The Schirmer Inheritance

6

They stayed that night in Stuttgart. Over dinner George summed up the results of their work.

“We can go straight to Cologne and try to find the Johann Schirmers by going through the city records,” he went on; “or we can go after the German army records, turn up Franz Schirmer’s papers, and get hold of his parents’ address that way.”

“Why should the army have his parents’ address?”

“Well, if it were our army he’d been in, his personal file would probably show the address of his parents, or wife if he’s married, as next of kin. Someone they can notify when you’ve been killed is a thing most armies like to have. What do you think?”

“Cologne is a big city-nearly a million persons before the war. But I have not been there.”

“I have. It was a mess when I saw it. What the R.A.F. didn’t do to it our army did. I don’t know whether the city archives were saved or not, but I’m inclined to go for the army records first just in case.”

“Very well.”

“In fact, I think the army is a better bet all round. Two birds with one stone. We’ll find out what happened to Sergeant Schirmer at the same time as we trace his parents. Do you have any ideas about where his German army records would be?”

“Bonn is the West German capital. Logically they should be there now.”

“But you don’t really think they will be, eh? Neither do I. Anyway I think we’ll go to Frankfurt tomorrow. I can check up with the American army people there. They’ll know. Another brandy?”

“Thank you.”

A further thing he had discovered about Miss Kolin was that, although she probably consumed, in public or in the privacy of her room, over half a bottle of brandy every day, she did not seem to suffer from hangovers.

It took them nearly two weeks to find out what the German army knew about Sergeant Schirmer.

He had been born in Winterthur in 1917, the son of Johann Schirmer (mechanic) and Ilse, his wife, both of pure German stock. From the Hitler Jugend he had joined the army at the age of eighteen and been promoted corporal in 1937. He had been transferred from the Engineers to a special air training unit (Fallschirmjäger) in 1938 and promoted sergeant in the following year. At Eben-Emael he had received a bullet wound in the shoulder, from which he had satisfactorily recovered. He had taken part in the invasion of Crete and had been awarded the Iron Cross (Third Class) for distinguished conduct. In Benghazi later in that year he had suffered from dysentery and malaria. In Italy in 1943, while acting as a parachutist instructor, he had fractured a hip. There had been a court of inquiry to determine who had been responsible for giving the order to jump over wooded country. The court had commended the Sergeant’s conduct in refraining from transmitting an order he believed to be incorrect, while obeying it himself. After four months in hospital and at a rehabilitation centre, and a further period of sick leave, a medical board had declared him unfit for further duty as a paratrooper or any other combat duty which entailed excessive marching. He had been posted to the occupation forces in Greece. There, he had served as weapons instructor to the Ninety-fourth Garrison Regiment in a Lines of Communication Division stationed in the Salonika area, until the following year. After an action against Greek guerrillas during the withdrawal from Macedonia, he had been reported “missing, believed killed.” The next of kin, Ilse Schirmer, Elsass Str. 39, Köln, had been duly notified.

They found Elsass Strasse, or what was left of it, in the remains of the old town off the Neumarkt.

Before the stick of bombs which had destroyed it had fallen, it had been a narrow street of small shops with offices above them, and a tobacco warehouse halfway along. The warehouse had obviously received a direct hit. Some of the other walls still stood, but, with the exception of three shops at one end of the street, every building in it had been gutted. Lush weeds grew now out of the old cellar floors; notices said that it was forbidden to trespass among the ruins or to deposit rubbish.

Number 39 had been a garage set back from the street in a space behind two other buildings and approached by an arched drive-in between them. The arch was still standing. Fastened to its brickwork was a rusty metal sign. The words on it could be read: “Garage und Reparaturwerkstatt. J. Schirmer-Bereifung, Zübehor, Benzin.”

They walked through the archway to the place where the garage had stood. The site had been cleared, but the plan of the building was still visible; it could not have been a very big garage. All that remained of it now was a repair pit. It was half full of rain water and there were pieces of an old packing case floating in it.

