Chapter 17 : The Asylum

Samson entered the Asylum and at once felt uncomfortable. It was pleasantly cool after the heat outside; though this was not enough to compensate for the crushing burden of sorrow he experienced. Instead of the groans and shrieks he had expected, it was strangely quiet. The young superintendent, to whom Samson introduced himself, checked the records and returned somewhat non-plussed.

                ‘It says you are to be accompanied by Professor Geroulanos.’

                ‘Yes,’ replied Samson, ‘he is following shortly. He was held up at the last moment and asked me to come on ahead. I assure you his presence here is only a formality. Could I see the prisoner now?’ The superintendent looked unsure. ‘It’s just that I do not have much time. As soon as the Professor arrives you can show him through, but I must be back at my Legation by midday to report to the Minister.’

                The superintendent clearly thought the possibility of a complaint being lodged against him by the British Minister was not worth adhering to the Institute’s regulations that all visitors must be accompanied. ‘I understand,’ he replied, with ill-humour. ‘Please, this way.’

                The young man led the way down a succession of corridors; by some peculiar illusion the building appeared to be larger on the inside than it was outside. Finally, at what must have been the most isolated cell, they stopped. The superintendent checked that the occupant was quiescent before shouting through the still-locked door, ‘Skinas, you have a visitor!’ He then opened the door and beckoned to Samson to enter. ‘He is harmless, but please do not get him too excited,’ he cautioned. ‘I am going back to leave instructions that Professor Geroulanos is to be shown through as soon as he arrives, then I will wait outside in the corridor. Let me know as soon as you are finished.’

                Samson entered the closed world of the insane. Skinas sat, knees hunched up, in a plain white cotton tunic looking, except for his expression, like one of the orators Samson had noticed, cast in stone on the Acropolis. His gaunt appearance was accentuated by two lifeless black eyes; this man might be alive, thought Samson, but his soul was surely dead. ‘Good morning,’ announced the Major in a subdued, emotionless voice. ‘I am … ’

                ‘I know who you are.’ At this Samson winced; he was rapidly tiring of the fact that his actions seemed to be public knowledge; he was supposed to be conducting a discreet investigation, yet even a madman apparently knew him. Geroulanos must have been to forewarn Skinas of his visit; what else had he said?

                Samson felt intense irritation: ‘Very well, who am I?’ he snapped.

                Skinas looked upset. ‘No, that is not the answer. How can that be the answer? You want to trap me. They come here one after the other to prove I am insane. Do you know why? If I am insane I cannot stand trial. If there is no trial, I am quietly forgotten about. But I tell you, I am not mad. I want to stand trial. I want to tell what I know. I have waited months to have my say, but I am to be denied. They are all afraid of what I know.’

                Samson suddenly realized that Skinas did not know who he really was: ‘And what do you know?’ the Major asked gently.

                ‘Is this a trick?’

                ‘No, I would genuinely like to hear what you have to say. Perhaps I can help.’

                Skinas stared uncomfortably at the Major. His expression remained unchanged; the dead eyes did not blink. Then he began: ‘The Monarchical system, as represented in its most base form by the importation of a foreign King, is iniquitous to the real interests … ’ Samson groaned inwardly as he became aware that he was to be subjected to a prepared monologue. He looked at his watch. The superintendent would soon begin to wonder what was keeping Geroulanos; if he checked and found that Geroulanos had disappeared …

                Samson interrupted the flow: ‘Yes, I see all that. But why did you do it. This is what I have to know — why? Did someone tell you to?’ Skinas stared blankly. Samson tried again: ‘You know Professor Geroulanos of the Medical School, I believe? He was once your colleague.’

                Skinas jerked upright. ‘I will not see him. If he comes here, I will not see him. Tell him not to come here.’

                ‘Why don’t you want to see him?’ inquired Samson solicitously. Skinas shook his head vigorously. Time was running out. Remembering the thought that had occurred to him in the carriage about the involvement of the Professor in the death of Triantafyllakos Samson decided to try a direct approach: ‘Did Geroulanos tell you to kill the King?’

