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by Elaine Sutherland
ESuther105@aol.com

Commentary is invited.

July 5, 1941

I sat back, stunned.

Janice looked up from her reading. Her soft green eyes looked patiently at me waiting for an explanation.

"Why are you quoting scripture?"

"It's not scripture." I pointed down at the scroll I had just translated and could hear my voice drop to a whisper.

"It's Gabrielle".

She continued staring at me, in mild consternation. It wouldn't register. The magnitude of it was too great.

Then her face lit up with the same astonishment that had jolted me. "You mean Gabrielle of Potedaia wrote those words -- six centuries before Christ?!"

I nodded silently.

"Then.... it is not ...It's not Christian theology."

"No. It is poetry. From a wandering bard, writing about....well, about writing. In arche en ho logos. It's a proclamation. About the primacy, the divinity of the creative thought."

"Oh, I like that. The bard as prophet."

I laid my hand on hers, scarcely able to form the wondrous words. "No, don't you see? Not as prophet. There is nothing to prophesy. The divine spark, the world-creating spirit is already there.

Her face shone with understanding as she absorbed and then reflected back at me the dazzling revelation.

"The bard as savior."

* * * *

July 30, 1941

This scroll, which I have named the "Logos Scroll" baffles us.

How could this village girl as she walked along the dirt roads of Attica and Macedonia with the taciturn Xena of Amphipolis come upon this very un-Greek notion that thought was transcendent and omnipotent?

Gabrielle wrote. That was her gift and her power. That was the substance that she brought to their union.

Gabrielle wrote, of the many times that Xena saved her life, and in so writing she saved Xena in return, saved her for all time and for the world. The ink that flowed from her quill was immortality.

But we cannot reconcile the revelations of immanent divinity in the bard with the puerile images of the naked dancing Gabrielles, the effeminate centurion, the "jerk", the snoring barbarians, and the odorous goddess of love! What enormous irony, that this deepest of mystical insights should be expressed in so silly a scroll. This "Logos" scroll, which Janice has laughingly referred to as "The Quill is Mighty" scroll, is a mixture of profundity and nonsense, as if two hands had written it, although it is written throughout in the unmistakable handwriting of Gabrielle. We are bewildered.

Janice thinks that Gabrielle just got into the nutbread again, all the while she wrote, but I search for a deeper meaning. That perhaps when the poetic mind discovers how powerful it is, all it wants to do is play. And that the defining human experience is not love, nor morality, nor the contemplation of death, but--of all things--laughter.

Here in Europe, as war engulfs a continent, that is difficult to believe.

August 25, 1941

We have worked all month on the "Logos" Scroll while the war rages ever more fiercely, but it is as if we were cocooned with the scrolls and with each other.

We are deliriously happy. The only thing that keeps us from constant carnal knowledge is our respect and love for the other kind of knowledge--for the reason we both came to Macedonia in the first place. But our work together is a sort of lovemaking too. I look at her writing, in the shaft of afternoon sunlight that illuminates the room, from the window looking out at the Acropolis. I feel the light is our love, surrounding and warming us while we work together, not needing to speak or touch. I can remember not knowing her, but I cannot remember not loving her.

The nights are miraculous. From the moment we lay our camp mattresses together, like our ancestors setting up their campsite, we fall into an embrace. We do not want to sleep and we hold off climax. I lie behind her and hold her in my arms, and force myself not to touch too soon the moist golden silk between her legs. I whisper my love and inhale the fragrance of her hair and skin. But arousal seems to come by itself, all too quickly, as soon as I begin to make love to her. I can rarely practice the new arts she had taught me, for as soon as I lay my mouth on her sweet sex, she comes. She has more skill with me, and torments me long and deliciously before she sends me over the edge into euphoria. But nothing is as wondrous as our lying face to face with open eyes, speaking softly, making love with words.

With unaccustomed poetry she tells me she will never leave me. That she will never let me leave her. "I would follow you into hell", she says. "I would be Orpheus for you. I would be Faust. I would sell my soul for you".

"You can't sell your soul, darling", I tell her. " It already belongs to me, and I will never let it go."

* * * *

September 8, 1941

Niklos, one of Sal Moneus' men came to the house last night, after curfew. They have a RAF pilot who managed to parachute to safety over Erithrai before his plane crashed. He is injured and they have asked Uncle Stavros if we could hide him for a few weeks. Stavros barely hesitated, only looked around at us to see if we consented as well. We nodded our agreement of course. But we wondered if Stavros grasped the mortal danger he was stepping into. Janice took him aside.

"Are you sure of this? This is your house, and the risk is very great. You can say no to this with good conscience."

Stavros patted her hand on his shoulder. "Janice, I want to do this. I am too old and timid to be a soldier, but this is a way in which I too can resist the Fascists. To do nothing in wartime is criminal. You have to declare your allegiance and speak the words. A man must know who he is."

"And a woman too!" she replied. "Stavros, you make me proud to be in this family," she added, and I wondered then if he caught the real meaning of "in this family". I was proud of our little family too, the three of us, but also filled with a certain foreboding.

An hour after the messenger left, Sal came back with a slender blond Englishman on crutches wearing a plaster cast up to his knee. He was very weak and we made him as comfortable as possible. I looked with new eyes at the plump Greek black marketer whom I had never thought much of. Sal was no less corrupt than before, but he too had declared his allegiance, and knew who he was. He sat down, scratched under his scruffy beard and told us of the network of partisans operating throughout Greece and the Balkans.

"This house now has a code name, 'America', and by the way, I hope you have another one of your American hundred dollar bills." He held out his hand, the one that was not scratching his beard. Even as a patriot, Sal Moneus was business man.

"Yes, why?"

"Well, we have to pay off the doctor and a few other people who helped us get him here, and you are also going to need more food." It made sense, of course, so I handed the money over, and he left with promises to keep us supplied as well as he could.

And now, it seems, we are all in the Resistance. Suddenly the pistol which Janice gave me a few months ago no longer seems so irrelevant.

September 20, 1941

Nigel is a cheerful, funny man, and has adapted easily to the household. He is very pale-skinned and blonder than Janice. We have put him in the tiny space where I used to sleep and where there is no window. The injury to the leg, according to the doctor, is expected to heal in about eight weeks. But Nigel does not need to be waited on and hobbles around taking care of himself and doing various household jobs. He is even, as it turns out, a fairly decent cook. Janice and I both sleep now in the work room, and have grown accustomed to setting up the work table every morning and dismantling it at night.

October 5, 1941

Janice is always comfortable with men, perhaps because she was never pampered by them, never taught to be a "lady" and defer to them. Stavros adored her from the first day and now Nigel has fallen under her playful spell. They look alike, and even tease each other in the same way. This morning as I came into the kitchen they were arguing about Marlene Dietrich while they prepared our meager breakfast.

"You're bloody daft", he said with adorable British pique as he hobbled on one crutch from sink to table. "Dietrich is the sexiest woman on both sides of the war."

"Hmmmm. So, you'd like to get into HER knickers, eh, Flyboy?" Janice paused in slicing the morning's bread, turned around and squinted at him through the bright Aegean sunlight that poured through the window onto her face "Well, I met her in Berlin in the thirties when she was filming 'Blue Angel'. I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but...she had a girlfriend!"

"Poppycock!. You sapphists see lesbians everywhere!

("You sapphists"? Oh, I guess he knew.)

He studied his nails, as if revealing a secret. "Word is she's being boffed by your very manly John Wayne. Oh, she's a man's woman, my Dear! Spot it a mile off!"

Janice smiled that wonderful smile of hers and laid her arm over his shoulder, "That doesn't change what I saw". She leaned over and pretended to whisper in his ear, "Nige, old fellow, the lady's a skirt chaser."

I added my weak support, "Well there was that movie, 'Morocco' wasn't it called, where she wore that tuxedo and kissed that woman."

"Oh no, you too, Melinda? Well, I won't have you both ruin my best erotic fantasy. You've no bloody proof. It's all in your salacious little minds!"

I held up my hands in the international gesture of peace. "Well, maybe we should all just see what we want to see. If you want to see her as a sex symbol for men, fine. If others see...uh...subtext, well...."

Just then Stavros walked in and everyone decided that breakfast was more important.

October 20, 1941

Having a soldier in the house of course brings us much closer to the war. Nigel was at Dunkirk in May of 1940 and has told us about the miracle rescue of the bulk of the British Expeditionary Force. I could scarcely imagine it, a third of a million men in lines strung out along the beach while the RAF and the Luftwaffe fought it out in the air. Wounded, defeated men filling up the troop ships and still there were thousands left on the beach, loading in groups of 100 and 50 and 20 into private boats, brought across the Channel by civilians. An armada of boats under fire, sweeping up soldiers from the beach and from the water.

Then he told me what Churchill had said, the speech which we had not heard here in Athens, but that he had memorized.

And I could hear the raspy voice of that crusty old warrior, stirring his people to the defense of the homeland.

Powerful words that could give meaning and purpose to defeat.

* * * *

November 12, 1941

We have heard through the Resistance that the German government has decreed that Jews must wear the yellow star. It is rigorously enforced in Germany, although less so in the occupied countries. But it has forced a more obvious choosing up of sides. Either one abandons one's Jewish neighbors, or assists them. One cannot remain neutral.

Janice goes off with Sal quite often now, on some war business or other. I hate it when she takes risks and I understand now the reason for the scrolls. It was the need Gabrielle had to preserve the greatness of Xena since every day she might have lost her. To write down the events is to hold on to them, to counter the fear of death.

November 20, 1941

Obtaining food for four people has become a serious daily concern. Lend lease does not apply to occupied lands but things find their way from country to country. Sal continues to be our main source, and my American 100 dollar bills have kept us supplied. Even in an occupied country, the banks still operate, and the major currencies are still exchanged. And Sal has accumulated a lot of our money; I wonder what he does with it.

December 8, 1941

It has finally happened, but it is still a great shock. Janice and Stavros were sitting in the living room last night listening to the BBC on the short wave. They waved me to silence when I came in and the expressions on their faces told me it was something terrible. Then I recognized the voice.

President Roosevelt's voice droned on, one terrible word after another. There seemed to be no other sound in the room, in the house. Only the nasal New England voice that kept on relentlessly.

And then, the final, irrevocable words:

War had raged around us for a year and it had scarcely touched us. We had gone on loving and working and taking care of the needs of the day. But at the word "Congress" I suddenly grasped that I was not just out on a slightly dangerous adventure and could go home at any time. Now my homeland was at war; the world was at war.

I looked up. Stavros sat staring at the radio. "They have awakened a sleeping giant," he said quietly.

* * * *

December 15, 1941

We know now that it will be years before the precious scrolls can be brought to real safety in a museum. The simple burying of the crate under dirt is not sufficient, and we have decided to protect the majority of the precious documents for the duration of the war. We dug out the crate, removed five of the twenty scrolls and reburied the remaining fifteen in a much deeper hole. Then we covered the whole thing with a layer of cement obtained from Sal. It took us a total of three days to do the whole job and to do it quietly, but we think now the crate could survive even the bombing of the house. I am relieved. We must protect this 3000 year old history at all costs.

December 20, 1941

Sal has arranged for new passports for Janice and me, for our Resistance work and so we can travel more easily in Greece. Mine is Greek, for Melina Amphipolous. Janice's, we were surprised to find, is Hungarian. Janice pointed out that while she speaks about eight languages, Hungarian is not one of them. Sal replied with irrefutable logic, "No one speaks Hungarian except Hungarians, of which there aren't so many, so no one can test you. Your German's pretty good. Not good enough for a German, but good enough for a Hungarian." She is Magda Farkacs. Janice scrutinized both documents and admitted grudgingly,

"Nice work, Sal. Got to hand it to you."

"Thank you, Janice. Now, that will be one hundred American dollars."

"Sal, you are a swine" I said as I handed over yet another crisp American bill. "At least throw in some food for Christmas dinner. Can you get us something special?"

"How about lamb? Just happen to have some. I'll send it back with Niklos. "

And he left with the air of a satisfied business man.

December 24, 1941 -- Christmas Eve

Although there is a war on, we have each other and we feel very fortunate. We are all healthy and Nigel can walk again unassisted. We made a holiday dinner from Sal's black-market lamb and after Stavros played a few hymns on his violin, we exchanged gifts. Janice presented Stavros with her last ten cigars, and made him a happy man. He in turn gave both Janice and me silver rings that had belonged to his wife. The rings are very plain, and on our two hands they are a little like wedding bands. I liked that, and I wondered if that was what Stavros intended. We had never spoken openly of our relationship and he had never referred to it. But he took both our hands and laid them together and then I knew that the rings were his way of giving us his blessing.

Janice gave me a bulky package which proved to be a thick shawl, the coarse woven kind that the old Greek women wear on the cold days down at the harbor. Nigel looked at its dirt brown color, rubbed the thick wool between his fingers and couldn't resist commenting.

