The 34th Degree

53

T hey rounded a glade and entered the northern suburb of Kifissia. It was a gloriously sunny day. The rim of mountains that surrounded Athens often trapped the heat in the city, but here where Andros grew up, it was relatively cool. Here there were still flowers, green clover beds, and birds that sang in blissful ignorance of any human war. Pansies and lantana were coming out on the walls, and he recognized the familiar fragrance of orange blossoms.

Then he saw it-the family villa nested on its hill. The sight sent his heart racing, and for a moment he was in school again, coming home for the holidays. He could picture his father the general in the courtyard, holding the hand of his little cousin Helen, waiting with the house staff to welcome him with hugs and kisses. For all his misgivings about his father’s politics and the question of the king, he longed for those days.

As the drive climbed through the shaded groves and the black Mercedes entered the open gates of the estate, Andros knew full well that it wasn’t Nasos the family driver behind the wheel but a Nazi. The courtyard was lifeless when they braked to a halt.

Andros couldn’t remember climbing out of the car; his eyes were fixed on the front door of the villa. When he turned around, all that was left of the Mercedes was a cloud of dust and his trunk standing on end in the middle of the courtyard.

He heard a creak and turned to see a curtain fall in the window. The front door opened, and a small figure flew out across the courtyard.

“Christos! Christos!” cried eleven-year-old Helen as she wrapped herself around his neck.

Andros lifted her up in his arms. Her blue-and-white sailor dress fluttered in the breeze, and her braided black hair with a white bow swung around and gently slapped his face. “Helen, what a young lady you’ve become. Why, the last time I saw you, you were only five.”

“She’s still in love with her older cousin,” said a familiar voice. “But I told her she can’t marry you.”

Mitchell Rassious emerged from the shadows of the doorway and crossed the sunlit courtyard to embrace him. He seemed heavier than Andros remembered and had less hair. But he looked good in his gray suit, open shirt collar, and dark tan. His silvering mustache and eyebrows gave him an air of distinction he had lacked when they were black.

Andros put Helen down. “Uncle Mitchell!”

“Christos!” Uncle Mitchell pulled his face forward with both hands. “Can it really be you? But how?”

“All in good time, Uncle.”

Uncle Mitchell nodded and turned toward the open doorway. “Look who’s here, Nasos,” he called. “It is Christos!”

Nasos, the family servant and chauffeur, appeared in the doorway and, after making sure the Germans were gone, stepped outside. When he saw Andros, he cried, “ Yassou, Christos!”

“Nasos!” Andros shook the strong hands of the former soldier who had served as his father’s driver. He seemed smaller than Andros remembered but still had a full head of curly black hair and a youthful gleam in his eyes.

Uncle Mitchell said, “Look at him, Nasos. The spitting image of his father.”

This time it was a compliment, Andros knew, and he smiled under their approving gazes.

Nasos felt his biceps. “And strong,” he pointed out. “There is iron in those arms, I can feel it.”

Andros remembered the similar remarks about his physique that Donovan had made at the Farm. It was another reminder that who he wanted to be and what he had to be here were two different people.

“Ouch,” said Andros, rubbing his muscle where Nasos had gripped it. “I’m afraid I’m not as strong as you are, Nasos.”

“Then we must feed you,” declared Uncle Mitchell, putting his arm around him. “Nasos will unpack your trunk while your aunt Maria fixes us something to eat. Now, come inside and tell us what this is all about.”