Partisan

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Get them out?’

  ‘They must leave Belgrade, before the Germans get here.’

  ‘The Germans are coming here?’

  ‘Well, of course they are coming. Why else did they bomb us?’

  Tony hadn’t had the time to consider that; he had been vaguely presuming that this was some kind of punitive raid. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Where should I send them?’

  ‘You must take them. Wherever you are going.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. I’ll see what I can do. Take care.’

  He squeezed the young man’s hand and hurried on through the crowds. Fifteen minutes later he was at the boarding house. There were a good many people gathered outside; Benjamin Kostic was a prominent local citizen. And as Tony was a regular visitor he was immediately recognised.

  ‘Why did they do this, Captain Davis?’

  ‘Will they come back again, Captain Davis?’

  ‘Are we to be invaded, Captain Davis?’

  ‘When will the British aid arrive, Captain Davis?’

  Tony muttered replies as he went through the crowd and up the steps.

  ‘Captain Davis!’ Martina Kostic gave him a hug and a kiss. She was a big woman, still boldly handsome, the very obvious mother of Elena. ‘It is good of you to come.’

  Tony looked around him. There were a couple of candles burning, and by the flickering light he could see that nothing appeared to have changed. ‘Aren’t you leaving?’

  ‘Why should we leave? This is our home.’

  ‘I saw Svetovar—’

  ‘He wants to fight. He has gone off to join the army. He is very young. I know he wants us to leave. But why should we leave our home? And where can we go?’

  ‘But . . . when the Germans arrive—’

  ‘If the Germans come, we shall surrender. There is nothing else we can do. Our little army cannot fight the Wehrmacht.’

  Tony took off his cap to scratch his head. His prospective mother-in-law was only expressing his own feelings, but he had never expected to hear them uttered in such matter-of-fact terms by a Croat.

  ‘Don’t you hate them?’ he asked inanely.

  Martina Kostic blew a raspberry.

  ‘Tony!’ Elena stood on the stairs, wearing a dressing gown. ‘I did not expect to see you.’

  ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  ‘That was sweet of you. But of course I am all right. Come upstairs.’

  Tony looked at Martina, who merely waggled her eyebrows. He followed Elena up the stairs, watching her hips moving beneath the thin material. Last time had been the last time, he had supposed. But he wanted her now more than ever.

  ‘Don’t you think you should get dressed?’ he asked as she led him into her room, where a single candle guttered.

  ‘There is time for that.’

  ‘Do you think so? Elena, your country is at war.’

  ‘Even in war there is time for lovemaking.’ She took off her dressing gown, lifted her nightdress over her head, then brought the candle closer and peered at him. ‘Your face is cut.’

  ‘Just a couple of scratches.’

  ‘They are big scratches. I must see to them.’ She replaced the candle, hurried into the bathroom, and returned with cotton wool, a cloth, and a bottle of iodine. ‘This will sting.’ She dabbed at his cheek. ‘How did you get all cut up?’

  ‘I got too close to a bomb.’

  ‘Oh, lord! Well, that is the best I can do. And now—’

  ‘No.’ He caught her hands as she started to release his belt. ‘I must get back to the embassy. I only came to make sure you will be all right.’

  ‘You are leaving Belgrade?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to.’

  ‘It would be nice for you to stay and fight with us.’ She stroked his holster. ‘You have a gun.’

  ‘I also have orders I must obey.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand this. Listen. Fuck me, and then I will get dressed, and we will go together.’

  ‘You mean you’ll come with me?’ He could not believe his ears.

  ‘I will come with you to find Sandrine.’

  ‘Sandrine? But—’

  ‘Are you not worried about her too?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Tony realised that he had not actually thought about the Frenchwoman at all.

  ‘She is my best friend,’ Elena reminded him. ‘We must make sure she is all right.’

  ‘She will have gone to the French embassy.’

  Elena shook her head. ‘No, no. She will be at her place. She will not wish to leave. We will have to make her.’

  ‘And you will come too?’

  She made a moue. ‘Give me a good fuck, and I may.’

  *

  It was incredible how people’s reactions to a certain situation could be so completely different. Tony knew it would be wrong to attribute Elena’s overactive sexuality to the German attack; Elena had always been overactive, sexually. It had been one of the aspects of her personality that Tony, brought up in the cosy gentility of an English country village where none of the girls would allow a kiss from someone they had not known for at least a month and for whom the concept of losing one’s virginity before marriage was on a par with making a pact with the devil, had found most compelling from the moment of their first meeting. But that she should allow nothing – not even the outbreak of a war – to interfere with her desires was startling.

  And he was happy to go along with her. He was the male, the soldier, the officer, but she was the dominant character, he knew, simply because he could not resist her invitation to lose himself in the splendid contours of her body, stroke that velvet flesh, sink into the emotional discharge which accompanied her climaxes, when she would gasp and grunt and shout, ‘Again! Again!’ until he was himself spent.

