The Black Life Read online

  Mavros filled her in.

  ‘Poor girl. I feel for her. I was so lucky with you three.’ Her brown eyes took on an extra lustre. ‘Spyros and I never had to worry about fertile days.’

  Mavros couldn’t help glancing at the photos on the dresser – his father with his powerful gaze and clipped moustache, his sister Anna with husband Nondas and their two kids, and, at the rear, partly obscured, his brother Andonis, caught in time with an eternal smile.

  ‘Let them rest in peace,’ Dorothy said, smiling sadly.

  ‘I know.’ Mavros looked away. Spyros had died when he was five and he had few memories of him, but Andonis was another matter. His handsome, outgoing brother had been eleven years older and was his childhood hero. Andonis had got involved in the student opposition to the Colonels’ dictatorship and had disappeared when Mavros was ten. For years he had tried to find him, but had finally accepted that there was no hope, despite the fact that the main reason he’d got interested in missing persons was to locate his brother. Then the bastard Son had told him that Andonis was still alive. He’d been on tenterhooks for months, hoping that the killer would get back in touch despite the danger that would entail. But he hadn’t and Mavros had decided that it had been a cruel joke.

  ‘Besides, as long as we remember them they’re still here, aren’t they?’

  Mavros was surprised by his mother’s words. She had spent years talking him out of continuing the search. Now it seemed she’d never stopped thinking about her lost husband and son.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Dorothy said. ‘But you must understand, Alex. I had to make you get on with your own life. Living in the past is for old people, not young tearabouts like you.’

  Mavros laughed at that characterisation. He was forty-three and, despite the leather jacket, boots, jeans, long hair and stubble, his tearabout days – such as they were – would soon be over. Eating three pieces of shortbread wasn’t exactly starting a revolution.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something, Mother,’ he said, wiping his mouth.

  ‘Anything, dear.’

  ‘That book Years in Hell.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Her curiosity was piqued.

  ‘Can I have a copy?’

  ‘Of course. I’m sure there are some left. It didn’t sell well. I should have done a translation into English. Not many Greeks wanted to read about the fate of the Thessaloniki Jews.’ She got up stiffly and went over to the bookcase that filled one long wall. ‘Here you are.’

  Mavros took the volume from her. He remembered flicking through it when it came out in the mid-90s, but the truth was he hadn’t been very interested either. Now he was and he ran his finger down the index.

  ‘Looking for something in particular?’

  Mavros raised his eyes. ‘A family called Samuel.’ He used the pronunciation that his client’s daughter had whispered.

  ‘I can’t say I remember them. Common name, I should think.’

  He found an entry and went to the page. ‘“Samuel, Yosif, jeweller and owner of several shops, known for his generosity to less fortunate Jews. Transported to Auschwitz-Birkenau with all his close family in 1943. None returned to Thessaloniki.” Hm.’

  ‘Helpful?’

  ‘Sort of.’ He told Dorothy about his new case.

  ‘How extraordinary, especially if the witness turns out to have been correct. You should read the whole book. There were several cases of people coming back years after the end of the war. In fact, you should talk to the author, Allegra Harari. I’m sure she’s still active. A very forceful woman.’

  Mavros looked at the back of the book. A plump-faced, middle-aged woman with piercing eyes stared out at him, her expression suggesting strong will.

  ‘She was an independent researcher back then, though she may have got a university job. I must have her number and address somewhere.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll find her on the Internet.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Mavros stared at his mother. She used a computer for editing texts, but had always sworn that the Internet was the work of the devil – a very haphazard devil at that.

  ‘I’ve been converted. Anna finally made me see the benefits.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ That didn’t surprise him. His sister was a fashion and gossip columnist, though she preferred the term ‘lifestyle’. She’d been an early champion of new technology and could bore for Greece on the latest mobile phones.

  He logged on and quickly discovered that Allegra Harari had her own website, which had a contact email address including the letters ‘th’, showing that she was in Thessaloniki. He noted it down. A quick viewing of the site suggested she knew a huge amount about the city’s Jews and their history.