"Janice, that shawl is really.....uhh...well....incredibly ugly."

She punched him on his shoulder.

"You turd! I want Mel to be warm, and that was the thickest, warmest thing I could find in Piraeus. Pardon me for not shopping in Paris, Flyspeck!"

"What happened to 'Flyboy'?"

"You were just demoted."

As they bantered, sibling-like, I looked over at the two blond heads and saw how the candlelight behind them illuminated their hair, his in a thin shimmering corona, hers in a wide halo of flame. They looked like twins, and I confess I felt a twinge of jealousy, that the two of them were so beautiful together, like radiant angels. I wanted him to go away. I wanted to be the one sitting there with my hair glowing, making Janice laugh. I know their love does not take anything away from me, that he is like the brother she never had, and so I feel ashamed. But still, I think it will be better when he is gone.

"I love it, Janice. And I promise that I'll wear it all winter," I said.

December 25, 1941 Christmas Day

I do not know what to do.

Janice had to go with Sal on an urgent mission to Iraklion, since they needed someone who spoke German. Today of all days. They said that the maritime patrols would be lax at Christmas. But the real crisis is that Niklos has come to say that Nigel's contact is on it's way here. A motor boat will pick him up in Piraeus at 11:00 PM. It must be tonight of course; there is no way to call back and change the plans. This is unexpected, and potentially disastrous. The plan was for Janice or Sal to smuggle him down to the harbor when word came. They know the safe streets, whom to threaten, whom to bribe. But they are both in Iraklion. And Nigel must go. The decision has been taken from me.

We have packed very little, just some food for Nigel for the trip. I'm wrapped in my ugly warm shawl. We are leaving now.

God help us.

* * * *

January 5 1942

My dearest Janice,

I have been arrested. This is the first time I have been able to set words down on paper. I do not know if I will ever make it back to Athens, or to America, but I must talk to you during these harrowing times, must have you before me in my mind's eye, holding this book in your hands where I record these events.

I was arrested taking Nigel to Piraeus to meet with his contact, which was supposed to be his rescue. The timing couldn't have been worse. You were in Iraklion with Sal when word came that his pick-up was there. It had to be that night and so, for lack of an alternative, we went. But everything went wrong. The boat was late, and we had to wait for the signal. We sat in the truck for twenty minutes, wondering what was wrong. Nigel told me how much he loved you, how much he loved us both. Did you know he was as innocent as I was, when I first met you? He had hoped you would be the first, until he realized you and I were together. That lovely, gentle man. And then the signal came, but when we got out we hadn't gone twenty paces before two Greek policemen stopped us. My accent gave me away as a foreigner, and Nigel of course didn't even have papers. Nigel tried to break away, and they shot him. He got up and they made him walk, but they separated us and so I don't know how bad it was. He looked over his shoulder at me as they dragged him off. He seemed to be in great pain.

We were interrogated separately in Athens. I knew he was there but I could not see him. I do not think he gave any information. I also gave none and I will not. Of that I am certain. I am afraid. But I will let them kill me, however terribly, before I endanger you. I pray that you are safe, my darling.

They took us away the next day on separate trucks to Salonika. I saw him for the last time as they dragged him to the other truck. He seemed very weak.

I was ten days in the prison at Salonika. I marked the days off on the wall.

On the fourth day in Salonika they took Nigel away in a transport. One of the guards, a quiet woman who never abused the prisoners, whispered to me, while she shoved a bowl of gruel into my cell, "Your friend has been transported. To Dachau, with the other men. They carried him out. He was unconscious". Then she was gone.

Now I am alone with my guilt, that I could have saved us both if I had just refused to drive him to Piraeus.

But I am tormented more with worry for you. Have the Germans found out where we live? Have they arrested you? Are you endangering yourself trying to find me?

On the tenth day the same guard came in, this time with a German officer and an Orthodox priest. I had certainly not asked for a priest, and I feared for a moment it meant I was to be executed. The officer spoke and the priest interpreted, saying that I was charged with espionage which was punishable by death, but that this would be carried out in Germany and at the discretion of the authorities there. That shook me.

I am to be transported into the Reich.

The priest then said to me in Greek, "Kneel my child. If you wish to make confession, I can give you comfort." At first I balked. I did not want to debase myself before this bearded stranger who was collaborating with the Nazis, so I stood frozen. But he repeated himself and held out a small Bible and I began to think that he was trying to help me in some way.

I knelt and put my hands together the way I had seen little children praying and bowed my head. I had no idea how to make confession in Greek or in any language and just recited the Pater Noster that I had learned in my Biblical Greek class in college. That seemed to fit the charade because he then placed a small New Testament in my hands and covered them with his own and said another prayer. Then he said, "Keep this book always with you. Its words are holy. They are the words of Truth, the Alithia. It is not enough to have faith. You must have the words." Lexis, he said.

The words.

I grasped finally what he was giving me. A truly precious gift. He was giving me paper to write on.

When I got back to my cell I had only a few minutes to look at the book and see that it had a thin pencil pressed into the back cover. I would have to be careful never to lose it. I just had time to put on my coat and shawl and hide the Bible inside my shirt before they loaded us onto the trucks.

* * * *

January 6,1942

I am in a train now.

It is the second day. I can see the steam of my breath and it is so cold that my fingers are numb. I am curled up trying to keep warm just below the one small window of this freight car. The car smelled of cattle when we were first packed in here, but now it smells of us, from the bucket which is our toilet. The only source of light is the small and wire-covered window over my head. It lets in the cold, but if we did not have it, we would sit in total darkness. It provides just enough light for me to write. And when I write, I am with you.

Oh, my darling. Cold and frightened as I am, I will write everything. When I write, I hold the events. They do not hold me. I hope fervently that I will be the one to give this book to you, but if I am not, someone will give it to the world, and I will at least have given testimony.

Too many of the Germans read English, and so I write in Greek. I have tried writing along the margins but saw immediately that there was far too little space. So I turn the pages horizontally and write at right angles to the printed text. It appears an illegible mess at first glance, but one can, with effort, read the lines I write. I write the Greek that I have been reading for a year, the mixed dialect of the scrolls. It is the Greek of Gabrielle of Potedaia. Sometimes, in the half sleep I achieve -- for real sleep is impossible -- sometimes I imagine myself talking to her. I wonder if she would understand this kind of terror. I think she would.

I can't count how many are here, but the freight car is packed full, and it is all women and children. No one is talking; all you hear is the whining of children and the hard pounding of the wheels on the tracks, like a frantic heartbeat. I heard several languages at first, Greek, Yugoslavian, Bulgarian (I think), Czech, but no English. Now just the hushed sounds of mothers comforting their children. I am thirsty.

Later

We stopped at some town and did not move for hours. They opened the door just long enough to empty the bucket. They have taken a woman off the train who died during the night.

These things must be recorded and remembered. The woman who died, she must not be forgotten. I have asked the woman sitting next to me to pass along the question who the dead woman was. And then the name was passed back to me. Andrea Kostakis.

On this day, January 6, 1941, the life of Andrea Kostakis was snuffed out on a train traveling into the Reich.

I wonder, will someone bear witness for me?

I have spoken to the two women near me, who are Greek. Sophia and Alexis. They are young, from Athens, they said. Sophia is Jewish, which surprised me because she has long honey-colored hair much like yours. It contrasts oddly with her large dark eyebrows. I wish it were not so hard to talk. I want to hear their stories. I want to know if they have someone back in Athens too. I want comfort. I want not to be alone. I am so thirsty.

January 7, 1942

There was an upset. Someone has fainted and turned over the toilet bucket. People tried to edge away from the pool of filth, but there is no place to move. Cold, thirst, fear, darkness and now filth. Someone cried out in Greek, "What is left now to torment us?" I fear there is a great deal left.

I can hardly write, my hands are so cold. Fortunately not my head, even though I am right below the window. I have your wonderful thick shawl wrapped around my head and do not feel the wind. I have also found a way to get a few drops of water. The wire over the window is covered with ice. I put my finger through the wire and break off little fragments of it and put them in my mouth. It tastes of rust and oil but it lessens the torment of thirst. I had to disturb Sophia and Alexis to stand up but I shared the bits of ice with them.

January 8, 1942

We have passed through Sarajevo and Zagreb. The last sign I saw was Graz. We are in Austria. A land I always associated with forests and clean air. And innocence.

Jan 9, 1942

We stopped outside of a city and they opened the door again. The toilet bucket was emptied, although the fetid mess in the corner remained. Soldiers passed in water and bread. There was chaos when they threw in the bread, but Andrea, who is quite tall and strong, snatched it out of the air and got enough for the three of us. But the water bucket never reached us. Everyone is too parched and the handful crouched around the door got it all. It is clear that the only water we will get today will be from the ice.

When the train began moving again I stood up to see what city we had reached. Linz, Austria.

No one speaks, but there is a close feeling between the two Greek women and myself. We take turns leaning against each other. That makes it possible to actually sleep for a little while, in spite of the cold and crowding.

January 10, 1942

We are in Czechoslovakia now. It was night when we passed through a large station, but I saw a sign that said Praha. Prague. It is morning now, and we have been sitting here on this side rail outside the city for several hours. Everyone is numb with exhaustion. Even the children have stopped crying.

Now the boxcars are being shunted backwards and forwards. I hear the crash of heavy steel parts linking. It sounds like they are adding freight cars. New captives in each country the Germans pass through.

January 11, 1942

We are deep in the Reich. The landscape is covered with snow as far as I can see. Ironic that something so lovely so fills me with dread. We must be quite far north by now. So far away from you. I have never been so filthy, but except for the hunger, which has become a dull and permanent ache, I am not sick. Only weak. My darling, even in your absence you take care of me. The heavy boots which you insisted I wear are sturdy and dry, and will hold up in the snow. And your shawl has kept three people warm.

Two more people have died from cold, or thirst, or both. Fotini Mourtos, an elderly woman, and Gianni Thanopolous, a child of two. Each of us wonders if this is our death train too. Our lips are parched and cracked, and we try to sleep, an hour at a time.

There is still too much time to think. To worry about you, and Stavros, and Nigel, whom I have perhaps taken to his death. I have only one thing to hold on to, the thought of you. I feel your love encircling me like this shawl. I remember the heat of your body and that warms me a little.

January 12,1942

We are stopped. I hear a different kind of noise. They seem to be unloading the car ahead of us. I hear dogs barking, men shouting in German. I remember the German words I need: Wasser. Bitte, Wasser.

* * * *

January 13, 1942

I am at Ravensbrück in a barracks with 80 other women. The train was unloaded outside the camp near a lake and everyone who was able ran down to the water to drink. There was ice at the edge, but we just kicked holes in it. Then the soldiers herded us toward the camp. We had to give up our coats and jewelry (including my "wedding" ring) and our heads were shaved. Alexis, always strong, never flinched at the degradation. But Sophia wept, losing her beautiful honey-colored curls, and I did too, feeling my long hair fall away. Then we were made to line up again.

The line moved slowly and I could see that the women at the front were made to strip and, in groups of 50, enter a shower room which functioned as the entry into the camp. Some 40 meters farther along there was the exit where the naked women were given prison clothing. I was determined to keep my bible-journal no matter what. So I walked up to the guard at the front and said that I was sick with diarrhea and had to go quickly or I would soil myself. You see Janice, your teaching me the German word for 'shit' was a good thing after all. The guard was disgusted and waved me toward the shower room and told me to squat over the drain, so I ran ahead, fully dressed into the shower room. There were some moldy benches piled up in one corner so I took off my boots, dropped the book into one of them, and hid the boots under the benches. I left the shower room and, against all odds, was able to get back into the line without anyone noticing or caring that I had gone in shod and come out only in socks.

After the ice cold shower, which at least washed away some of the lice, I grabbed the boots again and Alexis and Sophia and I stood together shivering in the last line leading into the camp. We were each given a prisoner's dress and a coat with numbers sewn on the front which we put on where we stood. I am number 13,332, Sophia is 13,333 and Alexis is 13,334. At the last table outside the showers, they issued us colored triangles, to identify our reasons for imprisonment. We all have red triangles, -- for political prisoners. Sophia was also given a yellow star.

Sophia and Alexis and I have been assigned to the same barracks, where we were given the day's meal, a bowl of turnip soup and a slice of bread. It is the first solid food I have had in three days. I forced myself to eat it slowly.

January 14, 1942

This morning at 4:30 AM, I had my first roll call. The Lagerstrasse, the main avenue of the camp where we are counted, was lit by fiercely bright lights high up on poles. We lined up ten by ten to make up units of 100. That is the way they count each block. If the number is not correct, they count it again. I had no way to estimate the total number, but it seemed to be several thousand. It was freezing cold out on the Lagerstrasse , and I do not know how long I can endure it.

