Page 7 of The Little Liar
Bibi blushes. Lazarre lifts Nico and places him on his lap. He cups his cheeks.
“How about another one like this?” he says. “Such a beautiful boy.”
Across the table, Sebastian watches, tapping his fork, silently absorbing the fact that his brother, not him, is the one his grandfather desires to replicate.
Later that night, the family walks along the esplanade. The night air is warm and a soft breeze comes off the water. Fannie and her father are there, too, and Fannie shuffles beside Nico and Sebastian, taking turns kicking a rock along the cobblestone. Nico’s mother, Tanna, pushes her sleeping twin daughters in a stroller. Up ahead she sees the majestic White Tower, looking out over the Thermaic Gulf.
“Such a nice night,” she says.
They pass a closed shop with newspapers in the window. Lev scans the headlines. He nudges his father.
“Papa,” he says, his voice low, “have you read what’s happening in Germany?”
“That man is crazy,” Lazarre says. “They will get rid of him soon.”
“Or it could spread.”
“You mean here? We’re a long way from Germany. Besides, Salonika is a Jewish city.”
“Not as much as it used to be.”
“Lev, you worry too much.” He points to the shop window. “Look at how many Jewish newspapers there are. Look at how many synagogues we have. No one can destroy such things.”
Lev looks back at his children kicking the rock. He hopes his father is right. The family walks on in the moonlight, their conversations echoing over the water.
We are in 1941.
The door swings open. Lev stumbles in wearing a soldier’s uniform filthy with dirt. The children rush to hug his legs and waist, as he moves stiffly to the couch. Three years have passed since that night on the esplanade, but Lev looks ten years older. His face is gaunt and wind-burned, his dark hair dotted with silver flecks. His once powerful arms are now thin and scarred. His left hand is wrapped in fraying bandages, which are caked with dried blood.
“Let your father sit,” Tanna says, kissing his shoulder. “Oh, dear God, dear God, thank you for bringing him home.”
Lev exhales as if he just climbed a mountain. He drops into the couch. He rubs his face hard. Lazarre sits down next tohim. Tears fill his eyes. He puts a hand on his son’s thigh. Lev winces.
Six months earlier, Lev left his tobacco business and joined the war against Italy, which had invaded Greece shortly after blowing up a Greek cruiser. Although the Italian dictator, Mussolini, had wanted to show the Germans he was their equal, the Greeks fought back hard, and resisted his invasion. Their newspapers carried one-word headlines:
“OCHI!” (NO!)
No, the nation would not be oppressed by the Italians—or anyone else! Greece would fight for its honor! Men from everywhere volunteered, including many Jews from Salonika, despite doubts from older members of that community.
“This is not your fight,” Lazarre told his son.
“It’s my country,” Lev protested.
“Your country, not your people.”
“If I don’t fight for my country, what will happen to my people?”
Lev signed up the next day, joining a tram full of Jewish men, all in a hurry to fight. I have witnessed this countless times throughout history, men pumped with the adrenaline of war. It rarely ends well.
The Greek offensive was, at first, highly successful. Their dogged efforts pushed the Italians backward. But as winter descended and conditions grew harsh, the Greek resources dwindled. There were not enough men. Not enough supplies. The Italians eventually sought the help of the powerfulGerman army, and for the Greek soldiers, this was the end. They were like horses who’d galloped into an open field, only to discover it was full of lions.
“What happened?” Lazarre asks his son.
“Our guns, our tanks, they were so old,” Lev says, his voice hoarse. “We went through everything. We were hungry. Freezing.”
He looks up, his eyes pleading.
“Papa, in the end, we didn’t even havebullets.”
