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.
When I bring them the accused men who’ve spent time in my prison and signed confessions scripted by others, they’re not pleased by my successful resolution of sinister plots. They just complain about broken legs and bruises. They don’t believe the prisoners fell down stairs and hit their heads on the wall. They don’t realize these are routine techniques used by scoundrels and crooks who want to make the police force look bad.
Gentlemen, the government is treading water when it should be punishing men, and making examples of them. We’re at war. If you’ve got balls, you do what it takes.
Saints speak to the pious. They give you a sign so you know how to proceed. I lit my candle and waited. I sat down in the pew and studied the icon. The saint spoke with his eyes, I saw it clear as day.
I crossed myself and stood. I had my orders.
When they brought him in, I told myself this one would break in two days. Not a real man at all, push him with a finger and he’d stumble. A dandy. A bureaucrat. A sissy. Fragile bones, not much meat on him, boiling him in a pot wouldn’t get you much broth.
He didn’t seem to understand what was happening, he looked at me foggily and kept whining like a schoolboy. He pretended to be naïve, but it turned out he knew perfectly well what was what.
Watch out for the silent types. You think you’ve got them under your thumb, as soft as dough. But they’re cunning. Like water. You wouldn’t think it, but there’s nothing more devious and cruel than water. It wears down even stone.
That’s how he was, silent. Nobody you’d ever pay much attention to. With his clean suit and ironed shirt, the note pad in his pocket, his fancy words and his press pass. Quiet as a mouse in its hole.
There’s no sense betting on a little lizard like him, but my guys didn’t have much else to do for entertainment. After interrogating brutes all day long, they deserved a little fun behind closed doors. One guy bet three days’ wages that he would break.
And lost.
None of us could have imagined how long the lizard would hold his ground. I screamed at my guys until I was blue in the face. I called them incompetent, useless.
— Drop your pants, all of you, none of your cocks is worth a thing.
In the end I had to deal with the situation myself. With words and with deeds — the usual tricks. But he was a dog. He kept his mouth shut tight. We kept roughing him up, then waiting. When he came to, he still wouldn’t confess. And what we needed was a confession. Without his signature I couldn’t move forward.
He didn’t leave me much choice in the matter.
I told them to bring in his mother. If Tzitzilis takes on a case, he puts it to bed. For a true leader, to begin is to finish.
VIOLETA GRIS, SISTER OF MANOLIS GRIS
The well-fed shouldn’t complain. I always got annoyed when my mother said that. Don’t stretch your legs beyond your blanket. Only go as far as your own two legs will carry you.
— Oh, Mother, you’ll go through life with your head down, you don’t ask for much. And that’s why they’ll never give you much, either.
— Don’t disrespect our mother, Evgnosia protested.
I can practically see them now, sitting by the window with their mending in their laps. Needle, thread, thimble. The tin box of spools open, the pins lined up neatly in the pincushion. They would turn the fabric inside out. Evgnosia would hold the needle to the light, lick her fingers and twirl the thread. Then Mother would take over. She never tied knots, that was for second-rate seamstresses who couldn’t do better, or careless housewives in a hurry to be done, who didn’t understand that each action has its time and manner. Mother took hold of the thread with dexterity, smoothed the fabric under her finger and began. There was no better mender than she, you had to look hard to see where her needle had been. With a bit of ribbon and a button she could make a dress look entirely new. She would change the collar and the cuffs, always careful about the details in the finishing.
Mother was a woman of the old style. She knew never to throw out scraps of fabric, one day they might come in handy. Even a torn petticoat would find its way into something else. If it couldn’t be mended, it could be turned into a little curtain or a bag for smelling salts. All it needed was a hand to show it off in its best light.
They never made me do those kinds of jobs, because I was studying at the university. This family’s hard work has paid off, Manolis would say. His hard work, really, only he never drew attention to himself like that. What he wanted more than anything was for someone in our family to study. That had been our father’s goal, too, or so our mother would say, turning her head in the direction of the Pontus.