The women in my block are Greek and Yugoslavian. If they wonder at the strange Greek that I speak, no one seems to care enough to ask my nationality. I do not know if there would be any benefit in having it known that I am an American. And here at least I have Alexis and Sophia.

There was another roll call right after that, for work. All three of us have been assigned to "Bekleidung", the care of the prison clothing, and we know that we are lucky. I see other women working on the streets between the blocks, or hauling wood, and I see what a terrible toll the outdoor labor takes.

There was another roll call at noon and one in the evening, a total of four every day. All require that we stand in the bitter cold until the count is finished.

January 15, 1942

Each night we sleep packed together like rodents in a nest. The 'beds' are simply wooden platforms with a thin layer of straw, crawling with lice and fleas. They were made for four but there are six of us on our platform and the crowding makes it almost impossible to turn over at night without waking all the others. Alexis, Sophia and I share half a platform. The other women on our platform are Yugoslavs who speak no Greek or English. Sophia, being the smallest, is always between Alexis and me. I lie on the outside edge and I feel Sophia curled up like a baby, her arms pressed against my back. Alexis holds her from the other side and whispers comfort, and their love for each other comforts me a little too. Each of them has a little bit of you, Janice. Sophia has eyes like yours and the stubble of hair growing back on her head has your color. Alexis has your strength and confidence and even swears like you.

January 18, 1942

We are guarded by a hierarchy of women guards or "Aufseherinnen". At the lowest level are the prisoner guards, who have accommodated their masters and watch over the others, sometimes from the love of power, sometimes for the extra ration of sausage or margarine. The room leader is a prisoner who has simply survived the longest. The Germans call her "Stubenaelteste", or the "oldest in the room", but the camp slang for her is "Stubova". The leader of the whole block is the "Blockaelteste" or "Blockova". The Stubovas and Blockovas seem to need to prove to their German masters that they are not sympathetic to the other prisoners, and do this by beating us for the slightest infraction. You can identify them immediately because they are plump and warmly dressed and surrounded by sycophants who hope to derive some benefit, or at least avoid harm from them.

At the next level are the German guards who have dogs and carry pistols. Some of them are sadistic, but most of them are just indifferent as they carry out their brutal jobs. It is unwise to attract their attention, and so we never look at them. But I listen, and I am learning German quickly, new words every day. Each word makes me less helpless.

January 22, 1942

The prisoners do everything in the camp, drain the bogs, build the roads, do carpentry and plumbing, keep accounts and even police the camp. Since it is winter, I was fortunate to be assigned to Bekleidung. The other category is "verfuegbar" or "available" which is dangerous since you can be seized at any time for the worst kind of work.

Bekleidung is also a way to identify what happens to prisoners who are moved out of their blocks. Many are sent into forced labor and some are executed. It is the custom to execute the prisoners nude, in order to recycle their clothing. The return of the prisoners' clothing signifies that they have been killed. The clothing comes back very quickly. The numbers are never used twice, and after a prisoner dies, the clothing has a new, higher number sewn on.

The Polish prisoners have organized a way to keep this sort of information. They have found a way to record the numbers of the dead, and other things, with 'invisible' ink They discovered you can write with urine, between the lines of letters and on the inside of official envelopes. It is invisible on dry paper, but can be read if you press a hot iron on it. In this way, many records are kept, and messages gotten out of the camp.

January 30, 1942

I am glad I have retained my Greek identity and I don't know what I would do without my two friends. Every night before we fall exhausted onto our crowded wooden bed, we talk a little and give each other strength. Sophia is the most anxious, for she has to wear the yellow star and she is abused more by the guards. We try to watch out for her. I foolishly said, "Look, you even have a lucky number on your dress. All those threes!" It was a stupid remark, I should have known. She answered bleakly, "For a Christian, maybe. But the Trinity doesn't have much meaning for a Jew."

I put my arms around her. "Then the threes are for the three of us. We take care of each other. That's what keeps us going."

Alexis said, "It's true, Sophia. You give me a reason to live through every day." Then she turned to me. "Did you know Sophia was a singer? She sang in the opera chorus in Athens."

I thought of you, Janice darling, and the opera I forced you to go to. I asked Sophia if she had been singing in August of 1940. To my amazement she said yes. When I told her that I had actually been at one of her performances, the Tosca at Klafthmonos Square, and that Stavros had played in the orchestra, you should have seen the change that came over her face. It was like a light had gone on.

"Really? Oh how wonderful that you were there. You must have seen me then. In the first act".

"Of course, I spotted you instantly!. You were glorious, every note!". She smiled at my bluff and said, "Tell the truth now. You only had eyes for Maria Callas, didn't you?"

"Yes", I confessed. "She was really spectacular. My friend Janice is her cousin." (It felt good to talk about you to Sophia, especially on that beautiful day. It was the first time I ever saw you in a dress, remember? And I was already deeply in love with you.)

Sophia said "It was always my dream to sing that role. I know all her arias, especially "Vissi d'arte." She hummed and then softly sang the first few bars in a voice that was still pure and beautiful, in spite of the hunger and abuse. She had only sung a little when suddenly women all around us stopped what they were doing and turned around .

Then the most wonderful thing occurred. Someone asked her to sing. Another one insisted she sing. Others joined in. They all were so hungry for a little beauty. And she gave it to them. Silence fell over that room full of starving women, and in her delicate high voice Sophia sang that gorgeous aria.

She sang it softly, and a capella, of course, but she sang it as beautifully as I have ever heard it, as beautifully as Callas. And never more heart breaking. Sitting on the edge of that squalid wooden platform, her battered legs hanging over the side, she sang,

And the faces of the women were enthralled, by the utter purity of the voice, by the magnitude of the gift she was giving them,

"I offered my song to the stars, and made them more beautiful". Oh, Sophia, you made all our lives more beautiful that night, for a brief moment.

I am certain that no one there spoke Italian, but everyone knew, absolutely knew, that she sang what was in our own hearts.

Lord, why do you punish me this way?

For a moment after she stopped singing there was silence. You heard only the sound of the bitter wind, blowing through the camp, through Germany, through Europe that night. And then a few of the women clapped timidly and then our whole side of the barracks applauded, and the Stubova, who had listened from the doorway, clapped too. Then she then remembered who she was, and gave the order for lights out.

In the darkness, we crowded together on our platform in our usual sleeping positions, Alexis embraced Sophia from behind and Sophia laid her head against my back. Alex whispered to me over Sophia's shoulder, "You see why I love Sophia so much? And why I live for her every day? But what keeps you going, Meli? There must be something."

I turned over, repositioned Sophia's head on my chest, and told them about you, Janice, about our scrolls, and our ancestors. I put into words what had only been vague thoughts until then. I said that knowing we were the descendants of Xena and Gabrielle gave sense to my life, burned like a light inside of me, comforting me like religious faith in the face of death and horror. In the last few minutes of consciousness left me, I told them and myself that you and I could never really be separated because we had always been together. I fell asleep with my arms around a head with short spikes of honey colored hair, and I dreamt of you.

February 2, 1942

Almost all the peoples of Europe are represented in the camp: Swiss, Spanish, Italians, English. Americans, too, they tell me, although I have not met any. A few groups in barracks near us stand out. The Dutch and Norwegians, generally German speaking, are a dignified group. They receive outside packages and could be considered privileged. The Russians on the other hand suffer horrible mistreatment. In spite of that, the women of the Red Army are very impressive. They were highly organized and disciplined before their imprisonment, and still seem to be, and they are clean, and honest. I wish I could speak to them. The Poles also seem particularly tough. They know how to organize an efficient system of mutual aid and in some cases, resistance. And occasionally they manage to get messages to the allies.

February 6, 1942

We were pulled out of Bekleidung today for some reason and put to work on a wood detail. This meant eleven hours gathering and cutting wood and piling it onto carts. Germany is full of trucks, but they will not use a drop of gasoline to bring our wood into the camp, and force us to load it instead onto ancient haycarts meant for horses. And of course there are no horses. It takes five women to pull the cart when it is empty, and ten when it is full. When the ground is muddy, or thick with snow, we inch along, being screamed at or beaten by the guards. Who would have thought a haycart could become an instrument of torture?

February 10, 1942

Sophia is sick. We are of course all sick, with hunger and exhaustion, but she is coughing terribly and cannot sleep. We do her work for her as much as possible in Bekleidung, and the Stubova lets us get away with it as long as we fulfill the day's quota. Alexis and I give her part of our soup as well as her own. It stops the coughing for awhile.

February 15, 1942

This morning a whole block of Frenchwomen was transported out for labor, to the Siemens factory near the camp. We will not see them again.

We are a market commodity and Ravensbrück is a center for the economic exploitation of female labor. Costs at Ravensbrück are negligible. Since the camp is self supporting, there is no "overhead", and any additional labor that is forced from us make us a profit making industrial enterprise. Ravensbrück furnishes cheap labor for nearby factories and throughout Germany which pay for specialists and productive workers. For a contracted price, the industrialist receives a contingent of women plus Aufseherinnen, dogs and clubs. The prisoners don't come back. They are just replaced as they die, by more of the same. It is a perfect cycle.

February 17, 1942

Sophia is worse.

We had to hold her up at roll call this morning, and she could not work today. The Stubova has just now taken her to another block, for medical care. We are anxious about this. We know there are doctors in the camp, and some sick prisoners do get well and come back again. We have seen them. But Alexis is beside herself with fear that she won't see Sophia again, and I try to comfort her. But I don't know any more than she does.

February 18, 1942

Word has come through the Poles, who seem to keep some lines of information with the outside, that Goering was in Rome with Mussolini arranging for more Italian troops to be sent into Russia. The German offensive that had cut through Russia like a scythe seems to have finally dragged to a halt because of the Russian winter. Suddenly the winter cold that was slowly killing us seemed to be less of an enemy. Suddenly every blast of cold air that comes into our barracks is a reminder of the frigid winds that were freezing up German trucks and tanks.

In the meantime I do my work and try to stay alive while I wait for you, Janice. It is my job in the morning to receive the bundle of work aprons and dresses and sort them into piles: to be washed if they are filthy -- sometimes they have vomit or feces, or blood -- or to be mended if they are badly torn. Or, if they are immediately reusable, just to hand them over for the numbers to be removed and new ones sewn onto them. It is not difficult work, except that I must do it standing for eleven hours straight through. It is considered 'light labor' so we do not get a midday meal, as the outside workers do.

February 19, 1942

Food is the critical factor in our survival. We get two meals here, those of us who work inside the camp. The morning meal is just some brown liquid they call coffee, but of course it is not. I do not know what it is made of, and its chief advantage is that is it hot. The one main meal of the day is the supper, which is always soup and a slice of bread. If for some reason a prisoner does not eat the meal or there is a miscount, the bread becomes a form of currency, and can buy favors, or another blanket, or exemption from a wood detail.

February 20, 1942

My darling Janice, I can hardly write, my hand is shaking so. But I must record this. A bundle of recycled clothing came into Bekleidung, as it does every day. I did my work indifferently, my thoughts always on you and Athens. Suddenly I was torn out of my reverie. I must have gasped because the Stubova suddenly turned around. I lowered my head and turned away from her and forced my hands to work mechanically while my heart was breaking. That was my lowest moment. Nothing, not my arrest, nor the train ride, nor the starvation, struck me as hard as this.

With trembling hands and choking back tears that seemed to burn inside of me, I gently smoothed and folded, over and over again, dress number 13,333.

I held onto the dress for as long as I dared, keeping it at the bottom of the pile I was working on, but finally it was the last one on the table. I stood there for a moment, and then passed it on to the next woman in line, who cut the number off the breast pocket. She handed it over to Alexis, who mended it, not knowing it was the dress of her lover. Not yet. I would tell her later. What was the point in making her work the next ten hours in despair.

Finally, at the end of the day, when we were released to go back to our block, I linked my arm tightly in hers and whispered, my voice raw and broken,

"Alexis, Sophia....is dead. Her dress came in today....for a new number."

She hesitated only for a moment, turned around and blinked at me as if I were speaking an unfamiliar language, and then slid her arm gently out of mine. She kept on walking, out of the columns of women, purposefully, toward the fence. The guard, a new one I did not recognize, yelled, "Halt". But she kept on walking, with an ominous calmness, with resolution. She did not stop or quicken her pace, just walked on. The guard repeated, "Halt". But Alexis kept walking. The guard ran after her and stood in front of her and slapped her in the face. "Sofort halten!" It was a miracle he hadn't shot her already. Clearly he didn't want to. She brushed past him and kept walking. He hit her with the butt of the rifle and she went down on her knees, but just got up again and kept walking. He hit her again, but she got up again. By then another guard had joined him and for a moment they both stared at the crazed woman walking toward a wire fence she could never climb anyhow. The second guard lifted his rifle and said a final, "Halt". When she did not react he shot, and she went down finally and did not get up. They ordered two nearby prisoners to take her to the crematorium.

She joined Sophia, as I feared she would, as I knew she would, and mingled with her that night as smoke and ash and bone.