  ‘See?’ Dorothy said. ‘Wonderful thing, the Internet.’

  ‘I have actually been using it for some time, Mother,’ he said, with mild irritation.

  ‘I know, dear.’ Dorothy’s eyes twinkled. ‘Sometimes you take yourself a bit seriously.’

  Mavros took a deep breath. His mother didn’t witness the perma-clowning that took place between him and the Fat Man, but maybe she was right. Since the reappearance of the Son and the concomitant disruption to all their lives, plus the resumption of his turbulent relationship with Niki, he probably hadn’t been a bundle of charm and wit.

  ‘What is it you’re working on now, Mother?’ he asked, looking at a jacket proof. ‘The Athens Olympics – Boom or Bust? An Economist Writes.’

  ‘It’s a very good book and a timely one,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but how many jokes are there?’

  ‘Silly boy,’ Dorothy said, realising what he was up to. ‘Go and clean your flat. I’m sure that’ll cheer Niki up.’

  ‘I’m sure it would,’ Mavros said, getting up to leave. Seeing the Fat Man would cheer him up more.

  ‘So you’re going to the co-capital?’ Yiorgos said, using the term that was meant to make the northern city feel it was the match of Athens.

  ‘On Monday.’

  ‘Want some company?’

  Mavros told him about Rachel, describing her appearance.

  ‘You lucky bastard. What does Niki think about that?’

  ‘Em …’

  ‘You haven’t told her? I didn’t realise she’d taken both your balls.’

  ‘Very funny. It’s a … sensitive time.’ Without going into detail, he told the Fat Man about the fertility issue.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Yiorgos was all at sea. He’d lived with his mother till he was in his late fifties – for convenience as much as anything else – and had very limited experience of the opposite sex; apart from female cadres, who were not encouraged to share their favours. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Search me. Nothing, probably.’

  ‘That usually works. If she calls, I’ll be sure not to mention the gorgeous Rachel.’

  ‘I bet you will.’ Mavros picked up a book from the cluttered coffee table. ‘The Jews of the Greek Communist Party? Since when did you care?’

  The Fat Man shook a can of beer to see if there was anything in it and then drank. ‘Just a bit of background reading. You never know what might come in handy.’

  Mavros had told his friend about the Samuel case by phone the previous evening, but was taken aback by his friend’s dedication. In the past it had been known to lead to disaster. ‘Look, it’s probably just a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s interesting. I knew a couple of Jewish cadres back in the Sixties. They were very dedicated. They felt they had even more to prove than the rest of us.’

  Mavros was impressed. There weren’t more than a few thousand Jews in Athens. The only one he’d met was a landlord back when he worked in the Justice Ministry. Mr Sabbetai was the only property owner he’d ever dealt with who was both fair and responsive to problems.

  ‘Anyway, if you’re up in the north, you’ll need someone to hold the citadel here.’

  Mavros looked around the chaotic room. The Fat
Man’s mother used to keep it immaculate, but now there were pizza boxes and beer cans everywhere and the paintings of the area around Sparta where the family originated were hanging crookedly. Dust would soon take over the maisonette. At least that would be a form of the collective ownership espoused by the party.

  ‘The citadel?’

  Yiorgos followed his gaze. ‘Well, the rubbish dump.’

  There was an outburst of hilarity, then they sent out for more pizza.

  ‘Here, why don’t you cook something?’ Mavros demanded. The Fat Man wasn’t only an expert at sweet delicacies. ‘Don’t answer. You have one major character flaw – you’re lazy as a pig in shit. And you’re a glutton.’

  Yiorgos laughed. ‘So what? At least I can count.’

  FOUR

  I was fifteen when the Italians invaded Greece through Albania at the end of October 1940. By then I was a member of the Communist youth, which was a proscribed organization like the main party. Everyone in my family thought I spent the evenings at woodwork classes: I had some ability with my hands and occasionally provided them with models of ships and buildings. In fact I was taking messages between cadres, distributing leaflets, and sticking anti-government posters on walls and shop windows. I often had to run faster than the icy Vardharis wind to save my skin. Uncle Avram, my father’s younger brother, arranged for his six-month-old son Eliezer to be smuggled out of the country. Even in the circumstances, we thought that was an extreme step. Aunt Rachel never got over it, although she had two older children.

