Green Neon

10 From one police station to the next

Tom got up at eight the next morning for a trip to the Corinth Canal. While he had only a vague idea of ​​exactly what he wanted to do in Greece prior to his trip, he absolutely had to see the canal. This was a good day for this trip because there were no appointments with his new friends and he had learned from Christina that it was very easy to get to Corinth by bus.

As he was about to pack his bag, he noticed that his passport wasn't in its normal spot next to his neck pouch on the bookshelf. Of course he had been very tired the night before, so he probably hadn't put his things there as usual.

He searched his trousers, but the back pocket, where he always carried the passport because it didn't fit in the neck pouch, was empty. The passport was gone. He asked Christina if she had seen it, but she hadn't. Together they searched the entire apartment, but the passport did not turn up.

Although Christina should have been on her way to work long ago, they tried to reconstruct where the passport could have been lost. They thought the most likely possibility was that Tom had lost the document on the beach. She called her office and told the secretary that she would be showing up for work two hours later. Then she accompanied Tom to the nearest police station.

At the end of the marina there was a small tourist police station that tended to the aches and pains of holidaymakers. Christina described Tom's mishap to the police officer, who was dressed in a smart white uniform, and after a few questions, which the officer addressed to Tom in impeccable English, he picked up the phone and apparently got instructions from a superior.

The phone conversation was becoming increasingly tense and the once helpful policeman lost all friendliness as – almost insultingly ignoring Christina – he told Tom succinctly to go to the regular police station to make a report. Christina exchanged heated words with the officer, but apparently he had received a clear order.

"What's this all about?" Tom asked as they exited the building.

"Oh, you know," Christina tried to calm him down, "the tourist police are actually not really a police force, more like a kind of nanny for insecure holidaymakers. They haven't been around for long, and they probably don't yet know how to deal with some problems."

They found the regular police station in charge a few blocks away in a cube-shaped, brown, two-story building with barred windows and an open front door. On the sidewalk in front of the police station, behind several wooden tables, sat men filling out forms or writing out what was dictated to them. Tom, who was searching in vain for his self-confidence of the past few days, couldn't explain what he was looking at, but he had other concerns than asking Christina what these people were up to.

In the stuffy office there were only two desks, behind each of which sat an official. No sooner had Christina made her case than an impossibly fat policeman stepped out of the next room, his massive sweaty armpits and greasy, curly hair competing with a scar-covered face for the most intimidating effect on the "customers".

With terse words and in a commanding tone, he steered Tom and Christina into the next room, where he made a long, unfriendly-sounding speech. Tom felt increasingly queasy, because it was obvious that things weren't going smoothly here. Christina translated the unpleasant official's speech:

"We have to have a report written outside. We must then go to the office of the immigration police. Don't confuse them with the tourist police. The immigration police have been around for a long time. They don't have a good reputation. They usually deal with drunken sailors who have stolen something or gotten into fights. Then lock them up for a few days. They can do that, even without a court."

They went to one of the tables. There, Christina had the report written, and Tom wondered why private scribes were needed for this. He couldn't imagine that some of the policemen might not be able to write. The man filled two pages and gave Christina the log, which they took back to the station. There she had to pay a small amount, for which two stamps were stuck on the document, which in turn were stamped by the unpleasant, fat official in the next room. "So the Greeks didn't just invent democracy," thought Tom, "but apparently bureaucracy, too."

On the way to the immigrant police station Christina called her office again. The two hours were long gone, and the end of their odyssey from one police station to the next was still not in sight. The Immigration Police station was on the main access road to the commercial port, about a quarter of an hour's walk.

The visit there was short, much shorter than Tom had expected. A plainclothes officer they were admitted to told him in English that he had to be at a police office near Syntagma Square in Athens in two hours. He added with a snarl that he could go there alone, because only he, and not Christina, was to be interrogated there. He didn't answer any questions, just rudely ushered them to the door.

***

The secret policeman looked at the photo of the German boy entering Christina's house. Sometimes you just have to be lucky. So his passport was gone, what a coincidence! Now the German who had something to do with the resistance group that was meeting at the lawyer's would come to him quite "voluntarily". The old men didn't interest him, he had them under control anyway due to their house arrest. But he hoped they would lead him to the group of elite soldiers who had been in hiding since their escape.

At first he had thought that this Tom was visiting relatives, but his behavior made him suspicious. Why did the boy walk past Christina's house and only enter after making sure no one was following him? Another coincidence?

***

On the way to Athens, the atmosphere was tense. Tom wondered why a lost passport had already cost half a day. He was unsettled because the officers had become less friendly from one station to the next. Christina seemed calm again, but by the way she was ranting about the police, it was obvious that the morning's course was going against her grain.

The building they were supposed to report to was on a narrow one-way street less than 200 meters from Syntagma Square. The five-story modern structure looked like many of the office buildings that had been built in recent years. At the entrance there were a number of metal signs with company names. It was not apparent from the outside that a police authority was housed here. Christina assumed it must be a criminal investigation office.

In the entrance area, a young woman sat enthroned behind a huge counter and operated an extensive telephone system. When Christina introduced herself, the receptionist made a short phone call. A little later, a young man dressed in civilian clothes came for Tom. Christina wanted to accompany him, but was asked harshly to stay in the foyer.

The officer ushered Tom down a long corridor with two elevator doors on the right. They took the elevator to the 4th floor. Here there was an identical hallway with several doors, all of which were closed. It was dead quiet. The last door on the left opened and a tall man with an extremely hooked nose waved Tom over. He wore a gray suit and black shoes. As he moved behind his huge, dark desk, he took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his leather armchair. He gestured for Tom to sit down.

The room was large, but had only a small barred window, and apart from a couple of roll-top desks and a visitor's chair, also covered with leather, there were no other furnishings. On one wall hung a photo of a military man with an extensive collection of medals on his chest, probably the current "Viceroy," Tom guessed. The door was thickly padded on the inside, hence the silence in the corridor.

To Tom's surprise, the man spoke to him in fluent German, the pronunciation reminding him of the speeches made by East German leader Ulbricht. The policeman didn't have his peculiar falsetto voice, but rather a rich baritone, but he spoke clearly in the Saxon dialect. The man called him "young friend" and offered him coffee, which Tom accepted gratefully, especially because of the water that was served with it even here. His mouth was bone dry. Not because he was simply thirsty. Tom was scared.