  How he wanted to spend his life right where he was, or at least have the right to return there whenever he could. Of course he understood that everything she had said yesterday was true – that the impact of Elena Kostic on his parents and friends would be every bit as traumatic as the threatened Nazi invasion. But it was still something he wanted to do. And if she was now willing . . . Besides, he was having an idea. If she were to accompany Sandrine to the French embassy – where, from what he had heard, there was far less red tape than at the British – they might be able to get out together, and he would be able to find them afterwards.

  ‘We must hurry,’ he said. It was starting to get light.

  ‘I understand.’ She poured water into the basin. ‘Where will we go?’

  He needed to proceed methodically. ‘To find Sandrine, first.’

  She nodded, splashed vigorously, and then dressed with equal energy, putting on stockings and a deep green dress, and finding herself a matching floppy hat, which made her look something like a femme fatale. Tony put on his uniform and watched her, his jaw dropping as she opened a drawer and took out a Luger automatic pistol, which made her look even more like a woman of mystery.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘I have had it for years.’ She slapped the magazine into the butt, reached into the drawer and took out two more; these she placed in her satchel, beside the gun. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Who are you meaning to shoot?’

  ‘Any Germans we may come across.’

  Tony reflected thankfully that there wouldn’t be any around at the moment. ‘Just keep it out of sight.’

  ‘Yours is not out of sight.’

  ‘I am a soldier, in uniform. I’m supposed to be armed. Does your mother know you have that thing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you understand that your mother’s idea is to surrender to the Germans rather than shoot them?’

  ‘The only thing Mummy and I have ever agreed on is that you are the right man for me. You said we should hurry.’

  ‘Aren’t you taking anything else?’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no time for that.’ She pushed past him and went down the
stairs. He could do nothing but follow her. ‘I am going out with Tony,’ she told Martina, who was standing in the street doorway looking out at the fires and the people.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Soon.’

  Tony followed her down the steps and into the crowd. ‘Should you lie to your mother like that?’ He spoke French so as not to be understood by any family friend who might be within earshot.

  ‘Everyone lies to their mother.’

  Tony couldn’t remember ever doing so. ‘You didn’t even kiss her goodbye.’

  ‘I told you. We never have got on. To kiss her would have made her suspicious.’

  *

  They reached a main street, and were pushed back by several policemen. It was now close to dawn, but the promise of day was darkened by the clouds of smoke hanging above the city.

  ‘We need to go across the river,’ Elena explained.

  ‘Listen,’ the police sergeant said.

  A police car was coming down the street, a voice blaring from its megaphone.

  ‘Attention! Attention!’ the voice said. ‘We are at war with Nazi Germany. German forces have crossed the frontier and are advancing on Belgrade. They will be here today. All reservists must report at once to their units. I repeat, all reservists report at once, with weapons and equipment, to their units. All civilians should return to their homes and stay indoors. I repeat, go home and stay indoors. Put up your shutters. You must not clutter the streets by attempting to leave the city. I repeat . . .’

  The car drew level with them and then passed on.

  ‘You are a British soldier,’ the sergeant said. ‘You should report to your embassy.’

  ‘He must see me home first,’ Elena said. ‘You say we must all go home. My fiancé is seeing me home.’

  ‘You are this woman’s betrothed?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Tony said.

  ‘And I live across the river,’ Elena pointed out.

  ‘I do not think you can cross the river. The bridge is down. It was struck by a bomb. Maybe more than one.’

  ‘It is destroyed?’

  ‘Not entirely. But it is down. To cross it will be very dangerous.’

  ‘We will manage it. Come along, Tony.’

  They crossed the street. The sergeant scratched his head, but did not attempt to prevent them. Only one or two people seemed to be obeying the police command; they had to push their way through quite a throng to reach the river. And the bridge. Here there was an even bigger crowd, staring at the collapsed stonework, through and around which the fast-flowing water tumbled. But the bridge, if impassable to motor or horse-drawn traffic, was still crossable; as they watched, several people made their way from block to block of masonry, shouting and occasionally screaming.

  ‘We can do that,’ Elena said.

  ‘Then let’s do it,’ Tony said. It was now a quarter to five and he would need to be back at the embassy by half past.

  Elena climbed down the embankment and on to the first stones, her satchel slung on her shoulder. A dawn breeze had sprung up and she had no time to attend to her skirt; several people cheered as her legs came into view. She ignored them, and made her way to the next stone.

  Tony clambered behind her. It was slow going, as the river was quite wide at this point and there was a constant stream of people coming the other way. Passing them was a matter of carefully selecting the right place. But at last they reached the other side.

  ‘Ugh!’ Elena commented. ‘To think that we have to do that again, going back. Shit!’ She had straightened her skirt, and only then discovered that her hands were covered in mud and slime.

  ‘Where now?’ Tony asked. He had never been to Sandrine’s apartment. As for going back . . . He just could not see the chic Frenchwoman coping with crawling across those muddy stones. And his leg was starting to hurt.

  ‘Down here.’

  On the river the air had been reasonably clear. Now they plunged once again into smoke and flames, heat and distraught people.

  ‘There!’ Elena pointed. ‘It is still standing.’

  They hurried up to the small block of flats and ran up the steps. The street door was open, swinging on its hinges.

  ‘Number six,’ Elena said. ‘It is a walk-up.’