                At last the expression changed; Skinas looked genuinely frightened: ‘He said it should be done; it would be better for Greece that it should be done, but the Germans were scared and didn’t want to do it. They didn’t want trouble yet; they weren’t ready. He couldn’t understand. If Constantine occupied the throne … ’ His voice trailed off.

                Samson felt sorry for this apparently deranged man caught in a trap not of his own making. ‘I can help you. I can make sure your story is told. Tell me what happened and I give you my word that there will be a trial and the truth will be heard.’

                Skinas appeared to be considering the offer, then his face cleared and he began: ‘All right, I will tell you … ’ Samson removed the pencil from the spine of his notebook. ‘The Monarchical system, as represented in its most base form … ’

                ‘No!’ Samson had to restrain himself from shouting. He reached forward and took hold of Skinas’ arm. ‘No, my friend. I mean, the real truth. What you would say at a trial.’

                For the first time there was a sign of animation in Skinas’ eyes. His thought processes had broken free of the never ending loop. Samson was to be subjected to another rehearsed speech, but one neither he, nor anyone, had heard before: ‘You will believe me?’ Skinas asked abjectly. Samson nodded. Skinas looked at him carefully and commenced: ‘Geroulanos would return to the Medical School from his usual visit to see Quadt. Sometimes he went everyday, sometimes every other day; never less than three times a week. He would come back and report to us. We were a small group: Geroulanos, myself, Valettas, Stais, Kanelopoulos, Zachariou, Anastasopulos. We all wanted one thing: the overthrow of Venizelos. This self-made man who worshipped his maker! This Cretan who, if he had his way, was going to abandon our true friends. We were, according to Venizelos’ grand plan, to be taken under the protective and altruistic wing of England and France and, worst of all, Russia! These people do not care for us; we are nothing to them except another link in the chain encircling Germany. How could they possibly protect us? It is clear the way the Turks are leaning and also the Bulgarians. If the Turks renewed hostilities against us what could these Entente Powers do? Calmly march Russian troops through Romania and Bulgaria? Do you think those countries would stand for it? Would the British navy protect us? Can a navy fight a battle fifty miles from the coast? By the time you put British and French troops on board ships and sailed to the Aegean, the battle might well have been lost. Only the Serbs could come to our aid and, in doing so, they risk annihilation by Austria stabbing them in the back. You can’t argue with geography. The forces of nature will always defeat the forces of man. Look at the map! So, what can we do? It was clear to us that following Venizelos down his chosen path was the road to ruin. So we volunteered our services to Quadt. At first he refused. He wants a quiet life. Then Geroulanos threatens to go over his head and approach Jagow in Berlin, who he knows vaguely. Quadt relents; but he insists there is to be nothing overt. We are to help in promoting the Kaiser as the true friend and patron of Greece, and the only person who will assist in the realization of the Greek dream: the occupation of Constantinople!’

                Samson could not refrain from interrupting at this point: ‘How on earth does he propose to square that with the Turks?’

                His train of thought interrupted, Skinas hesitated. ‘The Turks? The Turks? They are to be bought off. They are to occupy the Asiatic side of the Straits, we are to have the European side. This will also forestall the Russians as well, as they could never hope to achieve their aim of conquering Constantinople, for they would then have to defeat both Greece and Turkey to do so.’

                Samson was intrigued: ‘What enticement could possibly be sufficient for the Turks to agree voluntarily to give up Stamboul?’

                ‘The return of Egypt to full, unfettered Ottoman sovereignty and the confiscation of the British oil concessions in the Mosul and Baghdad vilayets,’ announced Skinas readily, leaving Samson to surmise which particular pamphlet he had been studying. Skinas, he surmised, was a textbook revolutionary.

                ‘Don’t you think the British will have something to say about that?

                ‘When they are defeated they will have no say. Terms will be dictated.’

