Free Hearts of Stone by Simon Scarrow

all.’
    The others raised their glasses and then drank.
    It was late in the evening before the last of the dessert dishes had been cleared away by the servant and his wife. A bottle of raki had been left on the table and Thesskoudis reached for it and turned the label towards the light as he read.
    ‘Ah, the good stuff. From Crete. Where the best raki comes from.’
    The poet smiled at the compliment. ‘You have family there, I believe.’
    ‘Indeed. My father was born there, before he was sent to school in Athens.’ Thesskoudis arched his eyebrows briefly. ‘As a result of a village feud, you understand.’
    There were nods around the table. Peter had lived among the Greeks long enough to know that feuds were common, and that no one discussed them in polite company, unless invited to.
    ‘And in Athens he joined the police and was posted to Lefkada, where I was born, grew up, and married the most beautiful woman on the island, until the birth of our daughter of course.’ He gazed at Eleni with unabashed pride and affection. ‘So I am Greek, but in my heart I am Cretan. And, as such, I know that the best raki in the whole country comes from Crete. May I?’ He nodded at the bottle.
    ‘Be my guest,’ said Katarides.
    The policeman went round the table and filled the small glasses and then everyone drank. Peter had tried the fiery drink on a few occasions and did his best not to wince as it seared his throat.
    ‘Ah!’ Heinrich exclaimed. ‘This, I shall miss. How about you, Herr Doktor?’
    Peter’s father coughed lightly. ‘Yes. Quite unlike schnapps . . . Yet another reminder that the world is richer for the variety that different nations bring to it.’
    ‘There is variety, and there is quality. It is not the same thing. Some nations are destined to greatness.’
    ‘Like Germany?’ asked Andreas.
    Heinrich looked at him briefly and nodded. ‘Exactly.’
    ‘And other nations are destined to decline, no doubt.’
    ‘Of course. It is the way of things. And some nations, some races, have passed beyond decline into utter decadence.’
    Andreas’s eyes narrowed. ‘Like Greece?’
    Heinrich shook his head. ‘Not Greece. I was referring to the Jews, of course. They are so decadent that they no longer even have a country of their own, and have chosen to invest themselves in the nations of others, like parasites . . .’
    ‘Parasites, you say?’ mused Katarides. ‘Surely your Jews are merely one detail in a long history of migration? The peoples of the world are in a perpetual state of moving and mingling. Who is to say that my Greek blood does not descend from that of Persians, Phoenecians, Romans, and yes, even Jews? Who is to say that the same is not true of your German blood, my young friend?’
    ‘I am an Aryan, sir. I concede that my race is the consequence of mixed breeding in the past. But we have reached a state of primacy, if not perfection, amongst the peoples of the world. Having attained that, we dare not contaminate our bloodline with that of inferior races, least of all the Jews. And that is a view shared by every nation in Europe, and any other where the Jews have left their stain. We would be better off without them. Is it not so?’
    The poet was still for a moment before he nodded slightly. ‘Some might agree that it is so. Though I cannot help but find that a cause for regret.’
    ‘Regret? Why should we regret the exigencies of history? We should embrace them.’
    ‘And where will these . . . exigencies . . . lead us? What would you do with the Jews, the children of Israel?’
    Heinrich hesitated and looked round the table to gauge the feelings of the others before he continued. ‘If it was my decision, I would make them live apart from the rest of us.’
    ‘Apart? Where?’
    ‘I do not know. A homeland of their own where they can live in peace and leave the rest of us be.’
    Katarides smiled. ‘It’s a bit too late for that. It was the Jews that gave us the Old