As they stood there, it began to rain again.

“We’d better see if we can find out anything from the shops at the end of the street,” George said.

The proprietor of the second of the shops they tried was an electrical contractor, and he had some information. He had only been there three years himself and knew nothing of the Schirmers; but he did know something about the garage site. He had considered renting it for his own use. He had wanted to put up a workshop and storeroom there and use the rooms over his shop to live in. The ground had no street frontage and was therefore of little value. He had thought to get it cheaply; but the owner had wanted too much and so he had made other arrangements. The owner was a Frau Gresser, wife of a chemist in the laboratories of a big factory out at Leverkusen. When women started bargaining, you understand, it was best to.… Yes, he had her address written down somewhere, though if the gentleman were considering the property, he personally would advise him to think twice before wasting his time arguing with …

Frau Gresser lived in an apartment on the top floor of a newly reconstructed building near the Barbarossa Platz. They had to call three times before they found her in.

She was a stout, frowzy, breathless woman in her late fifties. Her apartment was furnished in the cocktail-bar-functional style of prewar Germany, and crammed with Tyrolean knickknacks. She listened suspiciously to their explanations of their presence there before inviting them to sit down. Then she went and telephoned her husband. After a while she came back and said that she was prepared to answer questions.

Ilse Schirmer, she said, had been her cousin and childhood friend.

“Are the Schirmers alive now?” George asked.

“Ilse Schirmer and her husband were killed in the big air attacks on the city in May 1942,” Miss Kolin interpreted.

“Did Frau Gresser inherit the garage land from them?”

Frau Gresser showed signs of indignation when the question was put and spoke rapidly in reply.

“By no means. The land was hers-hers and her husband’s, that is. Johann Schirmer’s own business went bankrupt. She and her husband had set him up in business again for the sake of Ilse. Naturally, they had hoped also to make a profit, but it was goodness of heart that motivated them in the first place. The business, however, was theirs. Schirmer was only the manager. He had a percentage of the takings and an apartment over the garage. No one could say that he had not been generously treated. Yet, after so much had been done for him by his wife’s friends, he had tried to cheat them over the takings.”

“Who was his heir? Did he leave a will?”

“If he had had anything to leave except debts, his heir would have been his son, Franz.”

“Did the Schirmers have any other children?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“Fortunately?”

“It was hard enough for poor Ilse to feed and clothe one child. She was never strong, and with a husband like Schirmer, even a strong woman would have become ill.”

“What was the matter with Schirmer?”

“He was lazy, he was dishonest, he drank. When poor Ilse married him she did not know. He deceived everyone. When we met him he had a prosperous business in Essen. We thought him clever. It was not until his father went away that the truth was known.”

“The truth?”

“It was his father, Friedrich, who had the business head. He was a good accountant and he kept the son properly under control. Johann was only a mechanic, a workman with his hands. The father had the brains. He understood money.”

“Did Friedrich own the business?”

“It was a partnership. Friedrich had lived and worked for many years in Switzerland. Johann was brought up there. He did not fight for Germany in the first war. lise met him in 1915 while she was staying with friends in Zurich. They married and remained in Switzerland to live. All their savings were in Swiss francs. In 1923, when the German mark failed, they all came back to Germany-Friedrich, Johann, Ilse, and the child, Franz-and bought the garage in Essen cheap with their Swiss money. Old Friedrich understood business.”

“Then Franz was born in Switzerland?”

“Winterthur is near Zurich, Mr. Carey,” said Miss Kolin. “It was mentioned in the army papers, you remember. But he would still have to apply for Swiss nationality.”

“Yes, I know all about that. Ask her why the partnership broke up.”

Frau Gresser hesitated when she heard the question.

“As she has said, Johann had no head for-”

Frau Gresser hesitated again and was silent. Her plump face had become red and shiny with embarrassment. At last she spoke.

“She would prefer not to discuss the matter,” said Miss Kolin.