  My brother joined up the day after Prime Minister Metaxas’s famous refusal to allow Mussolini’s troops into Greece.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ my mother screamed. ‘This was has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Isaak replied. ‘I’m a Greek.’

  ‘But first you are a Jew, my son.’

  He shook his head. ‘You think the Christians look at it that way? First comes the fatherland.’

  My father shook his head, but I could see he was proud of Isaak: proud and frightened.

  Miriam’s Albertos was a reserve officer so he went straight to the front in the snow-covered peaks of Epirus with the rest of the Greek Army. Isaak was posted to the end of the railway line at Kalambaka, where he unloaded supplies that were sent onwards by mule and on the backs of men – and even women. Soon the returning trains were filled with the wounded and frostbitten. But the line held and the invaders were beaten back into Albania. Victory was heralded as a miracle.

  Initially the comrades, those who hadn’t been imprisoned, thought the war was a bad joke – two fascists beating their chests at each other. Then they mobilised too, sensing that, win or lose, there would be opportunities for the party despite the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact. Many of them took their places in the ranks and died alongside bourgeois officers.

  My sister moved home after Albertos left. She was four months pregnant and wandered about the house like a tormented spirit, face pale and arms crossed over her abdomen.

  ‘You’ll do the infant harm,’ Mother said. ‘Sit down, girl. There are potatoes to be peeled.’

  Our servants had vanished when the war started. I had the impression they’d been waiting for an excuse. Anti-Semitic groups had been targeting the more obvious homes of Jews. Our downstairs windows had been broken and dog shit rubbed on the door. But Father’s shops were making even more money as departing soldiers bought rings and proposed to their girls.

  ‘I want to go to the fighting,’ I said to Kostas, the cadre who oversaw us.

  ‘You’re too young,’ he said, running his eye over me. ‘Though you’re almost big enough. There’s plenty to be done here.’

  So I went on with what struck me as minor work, paying little attention to my schooling. Now that the spaghetti-gobblers had been dealt with, the talk among the more forward-looking party members was of the future. If the Germans intervened to save the idiot Duce’s face, Thessaloniki would be the first Greek city to be hit. But Hitler’s hordes were still no further south than Austria so there was time to build defences. Not that anyone really believed they would hold.

  We heard nothing from Isaak and Albertos for weeks. The newspapers gave some idea of the chaos that reigned and wounded men had appeared at the railway stations, before being carried off in ambulances to the overcrowded hospitals. Miriam was almost out of her mind and even my endlessly supportive mother struggled to comfort her. They cooked and sewed, their voices low in the kitchen. It was the only warm room in the house, fuel having become hard to find.

  Then one day there was a knock on the door. I happened to be in the hall and opened up. I was confronted by what I first took to be a beggar with a beard, his clothes torn and filthy, with one foot wrapped in blood-stained rags. I reached for a few coins from the bowl my father kept by the door.

  ‘This … this is the … Samuel house?’ the man croaked, in our tongue, Judezmo.

  I looked back at him and was knocked flat as he collapsed on top of me. My parents heard the noise and came running.

  ‘Are you all right, my son?’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ I said, sliding from beneath the unconscious vagrant. Then I saw the mud-coated brass buttons on his shoulders and realised he was wearing an army great coat. I immediately knew something bad had happened. Looking over to the kitchen door, I saw Miriam, her eyes wide and her mouth open in a silent scream.

  The man came round after a few minutes and we took him to the stove. He drank a cup of hot milk and held it out for more. Then he ate a whole loaf of bread, panting like an animal. All this time, Miriam was standing at his side, whiter than an unused bridal sheet.

  ‘Alalouf,’ he finally said. ‘Dario Alalouf. Lieutenant.’ He avoided looking at my sister, his gaze resting for some reason on me.

