The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [31]
As evening turned to night and the wine loosened tongues the conversation always swung around to Christos’ escapades in the whorehouses of the big cities. Then, after Christos would finish his story, each man in turn would tell of his experiences in the brothels. Mike learned that the prostitute held a position of respect in Greek culture. A wife, once wooed and wed, through family arrangement, was usually retired to the background. Her sole purpose in life was dedication to home and family. It was an accepted fact that a man could patronize the brothels whenever it suited him. The clever prostitute often found herself a husband who could provide comfort and respectability.
And when the hour grew late and the candle burned low Christos would offer his opinions on what he considered a real war. Dressed in his funstanella, he would pace the room and scoff at the German invaders as Johnny-come-latelies. The Bulgars, the Turks and the Italian Macaronades—these were the real enemies—as proven by centuries of warfare.
And Christos’ epic would become a bit more exaggerated with each telling....
All the men in his old platoon were dead, except for Christos and two comrades. An enemy horde had charged a hill which he was determined to hold. He and his comrades had hacked their way through a wall of charging Bulgarian flesh until he, Christos, stood alone—with two hundred of the enemy piled at his feet. At the close of the tale Christos’ bald pate would be bright purple intersected by protruding veins. He would be panting and sweating as he lifted a broom-handle and ran it through the guts of the last Bulgarian.
“This is the way to fight a war! Man to man!”
In Nauplion, Konrad Heilser stood on the balcony of his hotel suite overlooking the Bay of Argolis. His eyes were bloodshot and his usually slick hair was a mess. The ash trays in the suite brimmed with half-smoked cigarettes. His necktie was loosened and his shirtsleeves were rolled up.
He had made a thorough search of Nauplion and was unable to uncover a single clue in the strange disappearance of Michael Morrison. Out of sheer desperation, Zervos had been sent on a mission, based on hearsay that a fisherman had overheard a conversation about a body being placed aboard a boat a day after Morrison had jumped the prison train. The fisherman was now somewhere among the myriad islands in the Aegean.
It was a straw, but Heilser was desperate. Zervos was sent to find the fisherman.
The phone rang. Heilser entered the living room and snatched it from the hook.
“A call for you, Herr Heilser.”
“Hello, Herr Heilser?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Zervos.”
“Where are you?”
“On the Isle of Kea.”
“Did you locate the man?”
“Yes, I have him in custody. He is reluctant to talk, though.”
“Does he know the American’s whereabouts?”
“He knows something—that is certain.”
“Bring him to Athens immediately. I go immediately. He will talk when I am through with him.”
“Very well. I have a boat standing by. We will be in Athens tomorrow night.”
THREE
AT THE END OF a week, a doctor came from Dadi, unwrapped the bandages, examined Mike’s injuries and declared him a very lucky young man.
Mike was anxious to test his legs for a day or two, then press Christos for transportation to Athens. With Eleftheria’s help he wobbled from the cottage dressed in a coarse set of peasant’s clothes. Melpo supplied him with a heavy cane. With the help of the cane and one arm around Eleftheria, he made his way from the cottage into the sunlight,