“All right. Ask her about Franz Schirmer. Does she know what happened to him?”

He saw the relief in Frau Gresser’s face when she understood that the subject of Friedrich Schirmer’s departure was not going to be pursued. It made him curious.

“Franz was reported missing in Greece in 1944. The official letter addressed to his mother was forwarded to Frau Gresser.”

“The report said: ‘missing, believed killed.’ Did she ever receive official confirmation of his death?”

“Not officially.”

“What does she mean?”

“One of Franz’s officers wrote to Frau Schirmer to tell her what had happened to her son. That letter also was forwarded to Frau Gresser. Having read it, she had no doubt that Franz was dead.”

“Did she keep the letter? Is it possible for us to see it?”

Frau Gresser considered the request for a moment; finally she nodded and, going to a chest of drawers shaped as if to reduce its wind resistance, brought out a tin box full of papers. After a long search the officer’s letter was found, together with the original army casualty notification. She handed both documents to Miss Kolin, making some explanation as she did so.

“Frau Gresser wishes to explain that Franz neglected to report to the army authorities that his parents had been killed and that it was the postal authorities who forwarded the letters.”

“I see. What’s the letter say?”

“It is from Lieutenant Hermann Leubner of the Engineer Company, Ninety-fourth Garrison Regiment. It is dated the 1st of December 1944.”

“What’s the date that Franz was reported missing on that army notification?”

“October 31.”

“All right.”

“The Lieutenant writes: ‘Dear Frau Schirmer: You will, no doubt, already have been notified by the army authorities of the fact that your son, Sergeant Franz Schirmer, has been listed as missing. I write as his officer to tell you of the circumstances in which this sad occurrence took place. It was on the 24th of October-’ ” She broke off.

“They were pulling out. They wouldn’t trouble to send casualty returns every day,” George said.

Miss Kolin nodded. “It continues: ‘The regiment was moving westwards from Salonika towards the Greek frontier in the general direction of Florina. Sergeant Schirmer, as an experienced soldier and a responsible man, was sent with three trucks and ten men to a gasoline dump several kilometres off the main road near the town of Vodena. His orders were to load as much of the gasoline as he could on to the trucks, destroy the remainder, and return, bringing the troops who had been guarding the dump with him. Unfortunately, his detachment was ambushed by one of the Greek terrorist bands that had been attempting to hinder our operations. Your son was in the first truck, which exploded a mine laid by the terrorists. The third truck was able to stop in time to avoid most of the machine-gun fire of the terrorists, and two men from it were able to escape and rejoin the regiment. I myself led a force immediately to the place of the ambush. Your son was not among the dead we found and buried, nor was there any other trace of him. The driver of his truck was also missing. Your son was not a man to surrender unwounded. It is possible that he was rendered unconscious by the explosion of the mine and so captured. We do not know. But I would be failing in my duty if I encouraged you to hope that if he were captured by these Greeks he would be alive. They have not the military code of honour of us Germans. It is, of course, also possible that your son evaded capture but was unable to rejoin his comrades immediately. If so, you will be informed by the authorities when there is news of him. He was a brave man and a good soldier. If he is dead, then you will have the pride and consolation of knowing that he gave his life for his Führer and the Fatherland.’ ”

George sighed. “That all?”

“He adds: ‘Heil Hitler,’ and signs it.”

“Ask Frau Gresser if she heard any more about it from the army authorities.”

“No, she did not.”

“Did she make any attempt to find out more? Did she try the Red Cross?”

“She was advised that the Red Cross could do nothing.”

“When did she ask them?”

“Early in 1945.”

“And not since?”

“No. She also asked the Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgräberfürsorge-that is, the war-graves organization-for information. They had none.”

“Was any application ever made to have him presumed dead?”

“There was no reason for such action.”

“Does she know if he married?”

“No.”

“Did she ever correspond with him?”

“She wrote a letter of sympathy to him when his parents were killed, but received no more than a bare acknowledgment from him. He did not even ask where they were buried. He showed a want of feeling, she thought. She sent a parcel soon afterwards. He did not trouble to write to thank her for it. She sent no more.”