* * * *

February 23, 1942

I do not know what keeps me alive. I am not sick; I survive each roll call and the long work hours each day. And I even make it through the intermittent wood details they send me on.. Coming back each day I see along the Lagerstrasse, in the snow, the "Schmückstück" as they are called, or sometimes "Musselmänner", moribund prisoners who become skeletal and lethargic before they die, or allow themselves to be killed.

I know it can happen to me. What have I got to live for? Each day the dreaded thought grows that you too are dead. Otherwise you would have come for me. I saw a wood carving once, on an altar in some Gothic church that said "Media Vita in Morte Sumus". In the middle of life we are dead. That runs through my head all day now, the way your voice used to.

February 28, 1942

They have taken the rest of the Yugoslav women out of the barracks. There were about twelve who kept among themselves. Now they have been put in a transport to work somewhere in the east. The three who slept on the other side of my platform were very weak and cannot possibly last long. I sleep on a bed with five new prisoners but I still feel the presence of the old ones who are dead or doomed. I lie with their spectres on a crowded bier. In this room as elsewhere, women have died during the frigid nights, and their corpses lain on their beds until morning. The weak and dying lie very still, the stronger ones writhe for space. At night, when I wake in the tenebrous gloom, from the cold or a shifting body, I cannot distinguish the living from the dead. We are all caught here in purgatory.

Media vita in morte sumus.

March 1, 1942

There is about an hour after our supper before the two bare overhead lights go out. I make no effort to talk to others, to find new friends. I am too exhausted,... numb. Instead, I try to make a little space for myself to read. I crave the solitude it gives me in the midst of the misery and squalor. The gospels do not interest me, and I care nothing for the pretty stories of martyrdom to a divine father I have long since stopped believing in. It is the beauty of the Greek that I savor in this book, the sonorous language of my ancestors. A pity I do not have Euripides at hand, or Homer. "Sing, Goddess, the anger of Peleus' son Achilles. Anger would be a comfort now.

March 10, 1942

Last night I finished writing on the last page of the book of Matthew and began John. I read the familiar opening words en arce hn o logos and saw your face before me, Janice, as we had made our great discovery. I had not realized that I could feel your presence in this book, my darling atheist, but there it was.

I read on and realized with a shock that it was all familiar. At the fourth and fifth verses

I felt a growing excitement. You know I am not a Bible-reading Christian, Janice, but I have read these words before, in an older Greek, with only the slightest difference. In the older version, it" was, "The word lives in the flesh and dwells in us and it is our glory".

And then I knew. What I held in my hand was not the doctrine of the apostle glorifying the patriarchal God. It was the mystical poetry of Gabrielle.

The implications are staggering. It means the scrolls, or at least this scroll, was read or recited, or sung, and known by the writer of the Gospel of John. A seven century old scroll, or poem, or song, must have come to the Holy Land and found its way into Christian scriptures.

Gabrielle, the pagan child of Potedaia, lives in the holiest book of the Western World.

Just then the lights went out. But in the darkness, I held the book to my chest. With it I held both you, my darling, and your ancient ancestor, Gabrielle. In this dark and freezing room in a German concentration camp, surrounded by filth and brutality and the ghosts of murdered women, I felt a surge of hope. I know now I have to live. I will live. I have a revelation to make.

March 27, 1942

I have been ten weeks in this camp. Janice, my heart, my strength, I have begun to think you will not come for me. And I grieve, not for myself, but for you, because I know that it means you have come to harm. I know you would have found me otherwise. Ares has had his revenge, hasn't he? We didn't bury him at all. I sometimes think I hear him laughing.

March 30, 1942

It is Spring according to the calendar, but the cold drags on. The Blockova has taken a particular dislike to me and I am selected every few days for wood detail. If the work here were not so terrible, I would enjoy being among the trees. There is a hint of green and new growth, but it seems absurd to celebrate it in sight of the camp where women are dying every hour. I had heard that you could eat new grass and tried some of the tiny shoots, but there is not enough to have any effect on hunger.

Easter Sunday-1942

So this is what hope feels like.

Word came that a Berlin pastor would hold an Easter Service at the North End of the Lagerstrasse. I suppose it was a way to give the impression of 'decent conditions' to the Red Cross, which occasionally inspects the camp. I have no interest in the Easter story, and would have gladly stayed in the barracks for those few free hours, but the day was warm and since Sophia and Alexis are gone, the barracks seem haunted.

The pastor recited the usual litany. Faith, hope, etc. and my attention wandered. It was monstrous to be celebrating resurrection in a death camp. And then I heard "Am Anfang war das Wort." It took my tired brain a moment to translate it. But before I had even registered its meaning, he repeated it in Greek and he had my full attention then. He continued the sermon in German and I cursed myself for learning it so slowly, and I strained to make sense of what he said. There were words I could not get, but I got the important ones,

The bard not as prophet. The bard as savior. Janice's exact words that day in Athens.

Understanding came like the falling away of blindness. Janice was safe, and had come for me.

I raised my head and along with the morning sunlight on my closed eyes I felt the tiniest bubble of laughter welling up inside of me as I thought to myself, "What took you so long, my darling?"

After the service, I elbowed my way to the front. I could not get close to the pastor, who was surrounded by guards, but I shouted "Herr Pfarrer". He turned his head around at the sound, but I don't know if he saw me. I lost sight of him as he was led back into the Administration Barracks.

April 6, 1942

I have been on a wood detail today. We cut and stacked wood for eleven hours, counting roll calls. I am bruised, filthy, and dangerously exhausted. I will not be able to walk tomorrow, and will have to be helped, half paralyzed, to roll call. I cannot endure this much longer. Where are you Janice? I can't have been wrong. I know you are out there.

April 8, 1942

It is over.

I had just finished writing and, after sliding the book inside my dress for safety, had fallen asleep sitting on the floor against the wall. The Stubova came in and kicked me, but not hard, and that alone should have told me something. She said to get up; two guards from the Office of the Kommandant were there to get me.

At the Administration block, I had begun to hope that somehow Janice would miraculously appear and take me away. However, there was no one in the office but Kommandant Koegel himself, with a letter in his hand. When he asked me if I spoke German, I lied and told him no. I had an inkling of what I was about to hear and I wanted to hear it in English to be sure I understood. But it turned out to be very brief. He sent one of the guards out and he returned within a very few minutes with an English prisoner I did not know.

Smoothing the letter in front of him on the desk, Kommandant Koegel said, "Reichsmarschall Goering scheint sich für Ihren Fall zu interessieren, Fräulein Pappas".

The Englishwoman repeated:

"Reichsmarschall. Goering seems to be interested in your case, Miss Pappas."

"According to this letter from the Air Force Ministry, he has ordered your immediate release."

"Sie haben enorm viel Glück, Fräulein Pappas. Es ist eine Seltenheit, dass ein Haftling auf diese Weise den Gefangenenlager verlässt. Hier sind Kleid und Mantel für die Entlassung. Bitte unterschreiben Sie diese Unterlagen fuer Ihre Entlassung. Die Aufseherin werden Sie zur Dusche führen. "

"You have enormous good fortune, Miss Pappas. It is very rare that a prisoner leaves the camp in this way. This dress and coat are for your release. Please sign these papers for your release. The guard will lead you to a place where you can shower."

As if in a trance, I signed where he indicated, followed the guards, washed as thoroughly as I could in the cold water, and put on a stranger's clothing.

The same guard led me to the gate of the concentration camp. As we came closer to the gate, my fear increased that it was some sort of trick and I would be shot as I crossed the threshold. But the guard stopped and the gate swung open. I stood there stupefied for a moment. Then I shuffled out timidly into the thick evening fog. After three paces I saw a figure rush toward me. I stopped in my tracks, fearful that it would all be reversed and I would be led back. It took several long seconds for me to realize what I was seeing and I covered my mouth with my hands as I broke into sobs.

Oh, Janice.

She was sobbing too, as we stood there shivering in the fog, both of us afraid if we moved it would all disappear. She held me tightly, one hand around my back, one hand stroking my ragged short hair..

"Oh my God, Darling, what have they done to you. Your hair, your hair."

I could not speak at all, and just wept; it seemed to be all I ever did. Gently she guided me back to the car and held me in her arms.

As we drove away from the camp, onto the night highway, my sobbing finally subsided. I could barely see her in the darkness of the blacked out highway, but I whispered to the halo of hair that seemed to give off its own light.

"You came, just as you promised. You followed me into hell."

* * * *

We drove into Berlin, to a block of apartments where the driver let us out. He was uniformed, which confused me, but Janice just took my arm and said, "I'll explain." She brought me to an apartment on the third floor where, with a minimum of words, she prepared a bath for me, the first hot bath I had had in three months. After letting me undress alone, she came in and knelt on the floor next to the tub. Seeing me naked and emaciated, and covered with bruises and scars, she broke into tears again, and we cried once more, our foreheads pressed together. Then she washed me gently, carefully, and told me everything.

"I was arrested when I got back from Iraklion. They found the truck, of course. Fortunately there was no connection with Sal and so he stayed free and was able to collect the money to get me out again. But it took him a week, to call in every favor, sell all the big things he had. Did you know he had an anti-aircraft cannon? It broke his heart to have to sell it. We went immediately to the prison at Salonika but it was the day after you were transported. We thought you were taken to Dachau, with Nigel, and lost more time dealing with our people in Munich. It went on and on, took another week to find out you were at Ravensbrück. By then you were out of our reach and I knew I would have to go pretty high up to get you out. It took another week before I could locate and then get to Rommel, who was in Tangiers, but he had no authority here at all. The camps are Himmler's turf, and Himmler hates him. I was at my wit's end. Then he thought of Goering."

"Goering? Why Goering? "

Goering is a collector. Of antiques, and art. He has half the treasures of Europe at his estate at Karinhall".

"What has that got to do with us?"

"Just let me tell the story, will you?" she said as she poured shampoo into my hair and gently massaged my head while she washed it. It reminded me of my mother's hands.

"So, two months after you were arrested, I finally got an audience with Goering, who is about as high as you can go short of the big monkey himself. And I made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

"What do you have that could possibly interest Goering?" But as I said it, my heart sank; I already knew the answer.

"The five scrolls."

"Nooo", I wailed. "Those are priceless. After all our work?"

"Listen. First of all, I would sacrifice ALL the scrolls in an instant to get you out of that inferno. Second, we have photographic copies of these scrolls anyhow; losing the originals is NOT the end of the world. Besides, there is more to the story. Because the deal almost didn't go through anyhow. They couldn't find your records at Ravensbrück. You see, they looked among the Americans, under your real name. I assumed they arrested you for carrying phony papers and never imagined that you would stay with the false I.D. Finally I thought of having them look among the Greeks, under Amphipolous. Then, after we had established that you could be located, I had to go back and get the scrolls and bring them to Goering. He wouldn't budge until he had all five in his fat hands. I was absolutely frantic that I would lose you in the meantime. So to let you know I was coming, to give you something to hang on to, I arranged to have Pastor Praehauser try to get word to you. He couldn't, as it turned out, not directly, but hoped to get a message to you through the Easter sermon. That was his idea. But it was all so flimsy. I wasn't even sure you were still alive. Then the pastor thought he spotted you, but he wasn't sure. You looked so....different from my description of you.

"How could you be sure Goering wouldn't just take the scrolls?"

"They aren't much good to him. Without you to translate them they are just pretty rolls of parchment."

"What? I'm supposed to translate the scrolls for the Nazis? You also promised him that? Gods, it gets worse and worse."

"Yes, the fact that the scrolls are in such an idiosyncratic Greek meant that their own Greek scholars would have very little to go on, and it would take them years to get to the point where we are now. That guaranteed your liberation and safety. Goering needs you."

"Okay. So you gave the scroll to the Nazis. Now what's to prevent us from fleeing Germany with the copies?"

"Well, there's more." She started washing my hair again, and moved on her knees around behind me where I couldn't see her. I sensed there was going to be more bad news.

"Goering has Stavros."

"Stavros. Oh no!"

She came around where I could see her again and took my hand.

"He is in Spandau, and he knows the whole story. I have seen him already, he's in good condition, and we will be able to visit him every week. Those are the terms of the deal. You are free, he is not. As long as we work, Goering provides this apartment and our food, and Stavros stays alive."

An air tight arrangement. Already I am suffocating.

* * * *

April 12, 1942.

Goering has given me time to recover, I guess, since he has not ordered us to appear. In the meantime, Janice has bought me clothing, since of course I have none in Germany. I am so emaciated I look terrible in everything, but she has gotten me some overalls, the kind that the women wear in the factories. They feel all right, For going out, she brought me some grey wool slacks and a pullover sweater. I will wear them tomorrow to visit Stavros. She wears the same khaki pants she wore in Greece, but with a dark blue turtleneck sweater. She looks beautiful wearing it, but she looks beautiful to me every minute, no matter what she wears.