                ‘I see,’ replied Samson resignedly, realizing that he was wasting time with this line of questioning. ‘Can we return to the activities of your group? Quadt asks you to organize a propaganda campaign?’

                ‘Yes, we each do our best in our separate ways, but we feel very strongly it is not enough. Whatever we do is countered by Venizelos and his acolytes. However we continue to work in the hope that it is appreciated and that, sooner or later, people will realize that Greece’s future is best assured through a close association with Germany. Then, one day, Geroulanos comes to our informal meeting straight from the German Legation. He is seething. At first he doesn’t want to talk about what has happened and the meeting eventually breaks up. I go to see him privately, afterwards. I have always looked to him as a father and I believe he thinks of me as a son. I ask him what has caused his anger. He tells me that, after the usual profitless interview with Quadt, at which nothing, of course, happens, he runs into von Falkenhausen, the Military Attaché. Von Falkenhausen is disgusted; so much so that he informs the Professor of what he has just been told. A plot has been formulated in Vienna to assassinate King George so that his place could be taken by Constantine.’ Skinas paused for breath. As he did so a fly landed on his upper lip. He did not flinch; the fly began to rub its forelegs together until disturbed by the continuation of Skinas’ story.

                ‘This is a brilliant scheme! What is denied us by war and the machinations of Venizelos and his colleagues, is to be given us in the shape of a new monarch who is married to the Kaiser’s sister, who was educated in Germany, and who holds honorary rank in the German Army. With Constantine on the throne there is only one direction for our foreign policy to take — ever closer alliance with Germany. Already we have placed Monsieur Streit as foreign minister. It takes only a few more of our nominees on the Executive Council and suddenly Venizelos and his lot are in the minority. Then the King, in meetings with the Council, can re-direct our policy. At last our aims may be realized. But then secret orders come through from Berlin that the scheme is too dangerous! There are too many attendant risks should the plot be uncovered. Instead, the Greeks are to warned of the attempt. Can you believe it? The Germans are to betray their Austrian ally because if the plot is found to be the work of Vienna they expect repercussions.

                ‘Professor Geroulanos is appalled. He tells me, “Skinas, here was a great opportunity for us. If the deed had been carried out, and a new King sympathetic to our aims replaced the old, our movement could have come out into the open. No-one’s position in this wretched government would be safe. No-one — not even that Cretan! We have lost a great opportunity. If the deed is not done now, and Venizelos cements his position in the next election, what hope is there? Mark my words, Skinas, we shall all rue the day this countermanding order was issued.” The Professor is almost in tears.’ (Samson struggled to imagine that face tear stained.) ‘After the Professor’s words I decide to take matters into my own hands. There is no point having a cause if one is not prepared to die for it, is there?’

                Samson looked anew at Skinas and wondered if he were not the sort of person who actively sought a cause to die for. If it hadn’t been this, it might have been the emancipation of Greek women or the protection of the Greek enclave in Smyrna. He needed a cause, and it was his (and the King’s) misfortune that he came under the influence of Geroulanos. Skinas continued his narrative:

                ‘I began my plan that very night. King George was then in Salonica at the head of his troops. I buy a map of the town. Then I gather every newspaper report I can find. I trace his movements. I make plans to travel to Salonica, but first I need a motive. If the Germans are truly afraid of the repercussions, I must have an excuse for my action which is not political. I am still trying to think of a plan the next day when I am approached by a beggar in the University Gardens. I cannot do with such people and I push him away and tell him to ply his obnoxious trade elsewhere. I am still angered by this incident on my way back to my rooms, when the idea suddenly comes to me. That very day I put my plan into action. I find my oldest suit and deliberately tear it and stain it. I do not bathe, I do not shave.