“Where did his reply come from in 1942?”

“From Benghazi.”

“Did she keep the letter?”

“No.”

Frau Gresser spoke again. George watched her plump face quivering and her small, resentful eyes flickering between her two visitors. He was getting used now to interpretation and had learned not to try to anticipate the conversation while he waited. He was thinking at the moment that it would be unpleasant to be under any sort of obligation to Frau Gresser. The rate of emotional interest she would charge would be exhorbitantly high.

“She says,” said Miss Kolin, “that she did not like Franz and had never liked him even as a child. He was a sullen, sulky boy and always ungrateful for kindness. She wrote to him only as a duty to his dead mother.”

“How did he feel about foreigners? Had he any particular girl-friends? What I’m getting at is this-does she think he’d be the kind of man to marry a Greek girl, say, or an Italian, if he had the chance?”

Frau Gresser’s reply was prompt and sour.

“She says that, where women were concerned, he was the sort of man who would do anything that his selfish nature suggested. He would do anything if he had the chance-except marry.”

“I see. All right, I think that’s about the lot. Would you ask her if we can borrow these papers for twenty-four hours to have photostats made?”

Frau Gresser considered the request carefully. Her small eyes became opaque. George could feel the documents suddenly becoming precious to her.

“I’ll give her a receipt for them, of course, and they’ll be returned tomorrow,” he said. “Tell her the American Consul will have to notarize the copies or she could have them back today.”

Frau Gresser handed them over reluctantly. While he was writing the receipt, George remembered something.

“Miss Kolin, have another try at finding out why Friedrich Schirmer left the business at Essen.”

“Very well.”

He lingered over the writing-out of the receipt. He heard Miss Kolin put the question. There was a momentary pause; then Frau Gresser replied with a positive volley of words. Her voice rose steadily in pitch as she spoke. Then she stopped. He signed the receipt and looked up to find her staring at him in a flustered, accusing sort of way. He handed her the receipt and put the documents in his pocket.

“She says,” said Miss Kolin, “that the matter is not one which can be discussed in the presence of a man and that it can have no bearing on your inquiries. She adds, however, that if you do not believe that she is telling the truth, she will make the explanation confidentially to me. She will say no more on the subject while you are here.”

“O.K. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He rose and bowed to Frau Gresser. “Thank you very much indeed, madam. What you have told me is of inestimable help. I will see that your papers are safely returned to you tomorrow. Good day.”

He smiled affably, bowed again, and went. He was outside the apartment almost before Miss Kolin had finished interpreting his farewell speech.

She joined him in the street below ten minutes later.

“Well,” he said, “what was it all about?”

“Friedrich made advances to Ilse Schirmer.”

“To his son’s wife, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well. Did she go into details?”

“Yes. She enjoys herself, that one.”

“But the old man must have been around sixty then.”

“You remember the photographs that Father Weichs destroyed?”

“Yes.”

“He showed them to the wife.”

“Just that?”

“His meaning apparently was unmistakable. He also proposed in a veiled way that he should take similar photographs of her.”

“I see.” George tried to picture the scene.

He saw a shabby room in Essen and an elderly bookkeeper sitting there pushing dog-eared photographs one by one across the table to where his son’s wife could see them as she sat bent over her needlework.

How the man’s heart must have beat as he watched her face! His mind must have seethed with questions and doubts.