I have told Janice what I discovered about the Book of John, that it plagiarizes from the Logos Scroll. Since that is one of the scrolls that Goering has in his possession, we have agreed to conceal this information as long as possible. One way to keep him from stumbling upon it himself is to put off 'translating' the Logos scroll until last. He doesn't have to know that we had already finished with it.

April 13, 1941

We have been to Spandau today to see Stavros, through whom we are all three held hostage.

The guard led us into a basement room with three stools. It had the ominous look of an interrogation room, with a single bare bulb hanging on a cord in the center, and a battered steel table shoved up against a dirty green wall. Janice and I both knew such rooms.

But then the door opened again the same wiry old guard brought Stavros in. He was haggard, but not otherwise abused. His lovely white hair was yellowed and thin.

"Have they hurt you?" was all I could ask, which was foolish because in front of the guard he couldn't have told us anyhow. But he smiled weakly and assured us that he was all right, and he was more interested in hearing about how I was. I did not tell him any of the details of Ravensbrück, and gave the impression that I had spent most of the time in jails, which, it was common knowledge, were usually more humane than the concentration camps. I wondered if he was concealing as much from me as I was from him.

At one time, when the guard was out of earshot, bought off with a smoke, Stavros took my hands and said, tears in his tired eyes, "Why don't you try to escape, Meli? Don't stay in Berlin because of me. I am an old man. You are young and have so much to do. Go with my blessing. Go on! Go on!"

"No, Stavros." Janice spoke for both of us. "We are a family. We are here and we will never abandon you. Never!"

We handed over the food and cigarettes and underwear that we were allowed to bring him. The cigarettes I knew from experience were as good as cash, and could purchase him better treatment, a bit of soap or more food. We had obtained everything, of course, from Goering's office. How many collaborators were in the same position we were, saving or helping their loved ones by aiding the Nazis?

He asked about events outside, and we told him what we could. But we also managed to whisper that the Allies were in Africa. There was hope. And so, dwelling on the big picture, of ultimate allied victory, and on the very small details, our love and care of him, we comforted him and ourselves. We had to hold out. Only hold out.

April 18, 1942

We were summoned this morning to the Luftwaffe Ministerium in the Leipzigerstrasse to receive instruction from Goering. It appears that my work will now begin.

The Reichsmarschall is fat, bemedaled, insufferable, bloated and overbearing. He talked of little other than his jewels and his antiques, which he has stolen from all over Europe. In fact he had some beautiful rings on his fat fingers, but they made him look foppish. He had a sort of sleepy look to him, but Janice says he is morphine addicted, and that would explain it. He had only one of the five scrolls on his table, and he caressed it continuously while he spoke to us. Janice did most of the talking, I spoke only basic German, and was in no position to negotiate with him. But she made it absolutely clear, that the scrolls were useless without me to decipher them. He agreed. Apparently his own men had looked them over and could not make anything out of them. And so the devil's pact was made. We had life and limb, and Stavros. Goering had our souls.

Three other people were in the room with us, though we were introduced to none of them. A male secretary who made notes, a uniformed adjutant and a bland looking man in a gray suit sitting in the background. He was so bland he was almost invisible. He reminded me of Himmler, myopic and colorless. He had not a single outstanding feature; if you turned your head away you would forget you had seen him.

And suddenly I knew with certainty that he was to be the surveillance, the link to Goering that would report our whereabouts and our activities. I was careful not to stare at him but, snatching glances at him, memorized his features, his thinning hair, his long pale cheeks, his small eyes behind wire rimmed spectacles. I would watch for him as he watched us.

When we left Goering bowed from the waist, understanding perhaps that we would not return a handshake, and we would despise a Hitler salute. But he was impeccably polite, as if I had never been in one of his concentration camps.

Outside, in the Leipzigerstrasse, Janice asked without introduction, "Did you get a good look at the man?

Yes, of course. Geheimstaatspolizei, I'm sure. I bet we see him every day."

* * *

May 15, 1942

The weather has been fair and I feel strong enough to go out. We took this day to walk around the city to Janice's old haunts. "I used to love this place. Berlin was the most exciting city in Europe, before the Nazis came to power in '33. It practically glowed and smoked with decadence."

"What an image," I said. "Makes me feel like coughing."

"Oh no, it would have made you feel like dancing!" She shaded her eyes and pointed in the direction of the park. "Right over there, in the Budapester Strasse was a club called 'Monokel' where you could dance with the most dashing men in Germany. Men in tux's and tails, men in officers' uniforms, men with flashing eyes to die for......and every damned one of them was a woman."

"Berlin transvestites. Hard to imagine."

"Oh, yes, and the male equivalent was the "El Dorado", over on the Kurfuerstendamm. The city was wide open Mel, like one big party, except for the constant street fights between the Communists and the Nazi Brownshirts. We just thought the fighting was part of the show. Then in 1933, almost from one day to the next, the Nazis came into power and it was suddenly all over. Then everything was National Socialism.

"Where do you suppose all those pretty boys are now?"

"In the camps, I suppose. Dead I suppose."

I didn't want to talk about the camps.

"Is that when you met Dietrich? "

"Yes, in January 1930. They were filming Blue Angel. I'll never forget it." She looked off into the middle distance, summoning recollections. "It was my 18th birthday as a matter of fact, and that was my birthday gift. Harry knew von Sternberg you see, as well as Dietrich, and took me down to UFA's Neubabelberg studios one afternoon to watch the filming. They were doing the scene where Dietrich sings "Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuss auf Liebe eingestellt..." She sang a verse of the song in her warm alto voice. "Then they filmed the whole scene again in English, and Dietrich sang the English version, "Falling in Love Again". You know, they made two versions of the film simultaneously. And Dietrich was a little plump then, but just as predatory.

"Is it true that she had a girlfriend, or were you just pulling Nigel's leg?"

"Oh, no. She liked the girls; it was no secret. If you got a bouquet of violets, you knew she was interested. I got some too, for my birthday."

"You were courted by Dietrich???! But you didn't!....Did you?

"Na. At eighteen I wasn't ready for Marlene Dietrich. Way too rich for my blood, at that age. But now I'm kind of sorry I didn't. Would have made a great story. But she still managed to corrupt me."

"WHAT did she do to you?"

" Well, aside from stirring my interest in...eh...ladies, she gave me my first cigar."

* * * *

May 10, 1942

I am regaining my normal weight and my hair. I am still gaunt but I no longer look cadaverous. Janice looks at me again the way she did in Athens, and waits for a sign from me that she can be amorous. But I have not wanted to make love. We sleep together every night in each other's arms, and often in the evening she sits in bed reading while I sleep, my head tucked up against her hip. I feel no arousal when she kisses me. I know that she is deeply hurt, but I cannot reverse the weeks and months of Ravensbrück. A part of me is crippled, or polluted, or dead. I am not sure which.

She knows that I love her more than ever, need her more than ever. But I can't make love to anyone. I feel dirty -- and guilty. Guilty of Nigel's death, guilty of letting Sophia and Alexis die when I promised to take care of them, guilty of working for the Nazis. The very bed we sleep in belongs to Goering. Wherever my skin touches the sheets, it crawls, worse than from the lice in the camp.

May 30, 1942

The RAF has bombed Cologne with incendiary bombs. There have been air raids in Germany for many months now, but the Cologne raid was massive, and much of the city was destroyed. A city just like this one. Retaliation, I suppose for the terrible raids on London. Of course the allies must win this war. And in a war, bombs are dropped. But how could it come to this? I cannot get my mind around it.

June 4, 1942

We no longer see any Jews. Jewish shops are closed all over Germany. Jewish deportations are widespread, although there are rumors that Jews are in hiding all over the city. All over Germany.

"King of Deceit", the scroll which Goering has assigned to us to translate is about gambling. It seems trivial beside the great events happening all around us and does not hold my interest the way the others did. Just as well. It disgusts me that we are giving him the stories of our ancestors. He pollutes them just by reading them. It is a slight comfort to know that at least in this case, we have not handed over one of the Great Works that Gabrielle was capable of creating.

June 19, 1942

We do the work on the scrolls and drag our feet as much as possible. Goering has our translation checked by his own linguists, and so we cannot stray too far from the truth. And that colorless Gestapo man is always on the periphery. He is either too inept to remain concealed, or we are supposed to know we are being watched. If so, it is having its desired effect. We have sought no contacts with the Resistance, made no attempts to get information to Sal. My spirit is too broken. Except for loving Janice, I am empty, morally and emotionally. But Janice is like a caged lion; her enormous energy confined to our little apartment, protecting Stavros, protecting me. She waits -- I can see it in her patient eyes -- for an opening, an opportunity to act.

July 16, 1942

Little by little we begin to feel the shortages, and even if we are provided for by our Nazi masters, we see the deprivations all around us. Particularly visible is the shortage of clothes and shoes. Factories that had produced shoes and textiles now produce for the Wehrmacht. Life of clothing is also shortened by the harsh soap and scrubbing. The soap that comes in grainy green cakes is abrasive, smells of cheap perfume and so poor chemically that one has to scrub hard to get dirt out, wearing out the fabric. The paper "Der Angriff" recommends keeping a basin of soapy water in the kitchen for repeated washing. And to use sand and soda to clean surfaces instead of soap. Fitting, for a country so soiled, to not be able to wash itself clean.

* * * *

August 20, 1942.

It was some kind of Nazi holiday today. The Hitlerjugend were parading around in their miniature uniforms, their little Sam Brown belts and insignias, piping out their 'Heil Hitler's, and our building was hung with a dozen Nazi flags. There were red Swastika flags on every window but ours and the Hoffmanns. I saw our watcher across the street looking up at our building too. I pointed him out to Janice and we decided, perhaps recklessly, to warn the Hoffmans. We knocked on their door and Frau Hoffmann answered the door and at our warning seemed to make some kind of decision. Then she invited us into her apartment.

Mr. Hoffmann stood behind her. He is a paler version of Stavros but with the same dignity and we learned that he is a doctor at the famous old Charité hospital. They made some Ersatz coffee and offered us some buttered bread, apologizing for the lack of jam.

We told him openly that we were Americans, which he knew, and that we were translating documents for the Luftwaffe Ministerium, which he didn't know. A look of panic came over Frau Hoffmann's face at the mention of Goering, but Janice reassured her immediately.

"We work under compulsion, Frau Hoffmann. We have no sympathies with the Nazis and make no secret of it. Goering keeps Mel's uncle hostage to ensure we will continue working. And we know who he uses for surveillance. There is a pale, bland looking man downstairs whom we see hanging around all the time.

"He looks like Himmler but without the mustache?"

"Yes!"

"I know who you mean then. That's Hermann Meyer. A very dangerous man.

"You know him by name!?"

"Oh, yes. He is known around here as an "alter Kamarad", one of the low numbers."

Janice said, "Oh, yes. I remember. The low numbers. Early party members and the Sturmabteilung. The lowlife that first started parading around in brown shirts and long boots."

Hoffmann nodded. "Yes, he was in the SA, back before the Putsch in 1923. Then, after the SA was replaced by the SS, he traded in his brown shirt for the business suit of the secret police. Nazi to the bone. His speciality is locating hidden Jews, even children, and having them deported to the east. But he is too stupid to have advanced very far in the party. He is just smart enough to be an informer, a watcher, as you called him. Always waiting for his big opportunity to be promoted to the inner ranks. He is the shame of Germany.

"I know all about the shame of Germany, Herr Hoffmann. I was in Ravensbrück. Surely you know about the camps."

"Yes, we know. And, we try to help. We are not what we seem."

"You seem like proper National Socialists to us. Except for not flying the flag."

"Yes. We try hard to seem so. And we WILL fly the flag starting tomorrow. But we have smuggled many people out, Jews and resistors, through the Charité hospital. You would be amazed how many Jews we are helping to escape to Sweden, and how the dead sometimes save the living."

He was speaking in riddles as far as I could see, but Janice immediately grasped what he was talking about. "You have my respect Herr Hoffmann, but in that case you should avoid contact with us. Meyer watches us every day, and there others from the Luftwaffe Ministry who show up from time to time to see our work. We are dangerous to you, you know. We are prisoners and collaborators at the same time."

"Yes. So are we." He took his wife's hand. "So is half of Germany. Here is the hostage that the Nazis hold to keep us in line." He handed over a framed picture of a beautiful blond boy of about nineteen in a Wehrmacht uniform. A bright open face, innocent and serious at the same time. The archetypal Aryan, the pulsing blood of the Nazi state. And the spitting image of Nigel.

"That is our son Wolfgang. Wolfie, our only child. "He was drafted with his whole class, but in fact he is an astronomer. His telescope is over there next to the piano. He is on the Russian front He sends us letters every week to assure us he is well. But how can anyone be well fighting a war in a foreign land?"

