‘My father’s politics are his own, sir. I have chosen a different path.’
‘Evidently . . . And from the strained note in your voice I conclude that the radical poet disapproves of his conventional son.’
There was a beat as Pilotis waited for a response, but Andreas stared back stolidly, his lips pressed together in a thin line. The other man shrugged.
‘Never mind. Art’s loss is the navy’s gain. Serve the captain well and you’ll do fine aboard
Papanikolis
. You’ve already met him, I take it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what do you make of Iatridis?’
‘Sir?’
‘You cannot be unaware of his reputation.’
Andreas did not like this line of questioning and resolved to be cautious about passing any measure of judgement on his commanding officer. ‘I saw Lieutenant Commander Iatridis speak at the academy. He is a respected officer, sir.’
‘Not respected by all, though.’ Pilotis raised a grimy hand and ran it through his hair. ‘His superiors took a dim view of his call for the navy to take the offensive at the Italians at the outbreak of hostilities. And even before then. The captain was all set to torpedo the first Italian ship he came across following the sinking of the
Elli
. He said that the sooner we bloodied Mussolini’s nose, the sooner the Italians would back down and leave Greece alone. Metaxas and his friends in the navy ministry took the opposite line and hoped that if they did not react to the provocation then peace could be maintained. Some hope of that.’ Pilotis sniffed. ‘You know how it is with bullies. If you don’t give them a reason to respect you then you only invite further aggression. For what it’s worth, I agreed with Iatridis . . .’
He looked questioningly at the newly arrived officer. Andreas felt increasingly uncomfortable but he grasped that he was being tested by Pilotis.
‘It was my impression that we should have taught the Italians a sharp lesson at the time as well,’ he said.
Pilotis nodded. ‘Good. That’s the kind of view that our captain, and the rest of us, approve of. So, welcome aboard, Katarides.’ He stretched his back, automatically tilting his head just enough to avoid the valve above in the cramped space. He offered his hand and Andreas took it and they shook. ‘Now that those spaghetti-lovers have given the captain the excuse he needs, they’re going to pay for their treachery with blood,’ he concluded with a cold, ruthless edge to his voice.
For a moment there was a stillness in the confines of the submarine, then the breeze of the fan washed over the two men and Pilotis stirred. ‘Did the boat bring you here directly from Athens?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you haven’t had time to visit your home. A pity. I doubt that you’ll get the chance before we go to sea. Perhaps there may be time when we return.’
Andreas noted the hope offered in the first officer’s last words and responded with a smile. ‘I hope so. I haven’t been home in over two years.’
‘Your father will be pleased to see you. Perhaps he’ll even write you a poem about it, eh? And there’ll be friends glad to see you. A woman perhaps?’
Andreas tried to ignore the fishing and coughed. ‘Can I see my quarters, sir?’
‘Quarters?’ Pilotis smiled. ‘Your bunk is in the next compartment, with the rest of the officers. Only the captain gets his own cabin on the
Papanikolis
. Come, follow me.’
The first officer turned and led the way through the bridge and ducked through the hatchway into the next section of the submarine. A narrow corridor led between a handful of openings on either side. Beyond the range of the fan the air was uncomfortably foetid.
‘Radio room to the right.’ Pilotis gestured towards a cell with a single seat in front of a large wireless set that left just enough space for the operator to use as a desk for his code book and notepads. ‘Toilet to the left. There’s just the one on this boat. Apparently the designers added it as an afterthought, given that there’s seventy in the crew. Just pray that it doesn’t break . . . Next one’s sound detection and the cook is opposite. Then there’s the captain’s cabin, officers’ wardroom,’ he indicated a narrow table and padded bench with storage cupboards behind, ‘and here’s the officers’ bunks.’
Andreas glanced round his companion and saw three bunks on either side. Just wide enough to lie down on and too low to allow the occupant to sit up. There was a shelf on the inside of each bunk and upright lockers at the end, one for each man. Andreas saw that his kitbag had been leant against the lockers.
‘The top bunks are for me and the chief engineer. Then the second officer and you. The lower bunks are for the warrant officers. Make yourself at home, Katarides.’
Andreas looked ruefully at the private space allotted to him, about the same size as a coffin. He frowned at the comparison and a brief, haunting vision of himself trapped in his bunk as the submarine sank passed through his mind. He forced the thought aside as he glanced back to Pilotis and made himself smile. ‘Home . . .’
They were interrupted by the clatter of boots on the steel rungs in the bridge and a moment later the captain hunched down to look through the hatch.