Would she smile or would she pretend to be shocked? She was sitting still, absolutely still, and she had stopped working. Soon she would smile, for certain. He could not see her eyes. After all, there was nothing wrong in a little private joke between a father and daughter-in-law, was there? She was a grown-up woman and knew a thing or two, didn’t she? She liked him, he knew. All he wanted to do was show her that he wasn’t too old for a bit of fun and that, even if Johann was no good, there was one man about the house for her to turn to. And now the last photograph, the sauciest of the lot. An eye-opener, eh? Good fun? She still hadn’t smiled, but she hadn’t frowned either. Women were funny creatures. You had to choose your moment; woo gently and then be bold. She was slowly raising her head now and looking at him. Her eyes were very round. He smiled and said what he had planned to say-that subtle remark about new pictures being better than old. But she did not smile back. She was getting to her feet and he could see that she was trembling. With what? Excitement? And then, suddenly, she had let out a sob of fear and run from the room out to the workshop where Johann was decarbonizing that Opel taxi. After that, everything had become a nightmare, with Johann shouting at and threatening him, and Ilse weeping, and the boy Franz standing there listening, white-faced, not understanding what it was all about; only knowing that in some way the world was coming to an end.

Yes, George thought, a pretty picture; though probably an inaccurate one. Still, it was the sort of scene about which nobody could ever be quite accurate; least of all, those who had taken part in it. He would never know what had really happened. Not that it mattered very much. Friedrich, Johann, and Ilse, the principal actors, were certainly dead. And Franz? He glanced at Miss Kolin marching along beside him.

“Do you think Franz is dead?” he asked.

“The evidence seemed conclusive. Did you not think so?”

“In a way, yes. If the man had been a friend of mine and had a wife and family he was fond of back home, I wouldn’t try to kid his wife that he might still be alive. And if she were crazy enough to go on believing that he wasn’t dead, I’d tell her as gently as I could to face the facts. But this is different. If we took the evidence we’ve got to court and asked for leave to presume Franz Schirmer dead, they’d laugh at us.”

“I do not see why.”

“Look. The man’s in a truck ambushed by these guerrillas. That Lieutenant comes along some time afterwards and has a look at the scene. There are lots of dead bodies about, but not the dead body of our man. So maybe he’s escaped and maybe he’s a prisoner. If he’s a prisoner, says the Lieutenant, then he hasn’t a hope, because the Greek guerrillas had the habit of killing their prisoners. ‘Just a minute,’ says the judge; ‘are you claiming that all Greek guerrillas operating in 1944 invariably killed all their prisoners? Are you prepared to prove that there were no cases at all of German soldiers surviving after capture?’ What does the Lieutenant say to that? I don’t know anything about the Greek campaign-I wasn’t there-but I do know that if all these guerrillas were so well trained and so well organized and so trigger-happy that no German who fell into their hands was ever smart enough or lucky enough to get away, they’d have had the Germans pulling out of Greece long before the Normandy landings. All right, then, let’s alter the wording of the evidence. Let’s say that Greek guerrillas often killed their prisoners. Now, then-”

“But do you think he is not dead?” she asked.

“Of course I think he’s dead. I’m just trying to point out there’s a whole lot of difference between an ordinary everyday probability and the calculated kind that the law prefers. And the law’s right. You’d be surprised how often people turn up when they’ve been thought dead. A man gets fired from his job and quarrels with his wife; so he goes down to the shore, takes off his coat, leaves it with a suicide note on the beach, and that’s the last seen of him. Dead? Maybe. But sometimes he’s found by accident years later living under a different name and with a different wife in a city on the other side of the continent.”

She shrugged. “This is different.”

“Not so very. Look at it this way. It’s 1944. Let’s suppose that Franz Schirmer is captured by the guerrillas but by luck or skill manages to get away alive. What is he to do? Rejoin his unit? The German occupation forces are trying to escape through Yugoslavia and having a tough time doing it. If he leaves his hide-out and tries to catch up with them, he’s certain to be recaptured by the guerrillas. They’re all over the place now. It’s better to stay where he is for a while. He is a resourceful man, trained to live off the country. He can stay alive. When it is safe for him to do so, he will go. Time passes. The country is under Greek control once again. Hundreds of miles now separate him from the nearest German unit. Civil war breaks out in Greece. In the resultant confusion he is able to make his way to the Turkish frontier and cross it without being caught. He is an engineer and does not mind work. He takes a job.”