September 2, 1942

Janice has been to see the Hoffmanns again. The lioness pacing its cage. She wants to know about the Resistance even if she cannot join it. She says there is an underground connected with the Charité, and Hoffmann is part of it. Jews are smuggled out of Berlin in coffins along with the actual dead from the hospital. They are passed along to others who get them through to Sweden. The thought of lying in a coffin, even to escape Nazism, fills me with horror.

On October 2, 1942

Air raids are more numerous now. When the sirens go off we have to run to the cellar with the Germans, including various Nazi neighbors who eye us with contempt. The city authorities have dismantled moveable public monuments and brought them to safer places, and piled up sandbags against the ones they cannot move – church windows, valuable facades and the like. Germany is beginning to see the price of conquest.

Goering has accepted the bland translation of the last scroll and has given us the next one from the pile. It is another comic scroll, dealing with the character of Joxer and the effect of a bell. It seems to be from Gabrielle's comedy period. Not the sort of thing the master race prefers in its ancient sagas. We will doctor it to make Joxer seem more heroic, if necessary.

October 15, 1942

The cold has come early and so has snow. Civilians have been called upon to donate winter clothing to front-line soldiers, since textile factories cannot produce fast enough even for the Wehrmacht. But civilians are also running out of warm clothing. The allied sea blockade prevented imports of raw materials. Janice came home yesterday with a winter coat for me. It is very warm but has a bristly feel to it and she explained that it is because wool now is made from unkempt sheep and unrefined wool.

The war-time food too is mostly "Ersatz". Food is scarce in general. The main staple in this country has always been potatoes, but since the end of 1941 these have been hard to find. Farm workers have been drafted away from their fields and the crops left before they were harvested. And in this deadly winter, the crop has frozen in the ground. And the part of the crop that can be saved is shipped only with difficulty because of shortage of freight cars, most of which are provisioning troops in the east. The main food now is "Rüben" a coarse sort of yam. If you look around you can tell immediately who has influence. Those are the ones who still look healthy.

November 12 1942

El Alamein has fallen to the British led by Montgomery.The first significant Allied victory. Rommel is in retreat.

November 30, 1942

It is still only November and it is bitter cold. Coal is scarce, like everything else, and the city buildings are heated only enough to keep the pipes from bursting. People wear coats indoors as well as outdoors. The coldest winter in memory, people are saying. I shudder thinking about the women I have left behind in Ravensbrück. They still stand their four roll calls on the Lagerstrasse, dying in twos and threes and lying where they have fallen until the roll call is over. I see faces in my mind's eye of women whose names I never learned, thin battered women whom I am certain are dead and cremated by now. Have become part of the smoke that accuses Germany.

December 5, 1942

We have visited Stavros again in Spandau. He had the same guard as the last time, as corrupt as all the others, but for the usual bribe he reports on Stavros' health, and leaves us alone for 20 minutes. For ten cigarettes. Favors are cheap at Spandau. Unlike at the Luftwaffe Ministerium. We whisper the good news that El Alamein has fallen. But Stavros himself alarms us with the report that he has had a visitor. A bland and faceless man in spectacles. Only a few small questions, no threats. But the news is ominous. Herman Meyer is mining for information. Something to offer to Goering to advance himself. I feel helpless rage.

December 20, 1942

The newspapers play down the fact that there is a crisis on the Russian front but there is an unmistakable sense that the war is at some sort of turning point. The Hoffmanns have taken a slight risk and visited us last night. Frau Hoffmann got a letter from Wolfie which seems to portend defeat. I am amazed that such a letter got past the military censors. Frau Hoffmann's eyes filled as she handed the letter to Janice, who read it quietly first and then handed it to me. It said:

Frau Hoffmann's eyes filled. Herr Hoffmann looked at his hands for a moment and then spoke.

"We could have been a great civilization. We had come so far-- in music, and thought, and culture. We had Goethe, and Beethoven, and Kant. But something has infected us like a disease of the spirit. Something monstrous. And we have discovered that culture is the thinnest veneer. The truth is that we are all opportunists, and rather cowardly. We have edged centimeter by centimeter into evil, into the betrayal of our highest ideals, of our own laws, of our neighbors. And now of our children."

There was nothing I could say to comfort him.

December 25, 1942

It is a year exactly since my arrest. Christmas is ruined for me; it will always be the anniversary of my abduction into hell.

A Christmas package came today from Goering. Some of the spoils of war. I suppose he thought we would feel honored to be able to enjoy them. Janice opened the box, then leaned over it, gripping it by the sides with an expression of disgust on her face, as if she looked into a toilet.

"That sonofabitch." She lifted out some of the items. Grape leaves, olives, jam, a bottle of wine, all with Greek labels. "Food stolen from hungry Greeks, to buy our cooperation."

"What should we do with it? Send it back to Goering?"

"No, we'll bring it back to where it belongs, with a hungry Greek."

We brought it to Spandau, to Stavros, for the little hour we were allowed to spend with him. It pleased him to eat Greek food again, and he even offered a glass of the wine to his guard. The old guard has grown used to us and to our bribes and treats Stavros well, and we were grateful for such small kindnesses.

* * * *

January 20, 1943

It is Goering's birthday next week and he is hosting a party at the Luftwaffe Ministerium. A grotesque affront to the misery and hardships caused by the war. The film 'Triumph des Willens" will be shown. An ominous sign of just how badly the war is going in Russia. Janice and I have been summoned to attend as Goering's personal archaeologists. He even sent over some formal dresses for us to wear. He has made it quite clear that our appearance is not optional.

January 25, 1943

Goering has given us the "Logos" scroll for translation. Gabrielle's Revelation. We will, at all costs, conceal the value of this scroll from Goering. The only question is how.

January 27, 1943

We showed up as commanded to let ourselves be displayed. I balked at the last minute and told Janice I could not go through with it. She pointed out, correctly, that if we were going to join Hoffmann, we had to keep up the appearance of full cooperation, to "fly the flag" just as he did. To bolster me she gave me a glass of cognac, which on an empty stomach only made me dizzy, and by the time we reached the Luffwaffe Ministry, my vision was blurred .

An SS man in full dress black uniform and polished black riding boots met us at the door. I must have staggered slightly for he took me by the arm and led me into the room where others were similarly dressed. Tall men in black fitted jodhpurs and jackets with double SS runes like bolts of lightning on the collar, with the death's head insignia on their caps and with the black sheathed ornamental daggers. There was something powerful and sadistic in that uniform. I was leaning, I realized, on the arm of an officer of death and in my intoxication I thought I recognized him.

Ares.

Holding me by the arm. Leading me into a room full of warlords. All those battles he had fought for Xena's soul, and now he was claiming mine. He guided me to Goering, bowed from the waist, and disappeared again into the crowd. The god of war had not acknowledged me. Perhaps it had all been my imagination.

Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering was swollen and grandiose in white military dress, like a drum major. If he were not so powerful and deadly, he would have been a clown. He smiled, his wide mouth making his fat cheeks even fatter and said with theatrical formality, "Ich grüsse Sie, meine Damen." We said nothing; he expected us to say nothing. Everyone there knew we were merely prize captives. And after everyone had gotten a good look at us and we sat down to supper.

It was food the Nazis had pillaged from all over Europe, from their own hungry people. I thought of the soup and bread we got once a day at Ravensbruck and the memory of that hunger made me want to eat, but I could scarcely make myself swallow. I kept food in my mouth though, for while I chewed I did not have to speak. Janice, my protector, my bulwark of strength, did that, primarily with Goering, keeping the delicate balance of our own and Stavros' safety. But I could see the gall she choked down, as I choked down stolen food.

The food at least cleared my head so I could think again. I needed to think. I was among the elite of the Third Reich and I need to have my wits about me. Mercifully, the supper was soon over, and the lights went out. Leni Riefenstahl's masterpiece of cinema and propaganda began.

- - -

The film opens over Nuremberg, Germany's most medieval city. A plane flies low and sweeps over roof tops and avenues, casting a shadow. An ominous foreboding shadow. The plane lands for the huge party rally of 1935 and the Fuehrer steps out, accompanied by Goebbels and other party officials

.

The motorcade begins and I am awed by Riefenstahl's skill. Winding its way through the streets festooned with Nazi banners and choked with cheering crowds, the cortege moves, bearing its glorious leader. The camera mounted in the shade behind Adolf Hitler is directed over his shoulder where he faces the sun and the whole front of his body seems to radiate light. There is a close-up of his hand held up in a careless salute, and the sunlight glows off his palm. Then, a stroke of genius, so quick and subtle you scarcely register what has happened. A camera pointed toward the front of the car catches a beam of sunlight reflecting off the windshield directly in front of Hitler and you are momentarily dazzled by the brilliance of the Fuehrer. The light bearer. Like Prometheus. Like Lucifer.

The next morning one sees a city of tents. Germany's youth awakens to reveille. Hordes of golden young men wash, showing their firm Aryan chests. They engage in horseplay, and laughing and singing, they drag in a cart of firewood to fuel the cooking fires. I recognized the wood cart. Just like the one I dragged in Ravensbrück.

In the stadium, Adolf Hitler looks out on ten thousand boys of the Hitler Youth standing at attention. The boys are lined up ten by ten, in blocks on the wide field of the stadium, ready to be counted. A sort of national roll call. I remember roll call.

I look at the masses on the flickering screen, the masses of German boys and men who stand at attention Blond boys, serious and innocent, who looked like Wolfie. The cinemagraphic face of Germany. But I had learned the truth, and so had Wolfie.

Ravensbrück was the truth.

The grim Russian front was the truth.

The last scene was in the stadium at night. Columns of light. Searchlights. Patriotic speeches. Martial music. Then one is outside again on the streets of Nuremberg. Torch light parades. White fog roils behind silhouettes of square jawed men. Everything surrounded by wafting mist lit by huge bonfires in the town square. Inspirational fires. National Socialist fires.

The lights came on and people began to talk. To again show us off as his trophies, Goering approached us, trailing an audience of sycophants. Then, stepping out of the shadows, Goebbels appeared, as always, in his black leather coat. The two men stood side by side, grotesque in their travesty of the Aryan ideal. The bloated voluptuary and the limping cripple with the leering face of a skull. Both of them looked at us with unconcealed prurience. Goebbels' head came only up to my chest and he stared at it constantly. He was repellent, like a roach, in his black carapace. He took my hand and bowed deeply, and when he let go of it, I wiped it on my dress.

Then it was time for us to meet to Leni Riefenstahl , the director of the film.

She was surprisingly attractive. And she spoke in a very refined, formal German. I had seen many faces of evil since the war began, but this was the first time it appeared as an intelligent, creative woman. She was intrigued by our work on the scrolls. I looked over and saw Goering beaming at us and realized that he had managed to tie her film and our scrolls together. The Warrior Film of the Third Reich, and the Warrior Scrolls. Goering went so far as to toast the three of us, with his stolen French champagne, to salute the film and the scrolls of the supreme Aryan woman warrior. We weren't just guests, I finally grasped, we were part of the spectacle.

I felt nauseous.

It must have shown on my face, for Janice, turned to Goering and said in a way that would not tolerate argument, "Fräulein Pappas has not been well. Please excuse us." Riefenstahl however caught us at the door and she invited us to visit her. She began to write down her address with a borrowed fountain pen. But it leaked, and black ink trickled over her finger tips. She handed us the smeared paper, and said, "Goodbye for now. Sorry, I can't offer you my hand." And she held up her ink-stained fingers. I backed away from her and with dangerous abruptness, left the room. Ares, or his creature, still stood at attention in his splendid black uniform just outside the door, and bowed again from the waist as we passed. By then I was practically running.

* * * *

That night, we lay awake side by side.

"Did you see him?"

"Who?"

"Ares"

"No, but it wouldn't surprise me if he was there -- all those Nazi warlords. And the film, that must have been his greatest glory! I thought we had put him away in the cave."

"No. The God of War is never put away. The struggle is ongoing. And we have to get away from him again. We've done the very thing that Stavros warned us not to do. We've compromised. 'To do nothing in wartime is criminal' he said. 'A man must know who he is.'"

"'And a woman, too.' Yeah, I remember."

"Did you see Riefenstahl's hands? That's our hands too, Janice. We are collaborators in the same way she is. We have to get out. "

"But how? What about Stavros?

"We'll buy his freedom the same way you bought mine. With more scrolls to Goering. He won't be able to translate them. And maybe we can save photocopies to work from ourselves. Anything is better than this".

January 28, 1943

We have been to Spandau to see Stavros. The same guard, the old one, brought him out and we handed him the usual 10 cigarettes. But this time he waved them away. Janice just shrugged and took them back. Stavros looked more haggard than ever before, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his prison jacket, his eyes rimmed in red. I was glad we had found a way to free him.

We told him our plan, to buy his freedom with more of the scrolls. As we expected, he refused.