  A man stood in the doorway of one of the downstairs apartments; he carried a shotgun and looked aggressive. ‘If you are here to loot I will shoot you,’ he announced.

  ‘We have come to see Mademoiselle Fouquet,’ Elena said.

  ‘She is not here. She went out when the bombing started.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ Tony asked.

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘She will have gone to the newspaper office,’ Elena said. ‘It is a story, yes? The bombing of Belgrade. She will be telephoning it to Paris.’

  The Paris Temps office was on the other side of the river. At least this time they would be travelling in the right direction.

  *

  At last the crowds were thinning. They were largely replaced by men in uniform, striding purposefully towards the north; none of them seemed to have linked up with their units as yet. Then a solitary tank rumbled down the street, cheered by the people. Tony wondered what one tank was going to do, apart from raising civilian morale, when it could not even get across the river.

  But then the tank was made irrelevant by the wail of a siren.

  The air-raid warning signal had not been activated before the first raid; everyone had been taken too much by surprise. Even now its warning was only just in time; the aircraft were already in sight, lethal black objects gleaming in the first rays of the sun – these had not yet reached the city.

  Anti-aircraft guns opened fire. There was no sign of any Yugoslav aircraft; Tony presumed these had either all been destroyed on the ground or were needed further north.

  Most people had stopped to stare at the approaching enemy, but now the Stukas switched on their own sirens as they began their dives towards the defenceless houses. People screamed and scattered in search of shelter. Tony forced Elena off the road and into a ditch, and they crouched together while the explosions started.

  ‘Bastards!’ Elena shouted. ‘You have seen this before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were in London during the Blitz?’

  ‘Actually, I wasn’t. My blitz was earlier.’

  But it hadn’t been like this at all, he realised as he gazed at collapsing buildings, listened to shrieking, terrified people. He buried his head in his arm – his other was round Elena – as waves of dust and debris scattered across them. He had never seen a city being systematically destroyed before. In Flanders the Stukas he had seen were seeking only military objectives, the men on the ground. As such they could be respected; however much one wanted to hit back at them and hated them when a comrade was hit, they were carrying out a necessary business in time of war. Of course he had heard stories of how they had bombed and strafed refugee columns, but he had not actually seen it happen, and had no idea if the stories were true or just propaganda.

  As a military attaché he knew there were no military targets in the centre of Belgrade. He supposed it could be said that knocking out the bridges across the Danube was a necessary part of any German invasion plan – although this would hamper the Wehrmacht even more than the Yugoslavs – but the repeated assaults on the useless heart of a great city was both senseless and criminal. He could not imagine Bernhard condoning that.

  But in real terms, Bernhard’s opinions no longer mattered.

  *

  The raid lasted some fifteen minutes, and at the end of it the city was once again engulfed in flame and smoke. And the time was five fifteen. If the embassy had received any orders they would have them by now.

  ‘We have to hurry.’ He dragged Elena to her feet. Her hat had come off, and her hair was scattered and covered in dust, as was her face and dress. He presumed he must look the same.

  ‘It is just down here,’ she
gasped, and led him round the next corner. There they stopped on the pavement, suddenly oppressed by the heat; the entire street in front of them was ablaze. Halfway down the street had been the newspaper office.

  ‘Sandrine!’ Elena screamed.

  Tony had to grasp her round the waist to stop her from running into the holocaust. He wondered just how close she was to the Frenchwoman to feel such a sense of loss.

  ‘Elena? Tony?’

  They both turned. Sandrine was as immaculately dressed as they could ever remember her, in a white frock which seemed singularly inappropriate on a day like this. She was hatless, but not a single golden hair was out of place; a white shoulder bag bumped on her hip. She had clearly not been sheltering in a ditch.

  ‘Sandrine!’ Elena screamed, leaping at her friend to hug and kiss her. ‘We thought you were dead!’

  ‘I had stepped outside to take photographs when the building was hit,’ Sandrine explained. ‘They are all dead. All my colleagues, all my friends.’

  ‘We are alive,’ Elena pointed out.

  ‘Yes.’ Sandrine gave her a perfunctory hug. ‘I am so glad about that.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Tony said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well . . . to the French embassy, in the first instance.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get you out of Belgrade.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well . . . when the Germans come—’

  ‘I keep telling you,’ Sandrine said, ‘I have a Vichy passport. I am a neutral.’

  ‘Did all the people in your office have Vichy passports?’

  ‘Of course they did.’

  ‘And they are now all dead.’

  Sandrine bit her lip. ‘The bombing has been indiscriminate. We reported this. As to whether they will print it—’

  ‘I still don’t think your having a neutral passport is going to do you the least bit of good,’ Tony interrupted. ‘Anyway, you no longer have a job.’

  She made a moue. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ She peered at him. ‘Your face is cut. Do you know you have cuts on your face?’

  ‘He was blown up,’ Elena explained. ‘I have put iodine on them.’

  ‘He is going to have a scar,’ Sandrine pointed out. ‘More than one.’

  ‘Forget about my scars,’ Tony said. ‘You have to go home to France. If we can get you there.’