared on a wall.

  ‘The Phoenix Rises did put several Muslims in hospital,’ Mavros said. ‘And there’s a swastika-like shape at the bottom of their symbol.’

  The driver sighed. ‘Yes, but the swastika itself isn’t used by them. They’re too chicken.’

  Mavros had been about to ask him if he was member of the Phoenix Rises. It now looked like he might be something even worse. He decided to raise the temperature.

  ‘Fifty thousand Jews from Thessaloniki were murdered in the death camps. What do you think of that?’

  The cabbie’s eyes were in the mirror again. ‘What do I think of it? The city became Greek at last.’

  ‘I suppose you liked the Colonels too.’

  ‘Until they lost their grip, yes, I did.’

  Andonis’s smiling ghost rose before Mavros. He managed to restrain himself, but decided he’d deduct the ten euros he’d won from the bill to mark the founding of his very own Scottish-Greek Jewish Solidarity League.

  Rachel Samuel had been on the encrypted site again. Her instructions were to monitor the reaction to the hit and report. To that end she contacted the assassin, who had a source in the local Jewish community. As the hours went by, more information was put in the public domain, and more people and agencies commented. She had little interest in what the Greek government and parties in parliament said. They all uttered the usual platitudes about regrettable violence and, depending on their position on immigration, its either unacceptable or inevitable results. She had to wait until mid-afternoon until the Phoenix Rises released a statement.

  In opposition to the supposedly popular parties, who bribe voters openly and under the table, we shed no crocodile tears at the passing of the notorious Jordanian gangster Momani. The real scandal is why he was granted residence in Greece. He was rich and no doubt paid off high-ranking people. But let no one dare suggest the Phoenix Rises had anything to do with his murder. There have already been insinuations that the presence of the swastika incriminates us. We strongly deny any involvement. Even if we had wished to remove the parasite from Greek society, we would hardly have been foolish enough to point to ourselves in this way. Some have said we deliberately avoided using our own emblem, but could not resist making reference to the Third Reich. Let the proof be provided. We would never use the sacred symbol of Nazism in such a crude way, not least on the body of a Semite. Though let it be remembered that the Reich had healthy relations with the many Arabs opposed to international Jewry.