Janice sat knee to knee with him and said "Goering is not a fool, Stavros. Not with respect to antiquities. He will know the value of the scrolls and will keep them safe. They won't disappear. We'll know where they are and then after the war....."

Stavros looked at us with deep sorrow and said softly, his voice weak and hoarse, "No. You cannot treat with the devil. The scrolls belong to you, to free Greeks. Offering them to the Nazis is like trying to buy my freedom with the Parthenon. I am worthless now anyhow. Look what they have done."

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them up, wrapped in bandages. "They have broken my hands." The sorrow in his face, I grasped, was not from pain, but from the realization that he would never again hold the violin.

"Who did this" Janice demanded through clenched teeth.

"Meyer...the one who looks like Himmler. He asked more questions about you. I don't know what he wanted, what words he was looking for. Names, I guess."

"But there ARE no names!," Janice said, laying her head in her hands. We aren't doing anything. We are as much in Goering's power as you are. This," she delicately touched his hands, "was all for nothing. Oh, Stavros."

Stavros sat up straight and said, with determination, "Listen to me, my dears, my daughters, you must go. You must flee to Sweden. I want you to leave. I insist."

"Stavros," I put my hand on his thin shoulder that had once been so strong, that had once carried me. "This is all the more reason to get you out. We'll take you home to Athens where we will all be safe again."

"Those scrolls are ancient history. I will not let you do it. Promise me you won't do it until you have talked with me again. Give me a day to think of a way. There are other solutions."

We agreed to wait a day, although we were certain there was no other solution. I already planned to send a message to Goering.

We stayed another half hour, as we did every week, and left the usual cigarettes and food and clean clothing. He assured us that a doctor had seen his hands and would changes the bandages. When we got up to leave he embraced us and wept, which he had not done before. We thought at first it was about his hands, at the sorrow of losing his music, and from pain. We held his fragile body tightly, kissed him on his weathered cheeks, this beloved adopted father to us both. But it was more than pain. They were the tears of sacrifice.

They were the tears of goodbye.

The next day we got a call from the prison, from the old guard who had refused the cigarettes. Stavros had cut his throat during the night and bled to death alone in his cell.

Stavros Pappas, knew who he was and he had found a way to free himself and us.

January 29, 1943

If Stavros' death is to have any meaning, we must act quickly, before Goering knows he has lost his hold on us. We have packed everything of value: the one scroll and our basic survival gear, warm clothing, a little food, and all the money in the house.

We have spoken to the Hoffmanns, our only hope. Mr. Hoffmann will arrange to get us out of Berlin by way of the 'morgue' underground of the Charité. A truck goes daily out of the city loaded with corpses of Berlin dead. There will be coffins there for us also. I cringed at the thought, but Herr Hoffmann assured us that it was not a long trip, and many people had gotten out that way. Fitting, I thought. When we leave Nazi Berlin tonight, we will be leaving what Germany has become. A charnel house.

* * * *

January 29, 1943

We had not forgotten about Meyer, but we hoped we could act quickly enough. He had seen us leave Spandau and must have found out about the suicide about the same time we did. And he knew exactly what we would do. He also knew that nothing would profit him more, make him a bigger hero to his superiors than catching us in flight.

He was smart enough to catch us, but stupid enough to come to the apartment to confront us, at the very last moment, when we were packed, and armed and on the alert. And he was both stupid AND greedy because he came alone. I heard him let himself in with a key and surprise Janice at our desk. He stood in front of her with his pistol drawn and told her in his best authoritative voice to call me. But I knew how to move without sound -- I had learned that at Ravensbrück -- and in one long step I was behind him. Janice stood impassive, and did not move her eyes away from him as I raised my gun to his head .

I cocked the trigger and that tiny click was the loudest sound in the room. Had he thought about it even for a second, he would have realized that he still had the upper hand, but his first reflex was to turn around. In that instant...

I fired.

The sound was deafening as the bullet crashed through his face. His own gun discharged upward as he fell to his knees and then backwards, onto the floor.

I crawled over on my hands and knees to the man who, miraculously, was still alive, though half his face was shot away. He writhed blindly, lying on his back, monstrous in his gore, monstrous in what he represented to me. Something, some last moral fiber in me snapped. I knelt over him.

"Listen to me, Hermann Meyer. You wanted words, names...to make you rich. But words can also kill. Here are some names for you." I placed the muzzle on his chest. "This one is for Nigel". His body jerked as I pulled the trigger.

My eyes filled with tears and my voice broke. "And this is for... Sophia." I fired a third time.

"And Alexis". I pulled the trigger again.

He no longer moved. There was no point other than my own grief, to shoot again. "This is for Wolfie." I fired a fifth time.

There was a bullet left in the chamber and I cocked the trigger one final time. I whispered...to myself, my eyes closed, and felt a final twitch of the chest under my hand as the bullet exploded into the dead heart.

"This is for Stavros".

* * * *

Janice had been standing by me the whole time, gun in hand, but she saw that what I had begun was for me to finish. And when it was finished, she lifted me to my feet and gently put the pistol back in my pack. I stood there paralyzed with what had just happened, while Janice calmly unbuttoned and removed my shirt, which was drenched with blood. She wiped my hands clean with it and I stood there like a child and let myself be dressed in my heavy pullover and coat. She then lifted my small rucksack onto my back, shouldered her own and, just to be sure I was all right, she laid her hand on my cheek and said gently, "We're free now, Mel. Let's go."

We knew we had only moments to get out of the building, before someone called the police, and ran into the hall. Hoffmann was there and said as he fell in step with us, "I have called the hospital. It's in the Friedrichstrasse. The morgue is on the south side. You will see the truck loading. Ask for Dr. Koenig. He will expect you. I will wait five minutes and then I will call the police, so you must hurry. Goodbye my friends".

Going by foot and then by Strassenbahn, we took about an hour to get to the Charité morgue. Dr. Koenig and an assistant were ready for us and led us to a storage room filled with rough wooden boxes about seven feet in length. Coffins. My heart leapt into my throat. I climbed in and put my pack between my ankles. I would not let him nail the lid on, until he explained that two nails were necessary at least, to keep it from falling off. And I could pound it open from inside if I had to. There were air holes on both sides, but nothing to keep out the terrifying darkness as the lid went on. "Close your eyes," he said. "It's more bearable that away. You have lie that way for two hours." I heard Janice's voice over me, "See you in a couple of hours, Meli". She had never called me Meli before. I heard them nailing the lid on her coffin as well. Then they loaded us onto the truck with the other boxes.

We were lying among the dead.

We stopped again and again. For traffic, or obstacles, or inspections. Over and over again panic rose in me and over and over again I remembered that Janice was lying right next to me feeling the same terror, and for her sake, I thought, I had to stay calm. It was more than two hours. It was, it seemed, half of my lifetime.

Finally, I heard the men climb up on the truck again. I felt myself being lifted down and for a brief moment I was rigid with fear that we were at the cemetery and would be buried with the others. I braced my arms to try to push off the lid but found at the first attempt the nails wouldn't budge. I was about to scream when someone pried the lid off from outside. We were on a dark road in a woods. A hand reached in and pulled me to a sitting position and said gruffly. "Get up and walk. We still have to get to the cemetery". My legs collapsed under me at first, but then with an agonizing prickling sensation, the circulation returned and I crawled over to a rock to pull myself up.

Janice's coffin had been set down next to mine and she was having just as much trouble getting her legs to work as I had. But as soon as she got out of the box, our rescuers hammered the coffins shut again and loaded them back onto the truck. Their job done, they drove off immediately, without saying anything to us about what we were to do. Instructions and comfort were not part of the package.

A man in ragged farmer's clothes suddenly appeared with a lantern. With a minimum of speech, he led us to what looked like a communal barn. By the dim light of his lantern I could see there were four cows which, although they smelled rather strongly, provided welcome warmth. The farmer was in a hurry to leave and simply opened a trap door well disguised with bundles of straw, and revealed a cavern some six feet by ten feet, walled with planks of wood and containing blankets.

"You sleep here." He pointed to an empty stall. "Any noise, you jump in here." He pointed to the trap door. Don't come out without the signal. Three--one--three." He pointed to a steel bucket and to a water pump outside the barn. "There's water. Don't make any noise." And then he hurried away, taking the lantern with him.

Janice set her pack down and sat down next to it, rubbing her legs.

"Not a very chatty people, the Germans. I guess that means we set up camp, right?

"Yeah, guess so. I'll get us some water."

* * * *

It was the darkness I guess, and the icy ground, and my shaky legs. I filled the bucket but as I turned from the pump I stumbled, and went sprawling, and was jolted by the icy water spilling across me, drenching me from chest to knees. The last thing I needed on our long trek north was to be sick, and so I hurried back to the barn and peeled off my wet clothes. Janice handed me one of the blankets, but I could not get warm and my teeth were chattering and so Janice undressed too and wrapped herself with me in both our blankets. We lay there in the straw until I stopped shivering and Janice began to giggle.

"Do you remember the last time we were wrapped this way in a blanket?

"Of course I do, in Athens, during that big thunderstorm. Only that time I held YOU."

"Yes, and then you ran away."

"I was afraid."

Suddenly her voice got serious. "Don't be afraid now. I'm here. I've always been here. I've been with you since Greece. Not since Athens. Since Amphipolis. Since Gabrielle."

It was true. I no longer felt afraid, or trapped, or soiled by complicity. Lying there naked with her in the darkness, seeking so basic a thing as warmth, in a barn smelling of cows, I seemed to come back to the beginning -- and I felt the evil begin to fade. It seemed to evaporate with the icy water on my skin. And the guilt too, for all those who had succumbed while I survived. I felt Janice's steady heartbeat against my back, and it seemed to beat as well for the hearts that were gone. Berlin was behind us. Ravensbrück was behind us. We had lain among corpses, but we still lived. We lived and were free again, and in each other's arms. I felt solace seep into me along with her heat.

More than solace. It was...what I had felt that summer evening in Athens.... the beginning of arousal.

"Janice". I hoped she was not asleep.

"Yes?" She was awake.

I took her hand from around my waist and pulled it up to my lips, and kissed her palm -- and then slid it down again over my breast. She didn't speak but I felt her press a bit closer to me. I was conscious of her thighs against me, and the crispness of her intimate hair against my back, and of her sweet breasts which suddenly had nipples. And then I knew I was alive again when I felt -- wetness. Mine and hers. Slowly, still tentative, I guided her hand over my belly and down between my legs. She did not try to excite me; I did not yet want her to, but she waited, as she had for so long, and let me lead her. Her shorter body could not curve around me, and her face reached only to my shoulder blades. I felt the moisture of her mouth as she kissed my back and I wanted suddenly to feel her on my lips. I turned to face her, and for the first time in a year we kissed like lovers, reaching deep inside each other's mouths, like shared breathing, in and out. By then I was aflame and I curved my arm around her hips and pulled her tightly to me. As she slid her leg between my thighs I was already slippery with desire.

And then, ohh, she entered me.

It was the simplest loving we had ever done. In the most basic way we reaffirmed the love of our bodies, -- for the other part of our love was never at risk. After a very few minutes I gave her what for months I had feared I could no longer give, a lover's climax -- long and strong, that set my heart pounding. She felt it against her cheek and laughed with happiness at finally reclaiming me.

Before we fell asleep in the final hours of the night, Janice murmured into my neck. "I can hardly wait until we get to Sweden where your sexual desires can coincide with our having a real room and a real bed. I mean I can't BELIEVE we just made love in the hay. In the middle of winter!"

I laughed. "I will try to be more considerate in the future. And less trite!"

We slept the rest of that night, close by the trap door to the secret cellar and at the first sound in the morning clambered inside it. But it was just one of the farmers bringing us bread. He reminded us that we always had to stay in or near the hole, since patrols were common and not all the village could be trusted. We spent the rest of the day there, sleeping on and off, in the giddy joy of love re-consummated in a cow stall.

* * * *

February 1, 1943

During the second night, just after we had fallen asleep under the trap door, the signal came. I was instantly awake while Janice shook her head into wakefulness. The signal three-one-three was repeated and we heard a woman's voice say "Kommt heraus. Hier sind Freunde".

'Friends here.' Wonderful words. I lifted the hatch and was momentarily blinded by a flashlight sweeping across my face. Then it pointed at the floor, at two well scuffed boots. My eyes trailed upward seeing dark pants disappearing under a long black coat. At the hip, on a wide belt over the coat there was a holstered gun. At the top of the coat was a small face under a wool cap, ringed by curls. Looming behind her, half a head taller, was a boy, holding a rifle across his chest. She said simply. "Ich bin Frederika", and reached out her hand to pull first me and then Janice up out of our hiding place. We said our names and she repeated them. With no time for further social niceties, she simply nodded her head in the direction of the boy, "Mein Sohn, Theo," then turned off the flashlight and led us out of the barn into the night.

