Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

Aunt Maria brought in a large tray with little cups of Turkish coffee. “This is yours, Christos,” she said, pointing to the one set apart. “It is sweet, as you like it.”

Bits of news and gossip were exchanged. So-and-so was betrothed, and so-and-so had died. Andros leaned back in his chair and looked about the tastefully appointed room. Everything, including his grandmother in her favorite easy chair, was as he remembered, only older: the massive walnut table, the elegantly upholstered sofas, the console with the gilt-framed mirror, and the elaborately carved grandfather clock from Vienna.

Uncle Mitchell, puffing away on his ornate pipe, observed that it was a miracle their furniture hadn’t been commandeered by the Germans. Aunt Maria, pouring more coffee for Andros, offered him some of her homemade sweet-chestnut pie and apologized again for having nothing better to offer him.

“Food is scarce,” Uncle Mitchell explained. “First the Germans keep cutting the daily bread rations. Then they take control of the fishing industry so that all fish caught here are packed to be sent to Germany. Our agriculture, our trade, our merchant marine-all destroyed. All that’s left is famine and inflation. Were it not for the Red Cross supplies, even more would have died. So much for the so-called New Order.”

Andros asked, “What about the family’s ships?”

“The Germans and Italians bought what was left of the fleet at about sixty percent of its value. The exchange rate was absurd! The Germans called for fifty drachmas to the mark, the Italians sixteen drachmas to a lira. In the end, they paid us in special marks and drachmas that have no value outside Greece. We stay on and manage the operations.”

Andros nodded. “And the Greek government here?”

“One puppet government after another. You know the Cabinet approved abolishing the royal regime? We are no longer the kingdom of Greece but the Greek state.” He puffed harder on his pipe, his face turning red with anger. “Not only that, but we are no longer even Greeks! The Germans say we are not true Hellenes but corrupted by some Slavic blood. They say the real Greeks are the Dorians, who had German blood!”

Andros had heard it before, in countless discussions with his uncle and father before he left for America and whenever he returned on vacation. As usual, the women listened patiently, biting their tongues. He didn’t want to remind his uncle, as much a Hellenist as Hitler was an Aryan, that there was some Turkish blood in the strain of many of his Greek compatriots as well as Slavic. Or that the tragic Great Idea to build a new Byzantium in 1923, though smaller in scale, was no less ambitious than Hitler’s plan to revive the Holy Roman Empire.

“If only your father were here, he’d show them,” Uncle Mitchell said. “We’d all show them, like we did the Turks and the Italians.”

Andros was aware that his uncle was looking toward the other side of the room. In spite of himself, Andros finally allowed his eyes to drift until they rested on the one thing they had avoided since he entered the house: the portrait of his father hanging over the fireplace, with his military sword hanging below it.

Then his grandmother, having heard enough of her son-in-law and satisfied she had fulfilled her duties of being silent, said, “It is a wonderful thing you have done to bring more Red Cross food to our people, Christos, but why do this crazy thing now?”

“I wanted to see you before you died, Yiayia,” he said to his grandmother. “But I see that won’t be for a while.”

“She’ll outlive us all, I tell you,” declared Uncle Mitchell, raising his hand. “And our children.”

His grandmother eyed Andros carefully. “I know what you came back for. But that Vasilis girl is no good for you.”

“I can’t very well marry Helen here, Yiayia. That would be scandalous.”

“Yes, marry me!” Helen said. “Please, marry me!”

His grandmother, ignoring the child, made the sign of the cross. “Lord, save us! After what she’s done to us and the Mandrakis family.”

Andros looked at his uncle. “Andrew Mandrakis?”

“Tell him, Mitchell,” his grandmother ordered his uncle. “Speak some sense to this foolish boy.”

Uncle Mitchell turned to Andros and said, “Andrew Mandrakis is dead. His own hand, they say. Remorse for having killed John Stampanos in a duel.”

“John, too?” Andros said in disbelief. Two of his best friends from childhood. “What were they fighting over?”

“Aphrodite Vasilis. After they came back from the Albanian front, both boys pursued her. She, of course, pledged her love to you.”

“But why a duel?”

“It was for honor. Her honor. Their honor. Because there is nothing better to do for young unemployed officers in Athens these days. They wanted her married to a Greek rather than live”-he took a breath and paused as if wondering whether to continue-“than live with that German Baron von Berg. After he killed John, Andrew killed himself when Aphrodite still refused him.”

Andros rubbed his eyebrows in order to hide his distress, but his voice shook when he asked, “When did this happen?”

“It’s been several months,” Uncle Mitchell said. “This damn war has squeezed the life out of all of us. Things are different in Athens since you left.”

“So it seems,” said Andros, pulling out the invitation Werner had given him. “The man who brought me here invited me to a party this Baron von Berg fellow is throwing. I noticed it is at the Vasilis estate.”

“The swine!” Uncle Mitchell grabbed the invitation out of Andros’s hand and began tearing it up.

“What are you doing?” Andros cried, trying to stop him.

“You’re not going to set foot in that den of collaborators.”

Andros picked up the scraps of paper from the floor. “Now, now, Uncle, let’s not be hasty in judging our neighbors.”

“Mother of God!” Uncle Mitchell turned to the rest of the family. “Did you hear this boy, this son of Nicholas?” He glared at Andros. “No Andros shall associate with turncoats who betray their own countrymen.” His nostrils flared, and he gnashed his teeth, revealing a flash of gold. “Unless the stories are true-that you have struck a deal with the Germans?”

So, Andros thought, the SOE rumor mill already was in motion. “Uncle Mitchell, please-”

His uncle threw his hands up to heaven. “That this traitor should live under our roof!”

Uncle Mitchell stormed out of the room, taking a crying Helen with him. Aunt Maria quietly withdrew after them, leaving Andros alone with his grandmother.

The old woman, who had seen more wars and more death than Andros cared to imagine, bit her wrinkled lip and shook her head. “You never should have come back, child,” she said. “Aphrodite is beautiful, but she has made her choice.”

Andros looked at the torn-up invitation. “No, Grandmother. That’s where you’re wrong. She never had a choice. Until now.”

U pstairs in her bedroom at her family’s estate that afternoon, Aphrodite Vasilis was busy unpacking her belongings and answering the relentless questions of her mother and father. Was she all right? Had the Baron harmed her? Where had she been for the last several weeks?

“Now, you know I can’t answer that, Mama and Papa,” she told them, self-consciously folding the nightgown Ludwig had given her.

Her short, balding father waddled back and forth across the floor in his tuxedo, nervously anticipating the party he had the privilege of hosting against his will. His fleshy face looked flushed from liquor, and his bow tie was crooked. “Well, thank God you’re alive.”

“Yes,” chimed her mother from the other side of the room, making the sign of the cross. “We can’t enjoy even an hour of sleep whenever you’re gone. Not one hour’s peace until we can see you with our eyes and know that you are fine.”