‘Pilotis, I need you to run an errand for me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sparks just told me some damned fool in supplies has sent us the wrong crystals for the radio set. We’ll need replacements. There’s an army detachment up in Lefkada. We can try them. I’d send someone else, but I think it had better be an officer if we’re to get anywhere.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Besides, you’re due a break. Get yourself a drink while you’re there.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Pilotis grinned. ‘I could use one.’
He turned and exchanged a look with Andreas and then his smile faded. He coughed as he turned back to his captain. ‘Actually, sir, I’ve still got a few tasks that need my attention. Why not send Katarides instead? He’ll not be missed.’
Iatridis pursed his lips in surprise and cast a quick look at the new arrival before he clicked his tongue. ‘That’s fine by me, Number One. Katarides?’
‘Sir!’
‘Sparks is ashore in the radio tent. He’ll tell you what you need. Take one of the lorries and a driver. And while you’re in Lefkada, see if you can bring back some cases of beer and a few bottles of raki.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The captain disappeared and a moment later they heard his boots on the bridge ladder again. Andreas turned to Pitolis.
‘Are you sure about this?’
The first lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Of course. Take the opportunity to see your old man. Might be the last you get for a while.’
Andreas smiled gratefully at him. ‘Thanks.’
‘I shall want something in return,’ said Pilotis.
Andreas eyed him warily. ‘Oh?’
‘Nothing you can’t afford.’ Pilotis looked vaguely embarrassed. ‘Just a signed copy of one his collections, if he doesn’t mind, eh?’
Chapter Ten
T
he door opened as the truck rattled to a halt in front of the villa and Andreas saw the familiar face of his father’s cook peering cautiously out from the dim interior. It was late in the afternoon and the sun had already slipped behind the mountain that loomed behind the house, and the dark ridge stood starkly against a bright orange sky. As the sound of the engine died away, he told the driver to remain with the vehicle. Andreas climbed out and approached the house, surprised at the feeling of melancholy that settled on his heart. This had been his home from birth. He knew its every corner, every crack in the walls and yet it somehow felt like a different place now. As if it was a distant memory. There had been changes, he noted. The garden was less well tended than before and paint had begun to peel from the wall beside the front door.
The cook squinted and then offered him a relieved smile and eased the door open to admit him.
‘Master Andreas, you’re home at last.’ She stood back to look him up and down. ‘You seem taller since you left to join the navy. But now you’re home.’
He stopped just inside the threshold and embraced the familiar musty odour of the house. ‘Not today, I’m afraid, Anastasia. I only have a brief time.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘I have to return to my ship tonight.’
‘Oh . . .’ Her smile faded.
‘How are you faring? And Alexis?’
She lowered her gaze. ‘My husband died two months ago . . . After the news that our son had been killed.’
Andreas dimly recalled the youth he had known when he was very young. Shortly before he left the island for the mainland. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. The war?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. ‘Stelios was fighting in Albania. We did not find out how it happened. There was only a letter from the government. Your father read it to us. It broke my husband’s heart . . .’
She closed her eyes tightly and Andreas saw that it was not only one heart that had been broken, and now only hers endured. He touched her shoulder gently. They stood still briefly before she sniffed and took a deep breath and raised her head again. ‘You’ll be wanting to see your father. He is on the terrace, Master Andreas. He has missed you. We all have. Come.’
She closed the door and led him through the hall to the rear of the house. Outside, the terrace lay unswept and dry leaves and small pine cones lay heaped in corners where the wind had trapped them. His father sat in a chair beside the table looking out from the balcony towards the sea. His hair had not been cut for some time and now lay on his shoulders, the first streaks of grey showing against the darker curls. He wore a plain white shirt and black trousers. Beside him, on the table, was a bottle of raki and an empty glass. He did not stir at the sound of footsteps and merely commented, ‘I’ll take my meal here, I think.’
Andreas exchanged a quick smile with the cook and she stopped and waved him on. He continued, stepping as softly as he could across the weathered flagstones. At the last moment his father eased himself forward and looked round. His face bore a tired expression but it quickly faded and he smiled with delight as he rose to his feet and opened his arms.
‘My boy!’
Andreas stepped into his embrace and they exchanged a kiss on each cheek before his father held him at arm’s length and scrutinised him. ‘I cannot deny that you have become a grown man now. An officer in the navy. Quite a transformation from the boy who used to sit on my knee while I told him tales of our past. Do you remember?’
