Sophia Nikolaidou - The Scapegoat

— What did you think, you poor thing? Evthalia asked. That the hard part was the diapers and the baby food? You’re only just starting to realize what it means to have a child. Now is when the real worrying begins.

Teta had already come to that realization on her own, and couldn’t bear for someone else to rub her face in it — least of all Evthalia. What she wanted from her mother was comfort and consolation, a ready hug and a pat on the back. Not admonitions. But Evthalia was a general, as Tasos always said. She gave orders, not comforting words. She was a problem-solver who didn’t waste time on hysterics or sentimentality.

Teta had pinned her hopes on Soukiouroglou. He was the only teacher at the school whom Evthalia really trusted. He knows his letters , she’d told Teta, and that was saying a lot. For Evthalia, it was everything — which is why she said it very rarely, particularly when speaking of the younger generation of teachers.

Soukiouroglou kept everyone at a distance. No one ever dared address him informally; he had no use for false familiarity. He always corrected students’ papers within a day. He didn’t let things drag on. If he said he would do something, you could be sure the job would get done on time.

When Teta went to talk to Soukiouroglou, she got straight to the point. She laid out the problem as objectively as she could, held back her tears, tried not to sound judgmental. Her son’s teacher listened without interrupting. He expressed no sympathy. It wasn’t in his nature to comfort, he believed that was a role for family members, and he was at the school to get a different job done.

— Why are you so determined that Minas go to university? he asked.

Teta had thousands of arguments at her fingertips, but the question took her by surprise. She launched into her spiel, but it sounded too much like a school essay, she realized as she spoke. She despised rhetoric and emotional blackmail, but when it came to her child, all logic flew out the window. Her weapons were the weapons of all mothers since the beginning of time.

Soukiouroglou sat there silently and let her go on. At some point alarm bells started ringing in her head: He’s testing you, stupid . She wanted to say something clever, something to show she wasn’t like other mothers, she didn’t care about the diploma, what concerned her was the heart of the matter. The only problem was, the diploma was the heart of the matter.

In the end she said something to the effect of, A university education will open his eyes to what’s out there . She might even have said, Knowledge requires guidance , or tossed in some nonsense about the joys of the intellect, a necessary awareness of the world, who knows.

Teta shook the teacher’s hand and left, feeling burned. She’d been counting on him. After all, she didn’t have many other options; asking Minas’s teacher for help was the only solution she could think of. When Soukiouroglou spoke, Minas bowed his head and listened.

What she’d had in mind, of course, was a direct intervention, a strict talking- to that would fix things immediately, not a research paper on a topic utterly outside the program of study. When she first heard about Minas’s assignment, she was dismayed, and her absolute confidence in Soukiouroglou shaken.

— Look at it this way, Evthalia pointed out, your child started opening books again. Isn’t that what you wanted?

No, it wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was for him to take his exams.

— Besides, now we’ll get to see him butt heads with Evelina and her mother, your favorite person, Evthalia teased.

And since Teta didn’t seem to follow, Evthalia pointed out the obvious:

— You can’t research the Gris affair without talking to his lawyer from the trial. In case you don’t remember, his name was Dinopoulos. He’s the girl’s grandfather. As far as I know, he’s the only one who never spoke to the newspapers. Why are you looking at me like that? You didn’t know?

THOMAS TZITZILIS, HEAD OF THE SECURITY POLICE IN SALONICA

I’m the one who cleaned the Red rats out of this city. The great benefactor of the Capital of the North , they wrote in the history of the gendarmerie. The Americans turned out not to have a brain among them, they bought into the anti-Greek propaganda. Even Greek citizens who cared about the health of our nation, who could see the danger posed by those communist thugs, called it a Greek outrage against an American reporter . Their radio stations cursed our country.

A nation’s leaders have to make decisions. It’s their job. To make calls. To give interviews. To see the smoldering coals and call in Tzitzilis to get the job done. All of America was up in arms and the puffed-up jackasses here in Greece took up the tune. You’re accomplices, the government isn’t doing anything to arrest those responsible for the murder . Generals and journalists kept getting in my way. Suddenly they had opinions about everything. Plenty of theories but no proof.

I know how to handle those types. Those kowtowing nobodies who supposedly run this country ought to have their wits about them. Brown-nosers and slaves to foreign interests, each and every one, all scared shitless that I might offend the outsiders.

To hell with the lot of them.

Earlier that day, before the American General barged into my office, strutting his chevrons and his attitude like a cock in someone else’s henhouse — a third-generation American, of European refugee stock, if you want to call a spade a spade, whose grandfather was a convict and whose mother was a whore — the Minister had called me, scared out of his wits. He warned me that the General was quick to anger, owing to his rank. He told me to watch my tongue and not say anything that might put the country at risk. I could have reminded him that he was the bootlicking fool who’d made us an international laughingstock in the first place, but ministers are all talk, they’re not great at listening. They say their piece and hang up as soon as they’re done.

And when the General came, he just barged in without knocking. He was wearing his dress uniform, covered in medals. A spoiled man used to giving orders at a safe distance from enemy lines. He planned the attacks on a map, wrote memos, and told other people what to do.

— Entirely unacceptable! he howled. To ask American taxpayers to support Greece, and then have Greeks kill American citizens in return!

The foreign journalists tore us to shreds. They attacked the gendarmerie, claimed we were stalling on purpose, covering up for the perpetrators.

Damn them all. Tzitzilis isn’t a man of words. He’s a man of action. Everyone in the force knows it, and they respect me for it.

I went into the church of Agios Dimitrios. I wanted to consult the city’s marshal, our patron saint. Agios Dimitrios knows plenty about war. Friend and savior of the city, as the priests say. The commies in the mountains have no God, they don’t believe in saints. Which means they’ve got no one looking out for them.

Tough souls shatter the easiest. Just mess with them a little and they break. Take it from me, I’ve seen hulking men plead, strong young men crying like babies. I see them come in for questioning and can tell right away how long they’ll last.

— How do you do it, boss? the new guys ask.

They’re amazed at how I’m never wrong. Because when I say a thing, it’s guaranteed. And if it’s taking too long I get in there myself, I don’t waste time giving orders.

Screams and pleading don’t faze me at all, tears won’t make me relent. I know how to break the toes on a man’s foot one by one. I teach the others, it’s not as easy as you might think. The prisoners who have been here a while would rather be beaten, their bodies are nothing but sacks anyway. But when I start on the toes they confess right away, they piss blood. Some people protest. Fresh-faced young lawyers, judges who think they’re God’s gift, who think you can solve things with a few words. Smart-asses with university degrees who never had to interrogate a prisoner. They parade around town in their starched collars and spit-shined shoes. They swear by the scales of justice. As if laws were written for obedient schoolgirls. The bastards are delusional, every last one.