  ‘You have news?’ I said, when nothing was forthcoming.

  ‘I have … bad news.’

  ‘My son!’ Mother shrieked, falling into Father’s arms.

  Dario stared at me, then his eyes dropped. ‘Albertos …’

  My mother’s cries ceased, to be taken up immediately by Miriam. Father let go of his suddenly restored wife and went round the table to embrace my sister. He managed to get her on to a chair and calmed her enough for the stranger to go on.

  ‘He … we counter-attacked them south-east of Himarra. Albertos was … was very brave. His men worshipped him. We … we had them on the run, when …’ Dario broke off and gave into violent sobbing, which Miriam echoed.

  I felt a curious excitement, a need to know my brother-in-law’s fate. ‘What happened?’ I said, my voice inappropriately loud.

  That broke through the emotion. Dario gave me a sharp look and turned to Miriam.

  ‘I’m … sorry. Albertos told me about you … and the child you are carrying.’

  ‘What happened?’ I repeated.

  The officer glanced back at me. ‘A final shell from the enemy battery on the outskirts of the town. He … It was a direct hit.’

  ‘But Albertos,’ my sister said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He was a hero,’ Dario said. ‘They’re going to give him a medal.’

  ‘Where is he?’ screamed Miriam.

  Lieutenant Alalouf got to his feet with a struggle and bent his right arm in a painful salute.

  ‘Albertos is … is nowhere,’ he said. ‘He went into the earth and the wind and the sky.’

  Mother started wailing, though I knew she was relieved that Isaak hadn’t been the victim. It was left to Father and me to tend our women. Albertos’s comrade took his leave, head bowed, but it wasn’t the last time we saw him.

  A month later we were informed that Isaak was in one of the hospitals. He had contracted pneumonia after being injured, but he gradually got over that. Losing his right hand and forearm, crushed by an artillery piece that suddenly rolled off a flatbed truck, was much harder for him.

  FIVE

  Eliezer Samuel had wanted Mavros to go to Thessaloniki earlier, but the investigator ref
used. He knew he’d need to spend the weekend with Niki, given that he didn’t know how long he’d be away. He went to the Fat Man’s on Friday morning and consumed too much kataïfi, the shredded wheat drenched in honey sitting heavy on his stomach.

  ‘When were you last in the co-capital?’ Yiorgos asked over the top of Rizospastis, the Communist daily. He wasn’t close to the party any more, but he was still a member.

  Mavros thought about that. ‘Must be over five years ago.’ He swallowed a laugh.

  ‘Oh yes?’ The Fat Man was instantly suspicious. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The wife of a dried-fruit trader from Corinth ended up there.’

  ‘And you gave her a shoulder and other things to lean on?’

  ‘Actually, no. I was with Niki then.’

  ‘So what was the drowning man’s laugh for?’

  Mavros emptied his glass of chilled water. ‘She’d run off with one of her husband’s brothers.’

  ‘Keeping it in the family, eh?’

  ‘Exactly. The thing was, the guy in question had the worst wig I’ve ever seen. The remains of his hair were brown and he’d gone for a red top that made him look like a clown. There were plenty of tears.’

  Yiorgos raised an eyebrow.

  ‘When I told the husband, he went off with the clown’s wife.’

  ‘Peloponnesians!’

  Mavros grinned. ‘You’re pretty dull by comparison.’

  ‘I’m a Spartan. We don’t mess around.’

  ‘I noticed. Too scared of supposed hunting accidents?’

  The Fat Man brushed crumbs off his shirt. ‘No, too concerned about the moral high ground.’

  When they’d stopped laughing, Mavros picked up the book about Communist Jews. ‘Getting anywhere with this?’

  ‘Well, there’s no mention of anyone called Aron Samuel.’

  ‘That would have been too easy.’

  ‘No doubt. There were the usual party organs up there during the pre-war period and there was organised resistance during the occupation, even though most of the cadres were in the mountains.’

  Mavros had been reading Years in Hell. ‘The party didn’t help the Jews very much.’