‘I shall never forget, Father.’
‘Nor should you. Some memories are the most precious possessions of all . . . While others are a curse.’
Andreas smiled. ‘I know that line. The last poem from the collection you published while I was at the academy.’
Katarides laughed. ‘So you found time to read that during your training. I am honoured.’
The irony of his words was not lost on Andreas and he felt the familiar ache at his father’s mocking disapproval. But before the feeling could take root his father ushered him into a spare chair and turned towards his cook. ‘Another glass here!’
She nodded and disappeared into the house. Andreas sat and stared out from the balcony at the hazy hummocks of the islands and islets of the Ionian Sea. ‘I never grow tired of this view.’
‘I know. It is a fine thing. I find it something of an inspiration, particularly in these trying times. Men fight their wars, but the world continues, more timeless than the exploits of any hero that ever lived.’ He looked steadily at his son. ‘So? Are you here on leave? Finally. I had feared you had forgotten about me. I haven’t had a letter from you for nearly two months.’
Andreas turned his eyes from the view. ‘I’ve had so little spare time since the war began. My class was commissioned early and sent to the fleet. I was kept on to train as a navigator before my first posting. I would have written to you to explain but there was no chance to do so.’
‘And yet they have allowed you to come home?’ Katarides’s brow creased anxiously. ‘Is anything the matter, son?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘It’s just a brief visit. My boat is at Sivota. The captain sent me to Lefkada for supplies. I’ll have to leave within the hour.’
‘It will be dark soon. You know how bad the road is. It would be better if you stayed the night and left for Sivota in the morning.’
‘I can’t. My captain is expecting me to return tonight.’
His father stroked his hair. ‘A pity. I wish there was more time . . . There are things I wish to say to you.’
A soft scuffle of slippers heralded the approach of Anastasia and she set another glass down on the table before returning to the house. The poet poured his son a glass of raki and held it out for him. Andreas nodded his thanks and sipped the fiery liquid.
‘Good?’
He nodded to his father. ‘Better than the stuff I am used to.’
‘Pah, that’s Athens for you. Nothing decent to drink there, unless you are one of Metaxas’s wealthy cronies. They’ll be pleased with themselves, I imagine. Now that the war is going in their favour. It seems their fears about Mussolini and his fascist legions were misplaced. I always thought they were blustering buffoons. They’ll run back to Italy, tails between their legs, and Metaxas will claim all the credit for “his” great victory. You can be sure of that. And then we’ll be stuck with the little despot for many years to come. Sad times, my son. The good die in battle, while the perfidious politicians reap the rewards. With luck it will all be over before you have to play your part in it.’
‘I shall do my duty,’ Andreas responded firmly. ‘My boat is sailing to war in the next few days.’
‘Boat? I had hoped our navy had a few ships at least.’
‘It is a submarine, Father. We call them boats, not ships.’
‘A submarine? Infernal contraptions. What sane man goes to sea in a machine designed to sink?’
‘It is perfectly safe. Besides, I had no choice in the matter . . . I tell you, it is the Italians who are in danger, once we get amongst them.’
His father stared at him, then emptied his glass and poured some more raki. ‘You are determined to become the hero, aren’t you?’
‘I am just serving our country, Father. As every Greek should.’
‘That’s what you think, is it? As simple as that. My country, right or wrong, putting yourself at the service of vile scoundrels like Metaxas? What is war, Andreas, but the pitting of one worker against another, at the whim of their masters and for the profits of their backers? War is little more than a crime, thinly veiled in bogus notions of duty and honour. You talk of serving your country. If you meant that then you would take off that uniform and refuse to fight. That is what all young men should do and put an end to this great evil once and for ever.’
Andreas listened to this with a growing sense of frustration as he slowly rolled his glass between his hands. ‘You may be right. It would be good if all mankind turned its back on war. But as long as some young men refuse to take off their uniforms then the rest of us can never know peace. That is what I understand by my duty to serve my country. To protect it from those who seek to wage war against the rest of us.’
‘But don’t you see? The process must begin somewhere. If a handful of men say no, then others will follow. When enough follow, anything is possible. Why should you not be amongst the first to show their defiance to the warmongers?’