“By February 1945 Turkey was at war with Germany.”

“Maybe it’s before February.”

“Then why does he not report to the German Consul?”

“Why should he? Germany is collapsing. The war is virtually over. Maybe he likes it where he is. Anyway, what has he to return to postwar Germany for? To see Frau Gresser? To see what’s left of his parents’ home? Maybe he married an Italian girl when he was in Italy and wants to get back there. He may even have children. There are dozens of possible reasons why he shouldn’t go to the German Consul. Maybe he went to the Swiss one.”

“If he had married, his army record would show it.”

“Not if he married someone he wasn’t supposed to marry. Look at the rules the Americans and British had about their troops marrying German girls.”

“What do you propose?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to think.”

When he got back to the hotel, he sat down and wrote a long cable to Mr. Sistrom. First he set out briefly the latest developments in the inquiry; then he asked for instructions. Should he return home now or should he go on and make an attempt to confirm Franz Schirmer’s death?

The following afternoon he had the reply.

“HAVING LOOKED UNDER SO MANY STONES,” it said, “SEEMS PITY LEAVE ONE UNTURNED STOP GO AHEAD TRY CONFIRM OR OTHERWISE FRANZ DEATH STOP SUGGEST GIVING IT THREE WEEKS STOP IF IN YOUR JUDGMENT NO SERIOUS HEADWAY MADE OR LIKELY BY THEN LETS FORGET IT. SISTROM.”

That night George and Miss Kolin left Cologne for Geneva.

Miss Kolin had interpreted at conferences for the International Red Cross Committee and knew the people at headquarters who could be of help. George was soon put in touch with an official who had been in Greece for the Red Cross in 1944; a lean, mournful Swiss who looked as if nothing again could ever surprise him. He spoke good English and four other languages besides. His name was Hagen.

“There is no doubt at all, Mr. Carey,” he said, “that the andartes did often kill their prisoners. I am not saying that they did it simply because they hated the enemy or because they had a taste for killing, you understand. It is difficult to see what else they could have done much of the time. A guerrilla band of thirty men or less is in no position to guard and feed the people it takes. Besides, Macedonia is in the Balkan tradition, and there the killing of an enemy can seem of small importance.”

“But why take prisoners? Why not kill them at once?”

“Usually they were taken for questioning.”

“If you were in my position, how would you go about establishing the death of this man?”

“Well, as you know where the ambush took place, you might try getting in touch with some of the andartes who were operating in that area. They might remember the incident. But I think I should say that you may find it difficult to persuade them to refresh their memories. Was it an ELAS band, do you know, or an EDES?”

“EDES?”

“The Greek initials stand for the National Democratic Liberation Army-the anti-Communist andartes. ELAS were the Communist andartes-the National Popular Liberation Army. In the Vodena area it would most likely be ELAS.”

“Does it matter which it was?”

“It matters a great deal. There have been three years of civil war in Greece, you must remember. Now that the rebellion is over, those who fought on the Communist side are not easy to find. Some are dead, some in prison, some in hiding still. Many are refugees in Albania and Bulgaria. As things are, you would probably find it difficult to get in touch with ELAS men. It is complex.”

“Yes, it sounds it. What real chance would there be, do you think, of my finding out what I want to know?”

Monsieur Hagen shrugged. “Often in such matters I have seen chance operate so strangely that I no longer try to estimate it. How important is your business, Mr. Carey?”

“There’s a good deal of money at stake.”

The other sighed. “So many things could have happened. You know, there were hundreds of men reported ‘missing, believed killed’ who had simply deserted. Salonika had plenty of German deserters towards the end of 1944.”

“Plenty?”

“Oh yes, of course. ELAS recruited most of them. There were many Germans fighting for the Greek Communists around Christmas 1944.”

“Do you mean to say that in late 1944 a German soldier could go about in Greece without getting killed?”

A pale smile drifted across Monsieur Hagen’s mournful face. “In Salonika you could see German soldiers sitting in the cafés and walking about the streets.”

