Rachamim

Chapter 1 Mavropotamos April, 1943 The sassy wind successfully challenged the sun and the bright blue sky. April, in the mountains of Northern Greece, saddled both winter and spring, and breathing the cold air was like drinking from a cool mountain spring. From the lookout rock, one could see forever, tall mountain peaks covered with snow, meadows in the valley, emerald green ornamented with garlands of white. Mavropotamos, population 528, was perched like an eagle's nest along the side of the mountain. It was Monday morning, a beautiful sunny day when one throws away the winter's cobwebs, lets the fresh air in, and feels cleansed and rejuvenated. An April day when children sing and hopes soar and plans are made for the future. Yet this Monday was different. There were no sounds of children going to school, no mules or donkeys tied to the rail in the village square, no bicycles against the walls. The stores were closed except for the taverna, and even the taverna was empty. Yet, one could sense people behind the closed doors. Every once in a while, a storeowner would peek outside, then precipitously go back in and retreat behind the safety of his door or window. A little girl started running through the square, and Kyra Elene, her mother, took after her like a flash, scooped the child under her arm, and hurried back to the safety of her home. Pater Demetrios, the village priest, stood in front of the church, a very old man clothed in a black robe with a tall black hat, gnarled as an olive tree, solid as an oak. Occasionally, he would gaze into the distance then would pace back and forth like a faithful sheepdog protecting his flock. The silence was deafening and seized one by the throat as if depriving one of oxygen. Bodies were tense, and hearts beat faster. Husbands looked at their wives with apprehension, and parents looked at their children. There were few young men in the village, but there were sparks in the eyes of the old men, and fists clenched and opened, some in fear, but mostly in anger. The Germans were coming. There were some men huddled in the square. Their uniforms and short carbines were those of the Italian military. Yet there was nothing martial about them. They were all in their late forties and early fifties, bulging in the middle, looking around them with embarrassed, sometimes apprehensive glances. Sergeant Raffaele, the group's non-commissioned officer, towered above his soldiers. "These poor bastards," he said, "God knows what the Germans will do to them," and he spat with anger against the wall. "Precious little we can do," said another man. "Just wait." Their leader was different, somewhat younger, tall, elegant with a military cape negligently draped over his shoulders. His name was Francesco Venchiarutti, and he commanded the Italian garrison at Mavropotomos: twenty men with carbines, one Howitzer that could not fire, and a Fiat staff car that had seen better days. He didn't try to hide his nervousness, and cigarette followed cigarette, which he kept crushing under his feet. There certainly was a sense of foreboding in the air. The Germans were coming. There stood, at the entrance of the village, a statue of Kolokotramis, a hero of the Greek independence, and these words were inscribed on the rock of the statue: "Better one hour of free life than forty years of slavery and jail." The Greeks took their freedom very seriously, and most of Mavropotamos' young men had joined the partisans, the Andartes. Their unit, however, operated far from Mavropotamos, and there was a tacit agreement between the Andartes and the Italian garrison: the Italians would not bother looking for the partisans, and the partisans would leave the village's occupying forces strictly alone. The unspoken understanding pleased everyone. The Italians felt an affinity and secret sympathy for the Greeks. Besides, being that almost all of them were into middle age they did not relish the prospect of pursuing will-of-the-wisp partisans through icy mountains, and the partisans felt reassured that their families in the village would have some semblance of protection and would not be retaliated against. And then, two days earlier, a couple of German soldiers had been shot by guerillas a few miles from the village. Venchiarutti stomped on his half-smoked cigarette and thought grimly, How could this happen so close to the village? Who are the idiots who did it? How the hell am I going to deal with the Germans when they come? And, indeed, they came. Kosta, a bedraggled sixteen-year-old, almost killed himself climbing down from the lookout rock. Venchiarutti could see him running, flailing his arms like a wild semaphore, but he could not hear his words at first. The youth was breathless when he finally neared the square. "They are coming, they are coming," he managed, then kept running to spread the word through the rest of the village. A dusty grey Kubblewagon, with an officer and two non-commissioned officers, was followed by two truckloads of soldiers. The three vehicles stopped in the center of the square, and the trucks disgorged a large number of SS troopers, who immediately formed a strategic perimeter around the Italian soldiers. They were young, tall, grim faced, and looked formidably efficient. Their leader approached Lt. Venchiarutti and gave him a Nazi salute. "Heil, Hitler, Sturmbandfuhrer Otto Kleindienst." The Italian offered a lazy, almost insolent, military salute, barely touching the rim of his cap. "Lt. Venchiarutti, and may I ask what you are doing here, Hauptman Kleindienst?" "Sturmbandfuhrer," corrected the German. "Yes, of course, whatever. I still want to know what you are doing here." The German turned beet red under the thinly veiled sarcasm, the Italian's dismissal of the SS officer's military title, but Venchiarutti's flawless German intrigued him; yet, it took him a moment to regain his composure while he looked fixedly at his Italian ally. The two men were a study in contrast. Both were tall, lean, well-built. The German, however, was much younger, maybe in his mid-twenties, blond and blue-eyed, and stood ramrod straight and unsmiling. His hair was cut short and his uniform--immaculate, except for a thin film of dust--fit him to perfection. He wore his hat at a jaunty angle, and there was an iron cross around his neck. His expression was not only serious, but had a slight touch of arrogance. Lt. Venchiarutti slouched a little, his dark hair was a shade too long, and he wore a slight grin, which seemed to indicate that he took neither himself nor the vicissitudes of life very seriously. Venchiarutti had noted the German eyeing him with curiosity and tried to soften his earlier insolent remarks. "I spent some time in Berlin," he explained, "a few years just before the beginning of the war. A stage with a German law firm. I still would like to know, Herr Kleindienst, how can I be of service?" "Two SS soldiers were ambushed and killed not far from here, Lieutenant, and I was told to investigate and take all proper measures so that such atrocities will not occur again. Of course, I count on your cooperation." You bet, thought the Italian. I believe I know what these proper measures are. He sighed audibly and put his most charming smile forward. "I think, perhaps, we shall be more comfortable discussing the matter in the taverna. Why don't you follow me?" Without waiting for the German's answer, without a backward glance, Venchiarutti led the way. Kleindienst hesitated a few seconds, shrugged, and followed. At the door of the taverna, Venchiarutti courteously stepped aside. "After you, please." The taverna was small, stone-paved, and it took a while for the two men to adjust to the semi-darkness after the glaring sun outside. A scent of ouzo and stale tobacco lingered. There were a few tables and some wooden benches.