We shouldered our packs and she led us out over the field, northward. There was no moon and only a vague ambient grayness by which to make out the outline of the person ahead. There was nothing to do but walk in silence, following the slender shape that guided us over the dark terrain. We heard only the sound of our breathing in the cold night air, and our feet, crunching through patches of ice. Theo took up the rear.

I looked up into the crystal clarity of the night sky, at the dense spray of stars. Wolfie's stars. I had not looked at them in years, although at one time I knew many of the constellations. They were a sort of comfort; they reminded me of the distant past, and so implied that there would also be a future. Our ancestors had seen those stars. Xena and Gabrielle, sleeping outdoors, would surely have studied them in the Grecian night sky. I looked around for a familiar constellation, and saw Ursa Major, the Big Dipper.

Just then we heard a sound, and all four of us dropped to a crouch in readiness until it revealed itself as some field animal we had startled. But it reminded us that there was always danger. Frederika whispered to me over her shoulder,

"Do you have a gun?"

I said "Yes".

"Do you know how to use it?"

"Yes."

The whole route and the speed with which we walked it was perfectly timed, for just as the sky began to lighten, Frederika led us to a woodshed behind a farmhouse at the edge of dense woods. Inside was a small stove and after dropping her pack, she loaded kindling into it.

Janice bent to help her but said with concern, "Aren't you afraid the farmer will see the smoke and know we are here?"

"He knows we are here."

"Oh."

We settled in on the wooden floor around the stove as the sun rose completely. For some ten minutes we all leaned on our elbows, catching our breath, loosening the laces on our shoes, waiting for the stove to take the bitter cold out of the air. There was a can of water in the corner, with a layer of ice at the top which she heated on the stove. It was only hot water, but we drank it and it warmed us from the inside.

I realized that I could finally take a good look at Frederika and her son, and they also could see who they had rescued. She wore a long black wool coat, hooded and pulled in at the waist like a monk's robe with a wide leather belt. Her features were large, eyebrows long and distinct, and dark curls sprouted from under a black knitted cap. Around her neck, in curious disparity with the dark coat, she wore a white satin scarf, like an aviator's scarf. A suggestion of ornament, I guessed, in a life that could not possibly have room for vanity.

Both mother and son were very dark, not German looking at all. More like Turks or Greeks...or Jews.

Seeing me study her face, Frederika said, "Yes, we are Jewish. Are you surprised?"

"That Jews would stay in Germany when they are able to escape? Yes."

"We thought we were Germans, that this was our country too. But then the Nazis came to power and we found out we weren't Germans, only Jews.

"Yes, I see," I said, thinking of Sophia. "It must be difficult. After all the years of having a normal existence, to suddenly have it all collapse. To not know any more who you are or where you belong."

"Oh, I know who I am," she answered. "I am a free woman, and my children are free. THIS makes me free." She laid her hand on the pistol on her thigh. For the first time I noticed it was a Luger. Guns had suddenly taken on an enormous importance in my life. I knew far more about them than I ever wanted to.

"How did you come upon a Luger?"

"I didn't come upon it. I killed a soldier for it."

She had not said "I killed a Nazi." She said "a soldier." A German boy, like Wolfie, perhaps. This woman, obviously, made no apologies.

As if reading my thoughts she continued. "My husband was a Social Democrat and a peaceful man. They took him in 1939. But we are still free, my children and I. If we die, it will not be in a concentration camp." Her hand was still on the Luger.

"Children. You have another child?"

Yes. Erika. She is eleven. You will see her in Heringsdorf. She takes the radio messages. She is the only eleven year old female radio operator in the Resistance. Maybe in Europe.

I smiled in admiration. "Maybe on earth!"

We laughed and I realized it was the second time in two days. Laughter was returning to my life.

Laughter and lust. I looked over at the curve of Janice's body as she stretched out on her side, talking softly to Theo, about Phoenicians, and about Babylon.

"But why didn't you just escape to Sweden? Aren't you afraid for your children?

"That's an easy way out. I could use my children as an excuse for anything. For running away, for hiding, for betraying my neighbors, for collaborating, for killing other Jews. You see, I had to take a stand some place. I took it here." She gestured to our surroundings. "Yes, my children are in danger, Erika less so since she stays in Heringsdorf by the radio, but they are free. And they have learned courage. I have tried to send them on to Sweden, but they refuse to go. We have grown very close this last year. It is a good way to live I think."

I looked at this small woman in the dim light of our hiding place, and at her son, and I saw faces that could have been at Thermopylae, or Jericho.

She tapped me gently on my foot with her boot. "Get some sleep now. We have another twenty kilometers to go tonight."

"Right", I agreed. And curling up against Janice , I found it suddenly easy to do.

* * * *

February 1, 1943

Frederika took us on another forced march the next night. The moon was the thinnest crescent and the only light shed on the earth that night was from the stars. There was no light on the ground, in the fields or on the roads. All of Germany seemed to be dark. But the eye will see whatever light there is, and the white scarf at her neck, gathering starlight, gave off a soft sheen, enough that we could see it to follow her. She seemed to know every meter of the escape route north. This slender Jewish woman with two children and no husband walked night after night, along this dangerous route, and brought strangers to freedom. Strangers who weren't even Jewish. Endured cold and exhaustion and the risk of capture, or death by violence, for something so abstract as identity. Just as war tore away the veneer of civilization and exposed the greed and cowardice in humankind, its conflicts and hardships could also burnish souls to a fine luster and reveal beauty that in a life in peacetime might never have emerged.

I was wrong about her sort fighting at Jericho. Those were battles of men, of conquest and rebellion. This woman belonged in a different context. She would have fought in Attica, in the ranks of Amazons, protecting her valley, her village, her children. And she would have been ferocious. I suspected that she had obtained the aviator's scarf in the same way she had gotten the Luger.

February 2, 1943

We arrived at Heringsdorf, the last stop-off point, as we had at the others, just as the sky began to lighten. Frederika led us in a wide curve away from the main village to a nondescript house partly hidden by trees. Through the whole night's march, fearing our voices would carry on the cold winter air, we had fallen into the habit of silence. And so, as we neared the house, the only acknowledgment of our arrival was the cry of seagulls telling us that we were near the sea. Frederika let us in from a side entrance, blocked from view by trees. As we filed into the entry way and removed our heavy outer clothing, a young girl came up the stairs from the cellar and ran to embrace her mother. I blinked for a moment at a face that was strangely familiar. I searched in my memory and it came to me with a stab of sorrow. Long honey-colored hair contrasted with a line of dark eyebrows.

So must Sophia have looked at the age of eleven.

After preparing a simple warm meal for us all, the usual Ersatz coffee, and bread and cheese, Frederika led us to the 'radio' cellar where we found a large bed with a lumpy, slightly dank mattress. But we took off our shoes and stretched out and it was paradise compared to the ground we had slept on the day before.

While Janice and I lay together, trying again to sleep in a strange place, we listened to the sounds from overhead. The teasing of an older brother, the complaint of a younger child demanding justice, the ultimatum of an exasperated parent, laughter. A lot of laughter. The comforting sounds of a family.

We slept most of the day in Frederika's cellar, and in the early evening we were awakened by the sound of Erika coming down the stairs to take up her post again. She snapped on a small light and shaded it, producing an orange glow in the alcove where the radio was set up. She hunched over it, her cheek in her hand, the bulky earphones huge on her child's head. I realized that this family, for years perhaps, had spent day and night in hiding. To protect themselves from the lethal glare of Nazism, they had become creatures of the night. But I also knew, had heard in their laughter, that there was so much inner light in them that they could not be afraid of the dark.

Suddenly Erika yanked off the heavy headset and ran up the stairs calling out "Mutti!". Janice was awake by then and we put on our shoes and hurried after her to find out what the news was.

Mother and daughter stood together in the kitchen. Frederika turned to us, was about to speak, then put her hand on her daughter's shoulder and said, "Tell them".

Erika grinned at being the one to give the news, and said in a voice far too sweet for such solemn report,

"Stalingrad has fallen, the entire Sixth Army destroyed. The Germans are halted in Russia.".

Stalingrad. The death of an army.

I nodded and smiled, pleased of course that Hitler's armies were defeated, the German invasion of Russia being turned back. One of the dead or captured was Wolfgang Hoffmann. Nothing in this war, it seemed, was gained without sacrifice.

"Since you are awake now," Frederika said, "we can sit down to eat. I have saved a little Schnapps for such an occasion as this and we can celebrate. You won't be able to go out on the boat until tonight anyhow, so we have time."

We helped her prepare a simple meal and for the next few hours we celebrated quietly, the way you celebrate when you are in hiding and running for your life. With the exception of Erika, who expressed disgust, we each got a small glass of the Schnapps. "To Freedom," we said, and drank.

The Schnapps burned all the way down and both warmed me and also set me to brooding. Brooding on the land I was about to leave, where I had lost the last of my blood family, where I had seen mass murder and had sat down to supper with the murderers, and where I myself had finally murdered – without remorse.

But the last people we saw on German soil were these. I looked at Theo, who had been in steady conversation with Janice for two days. She had been telling him about Harry Covington's work and her own, all the work that still needed doing. He seemed transfixed and if she'd had a contract she would have signed him up to go on a dig with her after the war.

And at Erika, who was curled up next to her mother reading a book about horses. I turned to Frederika. "Erika reminds me of a friend I had. A Greek woman. An opera singer."

Frederika touched her daughter's hair. "That's remarkable, because Erika also sings. Not opera of course, but the usual songs children sing. She has quite a lovely voice for a child, with vibrato, and you should hear her sing "Der Kuckuck und der Esel." Erika, blushing deeply, declined to perform, and instead stood up and said, "It's time for the radio report."

Frederika explained. "The bay is heavily patrolled. We have to get confirmation that visibility is low, and that the rescue boat has made it through. We have contacts at Göhren across the bay, and at the Stubbenkammer lighthouse, which can tell us how much cover we have. Without fog cover, you haven't a chance."

We went down again to the radio cellar and even though her mother was there and could have done it, Erika took up her post with authority, and put the headset on. We stood around the low light as around a bonfire and could hear the static in the earphones as Erika turned the knobs with little girl's hands. Hands that held our lives that night.

After a very few minutes she looked up at me and said the word we needed to hear.

"Nebel."

Fog at Göhren and fog at Stubbenkammer. We had the cover we needed, and could leave.

When Theo and Frederika went upstairs, Erika stayed. There were more reports to take, and she wouldn't go down to the beach with us in any case. She stood up, to say goodbye to me. I leaned over and embraced her, and she laid her head on my chest for the briefest moment. A touch only. But in that second I looked down again at ragged honey-colored hair that I had held once in my sleep, and felt tears well up inside of me.

I kissed her quickly on her hair left her to her radio, and to her songs.

* * * *

When the rowboat arrived to take us to the trawler offshore, we stood with Frederika for a moment without speaking. I was sorry to leave the company of this woman who had led us both to freedom and I hugged her, long and affectionately.

All I could think of to say was, "University of South Carolina. Remember those words. After the war, if we all survive, if your children learn English, I can promise a place for them. Write me there. The letter will find me. I'm serious."

She nodded and said, "So am I. If we make it through, you will hear from us. We'll come." I heard certainty in her voice.

I touched the white scarf that was still around her neck and said, "And bring this along. It becomes you."

* * * *

As we sailed out into the Baltic in the darkness toward Sweden, we stood at the stern and watched the few coastal lights disappear. Soon we were in the greenish darkness of a fog covered sea.

I thought of the long lines of defeated German soldiers plodding eastward into Russia, into captivity, perhaps with a young astronomer among them. A counterpart to the lines of defeated British soldiers with Nigel in their midst, winding down to the beach at Dunkirk.

Strings of soldiers all over Europe. Marching and retreating, capturing, being captured, killing, cowering, dying. I could picture it in my mind as a macabre ballet, a vast dance of death.

Media vita in morte sumus.

But I was alive. My lover was alive. I put my arm through the bulky sleeve of her coat and sweater. I had to lean way in to press my lips against her ear and whisper, "I love you". She turned and whispered back. "Always."

We sailed in near total darkness; the only light was the tiny lamp over the compass that was shielded so that it could not be seen out over the water. The only light was our light, the light we carried with us.

"We will come back soon enough. We have work to do and a lot to tell," Janice said.

"The Scroll!!" Suddenly I remembered the most important thing we carried.

"I have it. Don't worry." The Logos Scroll, from our enigmatic bard, sage and puerile at once, that discovered the secret of creation and laughed at it. It had survived the perils of the Reich, as we had.

"We will come back, Meli, and tell all the stories, of Xena and Gabrielle, of the Book of John, of Nigel and Stavros, and Sophia, and Frederika. It is important to tell the stories, so that we know who we are."

I came around and embraced her from behind and felt the long cylinder holding Gabrielle's scroll strapped diagonally across her back. Like Xena's sword.

I whispered again, "In Arche en ho Logos," and in the darkness felt the nodding of her head.

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