The Silver Stain by Paul Johnston

putting the coffee pot and cups on the mahogany table.
    ‘This is Mr Mavros,’ Kersten said, continuing in Greek. ‘My dear wife, Hildegard.’
    Mavros shook hands with her and watched as the old couple kissed each other on the lips.
    ‘How do you take your coffee?’ the woman asked.
    ‘White, no sugar,’ Mavros replied, wanting to dilute the caffeine hit.
    ‘Mr Mavros has come to find Maria Kondos, Hildegard,’ Kersten said. ‘I’m giving him all the help I can.’
    ‘I’m sure you are. It’s a shame the people making the film haven’t shown more interest.’
    The hotel owner looked surprised. ‘But they brought Mr Mavros from Athens. He’s the best in the business.’
    Hildegard Kersten turned her eyes back on Mavros. ‘Is that so? Well, I wish you luck. They are all crazy, those people. It’s only Ms Parks who really wants her friend back.’
    ‘Why do you say that?’ Mavros asked. He had seen that Rudolf Kersten gave his guests a more personalized service than that of most hotel-keepers, but he didn’t want him and his wife to retreat behind the shield of confidentiality. He had also picked up a hint of tension as the old woman had come in – when her husband had mentioned Hitler’s Germany.
    ‘I’ve seen them together,’ Hildegard replied. ‘They have a high level of dependency on each other.’
    ‘But you haven’t seen Maria since . . . ?’
    ‘Sunday afternoon,’ she replied instantly. ‘When the limousine brought them back from the shoot.’
    ‘We were in the car behind,’ Rudolf Kersten added.
    ‘My husband is the film’s official consultant regarding the Fallschirmjäger – the German paratroops.’
    Something had stirred in Mavros’s memory, a newspaper article with photographs from a previous May when the Battle of Crete memorial was attended by veterans from all sides.
    ‘You were one of them, weren’t you?’
    The old man nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I was,’ he said, his voice weaker. ‘It was the worst experience of my life – and later I fought on the Eastern Front.’
    ‘Hush,’ Hildegard said, going to her husband and taking his hand. ‘I told you the film would bring back too many painful memories.’
    Kersten smiled sadly. ‘But that is precisely the point, my dear. The film will lay the memories that have been tormenting me at last. The film will make me free.’
    Mavros felt like a child that had strayed into a room where the big people were doings things far beyond his ken.
    From The Descent of Icarus :
    Allied resistance around the Tavronitis river-bed had been subdued, at least for the time being, by bombing and strafing. Peter Wachter and I made our way across the rock-strewn watercourse, keeping our heads down as the 109s streaked overhead. One of our gliders had crashed into the west bank, the aircraft’s flimsy frame crumpled like a dirty handkerchief. Bodies were strewn around it, limbs at crazy angles and faces already swollen in the heat.
    ‘What now?’ I asked, after gulping from a water flask I’d picked up from a dead man.
    Peter was peering through the trees that lined the dry river. ‘I reckon Maleme airfield’s a couple of kilometres to the north.’ He pointed. ‘See the bridge? It’s beyond that, on the other side.’
    I took in the fragile metal structure. ‘You’d have thought the Brits would have blown it.’
    ‘You would. And you’d have thought they’d be defending it on both sides, but we seem to be in the clear here.’
    I caught the unmistakable low rumble of Auntie Jus, coming toward us from the sea. One of the leading aircraft was hit in the port wing and dropped to the ground like a lead weight before anyone could jump. The others ploughed on through the storm of fire and parachutes started to appear.
    ‘They’re going to come down ahead of us,’ Wachter said, clutching my arm. I saw that he’d been badly scared by what he’d been through. I hadn’t had time to be afraid. ‘Come on.’
    I followed him through the