                ‘In this dishevelled condition I approach the Palace, but I am stopped by the guard. I tell him I have been ruined financially and that I have come to seek assistance, as I have heard of the charitable deeds of the King. The guard expresses his pity, gives me some money — a few coins only, mind you — from his own pocket and tells me to go on my way! I have to think fast. This is not at all as I had planned. I fling the money back at the guard. In truth I felt ashamed of this as he was a kindly fellow and I had now abused his kindliness. But I had to have an excuse. Seeing his charity flung back at him, the guard is annoyed and tells me harshly to go about my business before there is trouble. This is still not enough. A crowd, attracted by the commotion, has begun to gather. This is good: it will provide me with many witnesses. I shout at the guard; I tell him that the stories of the King’s good deeds are lies, that he is the same as all the rest. I make less than complimentary remarks about the King’s parentage! This is too much for the guard. He summons assistance, and some guards and Palace officials appear. One of them tries to reason with me, but I continue my act and am roughly man-handled away. I make sure I shout a warning that I, Alexandre Skinas, will avenge this insult.

                ‘So now I have my motive! I catch the steamer to Salonica, where I find lodgings in the worst part of that wretched city. It is indescribable. The city itself is in fervent — Greeks, Bulgarians, Jews, all hate each other. Murder is commonplace; the police and the occupying authorities have their hands full. I even begin to think that, having committed the deed in that benighted city, I might escape. But then I remember the injunction: the crime must be seen to have a personal motive. It is a settling of a personal grievance by a Greek! That way the German fears are met. I have to make this sacrifice. I study the King’s movements, but it is almost too easy. Every day he walks to the White Tower and returns. What could be simpler? At first he is accompanied by gendarmes and I worry that I will be cut down before I can accomplish the deed, but then one day I am observing the King and there is no guard, just a single officer strolling along with him. It is the same the next day — the King feels safe! So it is on the following day that I intend to strike. I have bought an old revolver from one of the Jews. I have never fired one before but decide that there is no need to practice as I intend to place the gun directly against the King’s person before firing.

                ‘On the appointed day I wait near the White Tower. I see the King approaching and I remember thinking to myself of what is about to happen: “I know that your life is about to end. You are walking, calmly chatting, thinking of nothing in particular, but I know this will be your last day on earth. Do you comprehend, George of the Hellenes, the power I possess? The power of life and death! What would your thoughts be if you knew as well?” The condemned man knows that he is going to die but even he, I think, up to the very last moment believes it will not really happen. As the order is given to the firing squad or the rope is tightened by the hangman, he will hope for a miracle. When the bullet strikes or the rope snaps taut he will think, “No, this can’t be happening.” Yet no miracle will save the King, and only I know this. It is my secret knowledge. The thought of this spurs me on. Even had I contemplated, upon seeing the King’s face that afternoon, abandoning the attempt this thought alone would have driven me on; I no longer controlled my own actions.

                ‘Ever closer comes this doomed man; this walking corpse; until he sees me. A girl rolls a hoop by; the motion is hypnotic, round and round; no beginning, no end. The King smiles — he smiles! He looks at me and he is still smiling — but I know it is the grin of death. As I wait, I fancy I can see his face with the flesh eaten away, exposing for all time a grim rictus. As soon as he passes, I withdraw the revolver, lunge and shoot. There is a terrible sighing noise, which I take to be the life leaving the body. To make sure I take aim again, this time at the head. I want to destroy that smile for I know that otherwise it will live with me forever. The aide-de-camp grabs me before I can fire again, and soon I am under arrest.

                ‘I declare to all who will listen that I will have my say in court. Ha! How can I be so naïve? I tell you, as soon as the Salonica police discover that I am a Greek with a legitimate grievance against the King, they are relieved — relieved! It means that, once they put this story about, there will be no trouble in the city. They do not want to waste their time investigating the crime; they already have too much on their hands. There are many unsolved murders, three in one day while I was waiting for my opportunity to arise. They do not want to listen; they have the crime and they have the culprit. But they send an investigating magistrate. This is the law. He is an intelligent man and he listens. I tell him my story. I omit names, of course, but I tell him the real motive for the crime. He is a Greek, like me, and he deserves to know the truth. He takes all this down and I await committal proceedings. When people realize what I have done for them I am certain of acquittal. Instead I am secretly brought back to Athens, declared unfit to plead, and by the foulest of coincidences placed here under the care of Professor Geroulanos! The irony is not lost on me, but I tell you, I do not belong here. These people are all mad.’

