Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

The only things that kept her alive were her visits to Athens to see her parents, her secret work of feeding and clothing the families of Resistance fighters through the Red Cross, and her hope that someday her brother would be freed and her fiance would return.

“I hate him, Father John,” Aphrodite told the priest with tears in her eyes. “I hate what he’s done to me and what I’ve become. But I love my family. If I stop pleasing him, who knows what will become of them?”

Father John shrugged. “That, only the Lord knows. All I can tell you is that making peace with the devil is no way to seek God’s favor.”

“What choice do I have, Father?” There was anger in her voice.

He raised his hand, and she caught the glint of a fisherman’s knife. “You could always kill the swine.”

She sighed. “If only that would release my brother or provide an escape for me and my parents. But Ludwig is the only protection we have from the Gestapo.” She hesitated. “Besides, you’re forgetting that I tried that once before, remember?”

He put the knife away, crossed himself, and sighed in despair. “And what happened?”

“He told me he liked that in a woman.”

Father John shook his head in utter disbelief. “Truly, this man is possessed!”

“No, Father, I’m the one who’s possessed. That’s the problem. I’m the personal property of Baron Ludwig von Berg.” She felt rage and despair and humiliation at her helplessness. “If only the Allies would hurry up and start the liberation. Greece would be free. My brother would be free. I would be free.”

Father John nodded sympathetically. “I wish the Lord would come today and fix Hitler, but he hasn’t,” he said. “The Lord is not a genie, granting our every wish. His thoughts are not our thoughts, nor our ways His ways.” Father John raised his other hand, which was missing two fingers. He, like other Orthodox priests, had fought against the Italians and Bulgarians along the northern frontiers on the mainland, just across the channel. During the winter in the mountains, he’d lost his fingers to the cold. Most other men lost more: hands, legs, their lives, but worst of all, their souls.

“So what are you saying, Father?”

“Sometimes the only thing we can do is wait. You must endure. The Lord is not wringing His hands, wondering what to do about Hitler. He knows exactly what He’s going to do with that Antichrist.”

“Well, I wish He’d hurry up,” she replied. “I don’t know how much longer I can last. One of the guards has acted inappropriately toward me, and I fear for his life should the Baron find out. And my own.”

He paused. “What about this Greek you are betrothed to?”

“Christos? He’s half a world away.” There was bitterness in her voice. “In the beginning I used to pray that he would come and rescue me from all this. I was just being a silly girl, of course; Greek women know better than to trust the men in our lives. They’re either oppressive, like the Baron, or impotent to help me, like my father, my brother, and Christos. I’m afraid you and the archbishop in Athens are the only two men in my life who haven’t let me down yet. Now please bless me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”

She knelt before him.

“You are a remarkable woman, Aphrodite Vasilis,” Father John said with admiration and resignation. “Let us pray to the Lord.” He placed the end of his stole on her head and prayed.

“O Lord God, show Thy mercy upon Thy servant Aphrodite, and grant unto her an image of repentance, forgiveness of sins, and deliverance, pardoning her every transgression, whether voluntary or involuntary.”

He placed his right hand on the stole over her head and pronounced Absolution. “May our Lord and God Jesus Christ, through the grace and bounties of His love toward mankind, forgive thee, my child, Aphrodite, all thy transgressions. And I, His unworthy priest, through the power given unto me by Him, do forgive and absolve thee from all thy sins. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

She watched his hand as he made the sign of the cross over her. He was waiting for her to give thanks to God for His goodness, as was the Orthodox way, when they heard the ominous roar of an engine.

“He’s back,” she said grimly, and rose from her knees.

They stepped outside onto the terrace and looked to the sky. Bursting out of a cloud was the Baron’s plane. It came in low over the lagoon and passed over the tiny church like a giant vulture.

“Any parting words of wisdom, Father?”

“Resist this man.”

“God knows I’ve tried, Father. I can’t promise you I won’t sleep with him when I know what means he’ll use to force me. I won’t deny it. I won’t lie to God.”

“Then at least thank God for His forgiveness and promise Him you’ll do your best to resist this man.”

She sighed and lowered her eyes. “O almighty and merciful God, I truly thank Thee for the forgiveness of my sins,” she recited impatiently. “Bless me, O Lord, and help me always, that I may ever do that which is pleasing to thee, and sin no more. Amen.”

She lifted her eyes and watched the plane clear the trees at the end of the lagoon and drop out of view. Hans was furiously waving her back to shore, and Peter was halfway toward the monastery in a rowboat. The Baron was back in time for afternoon siesta, and he would want her comfort.

A s the Stork began its descent, von Berg looked out the window. The island of Corfu lay like a jewel in the northernmost part of the Ionian Sea. The most lush and tropical of the Greek islands, its southern tip was a few miles west of the mainland, its northern under a mile from Albania. For him it was the perfect island retreat, far away from the Byzantine politics of the Third Reich.

The pilot tipped his wing and made a slow turn over the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon for the final approach. The plane barely cleared the steeple of the monastery on Mouse Island, skimming the blue water until it finally dropped down onto the airstrip.

Before Corfu became part of Greece, it was a British protectorate; now it was occupied by the Italians, who’d replaced the local Nazi forces when the Germans moved on to the invasion of Russia.

Commandant Georgio Buzzini, the nervous Italian officer temporarily in command of the island, was in full dress uniform when von Berg stepped out of the plane. As far as von Berg was concerned, Buzzini was a bumbling idiot. His round face, hooded eyes, and baritone voice bestowed upon him all the military graces of a stage extra from a third-rate Italian opera.

“General von Berg!” He saluted. “You have several cables and reports from Berlin waiting for you.”

Von Berg looked over the squat man’s shoulder toward his awaiting Mercedes. The top was down, and Franz, his driver, stood outside and opened the back door.

“Thank you, Commandant, but I’m anxious to get home for siesta,” said von Berg as he proceeded toward the Mercedes, Buzzini close behind.

“All is well, I take it, General?”

“If the commandant is referring to the mental health of the Fuhrer, I’m afraid not. In fact, soon you’ll have even more German company. The Fuhrer has personally ordered the First Panzer Division over from France. It should arrive in a few weeks, along with further reinforcements for Greece.”

Buzzini frowned as von Berg settled into the backseat of the Mercedes. Franz shut his door, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine.

“That would make four German divisions in Greece,” Buzzini said. “So they fear an Allied landing?”

“No, just you Italians.”

The commandant laughed nervously.