“In uniform?”

“Yes, or part uniform. It was a curious situation. During the war the Communists in Yugoslavia, Greece, and Bulgaria had agreed to create a new Macedonian state. It was all part of a larger Russian plan for a Balkan Communist Federation. Well, the moment the Germans had gone, a force called the Macedonian Group of Divisions of ELAS took over Salonika and prepared to put the plan into execution. They didn’t care any more about Germans. They had a new enemy to fight-the lawful Greek government. What they wanted to fight with were trained soldiers. It was Vafiades who had the idea of recruiting German deserters. He was the ELAS commander in Salonika then.”

“Can’t I get in touch with this Vafiades?” George asked.

He saw Miss Kolin stare at him. An expression of anxious perplexity came over Monsieur Hagen’s face.

“I’m afraid that would be a little difficult, Mr. Carey.”

“Why? Is he dead?”

“Well, there seems to be some doubt as to just what has happened to him.” Monsieur Hagen seemed to be choosing his words. “The last we heard of him directly was in 1948. He then told a group of foreign journalists that, as head of the Provisional Democratic Government of Free Greece, he proposed to establish a capital on Greek soil. That was just about the time his army captured Karpenissi, I believe.”

George looked blankly at Miss Kolin.

“Markos Vafiades called himself General Markos,” she murmured. “He commanded the Greek Communist rebel army in the civil war.”

“Oh, I see.” George felt himself reddening. “I told you I didn’t know anything about the Greek set-up,” he said. “I’m afraid this kind of name-dropping misses with me.”

Monsieur Hagen smiled. “Of course, Mr. Carey. We are closer to these things here. Vafiades was a Turkish-born Greek, a tobacco worker before the war. He was a Communist of many years’ standing and had been to prison on that account. No doubt he had a respect for revolutionary tradition. When the Communists gave him command of the rebel army he decided to be known simply as Markos. It has only two syllables and is more dramatic. If the rebels had won he might have become as big a man as Tito. As it was, if you will forgive the comparison, he had something in common with your General Lee. He won his battles but lost the war. And for the same kind of reasons. For Lee, the loss of Vicksburg and Atlanta, especially Atlanta, meant the destruction of his lines of communication. For Markos, also faced by superior numbers, the closing of the Yugoslav frontier had the same sort of effect. As long as the Communists of Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, and Albania helped him, he was in a strong position. By retiring across those frontiers, he was able to break off any action that looked like developing unfavourably. Then, behind the frontier, he could regroup and reorganize in safety, gather reinforcements, and appear again with deadly effect on a weakly held sector of the government front. When Tito quarrelled with Stalin and withdrew his support of the Macedonian plan, he cut Markos’s lateral lines of communication in two. Greece owes much to Tito.”

“But wouldn’t Markos have been beaten in the end anyway?”

Monsieur Hagen made a doubtful face. “Maybe. British and American aid did much. I do not dispute that. The Greek army and air force were completely transformed. But the denial of the Yugoslav frontier to Markos made it possible to use that power quickly and decisively. In January 1949, after over two years’ fighting, the Markos forces were in possession of Naoussa, a big industrial town only eighty miles from Salonika itself. Nine months later they were beaten. All that was left was a pocket of resistance on Mount Grammos, near the Albanian frontier.”

“I see.” George smiled. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be much likelihood of my being able to talk to General Vafiades, does there?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Carey.”

“And even if I could, there wouldn’t be much sense in my asking him about a German Sergeant who got caught in an ambush in ’44.”

Monsieur Hagen bowed his head politely. “None.”

“So let me get it straight, sir. In 1944 the guerrillas-andartes you call them, do you?-the andartes killed some Germans and recruited others. Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“So that if the German soldier I’m interested in managed to get away alive after that ambush, it would not be fantastic to give him a fifty-fifty chance of staying alive?”

“Not at all fantastic. Very reasonable.”

“I see. Thanks.”

Two days later George and Miss Kolin were in Greece.