                Samson wondered who else knew the full story: ‘Do you receive any visitors?’ he inquired innocently.

                ‘Only one. My family disown me, but I expect that. Then Geroulanos comes to see me. As soon as he enters I greet him warmly and tell him that we may now start our campaign. Do you know what he says? “You fool! What have you done?” What have I done! He says Quadt is beside himself. If the connexion is established between myself, Geroulanos and Quadt we are all finished. This is all he cares about. I am to be abandoned. Yet what can they do? I can’t be executed without a trial, and they dare not bring me to court because of what I will say. I cannot be released and so I will spend the rest of my life here. But so long as I remain a prisoner, so do they. I am their prisoner but they are mine also!’ This thought gave immense satisfaction to Skinas. He stopped talking; his eyes glazed over.

                Samson had heard enough. He knocked on the door. There was no reply. He tried again, more insistently. Still no reply. He began to shout while, behind him, a thin smile flickered across Skinas’ face as a result of some private thought. Samson kicked the door hard. At last it opened. The Major was clearly annoyed: ‘Why did you lock me in?’

                The young superintendent snapped back: ‘I had to see what was keeping the Professor. He has not reported for work today; I believe you are aware of this.’

                This was not the time for diplomacy; brazenness, instead, was required: ‘I am aware of no such thing! If Professor Geroulanos has failed to appear, that is no business of mine. It was he who agreed to meet me here; the time was arranged for his convenience, not mine. I have just been alone with a madman because he failed to keep his appointment. Now I must see my Minister! Out of my way!’ Samson was shaking as he left the young man and attempted to find his own way out of the building. One corridor led to another, past hidden cells, mute cries, solitary thoughts. His attempt to retrace his steps was taking him, he feared, further and further into the centre of the labyrinth. When he finally chanced upon an exit he all but fell out of the door, in his eagerness to escape.

                On his way back to the Legation, Samson wondered if Triantafyllakos knew the answer; and, if he did, whether that was the reason for his murder. Skinas had told his story to the Salonica magistrate and Triantafyllakos had spent time in Salonica following up the report by the same magistrate into the three murders. It was all coming together in Samson’s mind: although Geroulanos bore no absolute responsibility for the assassination, he would be ruined if Skinas’ story emerged. Triantafyllakos must have uncovered the story in Salonica and perhaps included it in his report. Either way, Geroulanos could not afford to take the chance: Triantafyllakos knew, and so he must be silenced. The knowledge alone signed his death warrant.

                This left three questions unanswered. There was still the original report delivered by Triantafyllakos. If it went no further than Streit, the Foreign Minister, all was well for Geroulanos; however, if it went to Venizelos, why would the Premier cover it up? The only reason Samson could think of was if Venizelos himself was also implicated, possibly for ignoring a direct warning. The second question concerned the Salonica magistrate. He was also privy to the information: was he bought off? Did distance alone protect him? This was one avenue for future investigation. And the last question concerned Skinas himself. Could Geroulanos afford to let him live? His utterances could always be derided as the ramblings of a madman, but Skinas was right — as long as he breathed he remained a danger. Yet, how could Samson alert Gavronis to the fact that Skinas’ life may be in jeopardy without revealing what else he himself knew about events?

                Not that Samson completely believed Skinas. His story was well rehearsed, perhaps too well rehearsed, and made no mention of the severe financial loss which, according to Geroulanos, had finally tipped Skinas over the edge into fully fledged madness. The Major checked his notebook, referring again to the brief interview he had had with Geroulanos, which clearly mentioned a financial scandal. There was one other item on the same page which Samson had forgotten about: Geroulanos could not clearly recall (which seemed strange in itself), but thought that Skinas had left his teaching post at the Medical School some considerable time before the assassination. This was at variance with Skinas’ recollection of events. Both these assertions should be capable of being corroborated.