Andreas had noticed the faint slur beneath his father’s words and knew better than to try to argue with him when raki had worked its influence on his mind. Besides, he had no wish to argue. He had come to the house to pay his respects to his father and in the hope that he might have changed his mind about his son’s choice of career now that war had come to Greece. In truth, he was angry. His father’s idealism might be a fine quality for a poet but in a world where the idealism of great nations had been perverted into the fanatical pursuit of power, there was no choice but to make a stand here in the present, for the sake of the future. Only then could people be free to talk of ideals. Until then he would fight to protect his country and his people. That was a simple enough duty, and one that served a clear moral purpose: defending liberty. There was no higher purpose anyone could aspire to, Andreas felt. There were no arguments, no philosophies, that could topple that essential truth. Good conscience demanded that tyrants like Mussolini and Hitler must be opposed.
He suddenly thought of Peter and his father, and felt sadness weigh down his heart. What had become of them? Andreas had known them as friends. He could not easily believe that they would support the Nazis. Soon Peter would be old enough to don a uniform. Would he choose to do so and serve Hitler? Or would he strive to oppose the leader of his nation? Perhaps he would fight for his country, in spite of Hitler. Just as Andreas was determined to defend Greece in spite of Metaxas.
As he recalled his friend so the chain of his thoughts inevitably moved on to Eleni. It had been his intention to visit her as well as seeing his father and yet he had chosen to put it off until after visiting his home. It was almost as if he was giving himself an excuse not to, Andreas realised. He felt a surge of blood in his veins as he thought of her. He pictured Eleni in his head the last time he had seen her. Still young and untouched. He had not felt confident enough to ask if her affections for him ran beyond friendship, and had often tormented himself over his timidity in the long months he had been at the naval academy. It would be better to live in doubt than to know for certain that she did not feel for him as he had come to realise he felt for her.
‘Well?’
Andreas broke off from his thoughts. He fixed his gaze on his father and saw the challenge in his expression, as if daring his son to defy him. Andreas was too tired for a confrontation him. He took a last sip from his glass and set it down on the table before standing and looking down at his father, no longer the authoritative, celebrated figure that had dominated his childhood.
‘I did not want this war. But what I want is immaterial. I have to go now.’
He nodded a curt farewell and made to turn towards the house.
‘Andreas . . . Please.’
The plea was impossible to resist. He turned his gaze back towards his father and saw that all the anger and arrogance had crumbled away. All that remained was an open expression of anxiety. The poet’s mouth struggled to frame the words his heart yearned to say to his son.
‘Be careful, Andreas. You are all I have left. All that is of any value to me in this world. Come back to me.’
Andreas felt his throat constricting. He breathed deeply. ‘I will come back. As soon as I can.’
‘One last thing, my son.’ Katarides reached under his shirt and took out the small locket he kept close and slipped the chain over his head. He pursed his lips and then eased the catch open to reveal two black and white portraits. One of a slender young woman with piercing eyes and the other of an infant. He held it out for his son to see. ‘Do you recognise her?’
‘Yes, from pictures only . . . my mother.’
‘And my wife. The person I loved most in this world. The baby is you, a few months after you were born. I lost her, and now you are the one I love most in the world, Andreas. I could not live if I lost you too. So, take that and look after it. One day you can return it to me. Meanwhile, it may bring you luck. Take it.’
‘Father, I—’
‘I said, take it.’
Andreas held out his hand. His fingers closed round the locket and he turned and strode back through the house. Anastasia emerged from the kitchen as he reached the door and Andreas nodded a brief farewell. He closed the door behind him and crossed the drive to the truck. The driver had been dozing and now hastened to sit up straight as Andreas climbed into the cab.
‘Back to Sivota, sir?’ he asked as he started the vehicle and eased the choke until it was running smoothly.
‘No. Not quite yet. Take me back into the town.’
The driver shot him a surprised look and then shrugged. ‘Yes, sir.’
The home of Inspector Thesskoudis and his family was a plain building in the heart of the town, close to the main square dominated by the prefecture and the Church of St Spyridon. There was a small garden to the front, separated from the narrow street by a low whitewashed wall. Brightly coloured blooms rose from pots lining the short path from the gate to the front door and Andreas lifted his nose to appreciate their scent as he paused in front of the house. The evening air was cold and the sweetness of the flowers was more muted than on summer nights. Even so, the smell instantly evoked memories of previous visits and he felt his pulse quicken as he took a deep breath and rapped the heavy iron door knocker. The muted conversation that emanated from within died away at the sound. A moment later the inside latch was lifted and the door opened to reveal Eleni’s mother. At first she did not recognise him, and Andreas hurriedly swept the cap from his head and smiled.
‘Andreas!’ Her lips parted in a warm smile. ‘Sweet God . . . Come in, come in.’