Partisan

by Christopher Nicole

  Nor was that her only discomfort. If her feet were soon completely healed, she had her hands to consider. ‘Look at them,’ she proclaimed, stretching the delicate fingers in front of Tony. ‘Look at those nails! They will never be the same again.’

  ‘They’re all black and broken,’ Elena said helpfully. ‘Like mine.’

  ‘And I’m getting a callous. Look.’

  ‘I have one too,’ Elena pointed out.

  ‘Why is it the women have to do this,’ Sandrine complained, ‘when the men just sit on their asses and drink beer and smoke?’

  ‘History,’ Tony told her. ‘It has always been like this.’

  ‘Then it should be changed,’ she said. ‘This is exploitation of the weaker sex.’

  Tony had no doubt that she also was psychologically damaged by the German invasion. If she had no family involved, the other members of the Paris Temps staff in Belgrade had been both her comrades and her friends, and she had had to watch them being snuffed out in seconds. In addition, although Tony had never been there, he understood that she had made her little apartment into the epitome of Paris chic, with every article of furniture, every book, and every painting or framed photograph carefully selected – and now almost certainly gone forever.

  On top of all this was her abandonment by Bernhard, even if she knew he had only been obeying orders.

  Fortunately the two women had so much to do that they were too occupied to consider the future. All the women were required, as soon as they came in from the fields, to prepare food for their menfolk, as well as do whatever washing was necessary. They grumbled when they were no longer able to take their surplus produce, which included chickens and eggs, into the nearest big town – Uzice – to sell in the weekly market; this had apparently been cancelled because of the invasion. Their visits to Uzice had been the high point of their lives. Now they had nothing to do but work.

  ‘We are slaves,’ Sandrine complained. ‘This is an affront to natural justice.’

  ‘It could be worse,’ Elena pointed out. ‘You could be pregnant.’

  Women who were pregnant, even when they were within a month of delivery, were still expected to do their share of the work; those with children still at the breast also trooped into the hills every morning.

  ‘Barbaric,’ Sandrine grumbled, shooting Tony a quick glance. He presumed that when she had been entertaining Bernhard they had always used a contraceptive, so that if she were pregnant now it could only be his responsibility. Then he reflected that they would be leaving the village long before she would know about that.

  Whatever their complaints, however, he was both delighted and relieved that they seemed to be friends again, despite the fact that Elena probably suspected that he and Sandrine had indeed got together on that first night. After all, she had given him permission, even if perhaps she had not meant him to take her up on it. But now, although from time to time she insisted upon what she regarded as her conjugal rights, and took care to make sure Sandrine never had another opportunity to claim hers, she seemed willing to share all her other rights with her friend. The two women even fell to arguing as to whether or not Tony should be shaved, Elena being against and Sandrine for. In the event, the idea was dropped, as it would have entailed borrowing a razor – supposing one could even be found in a community where all the men wore beards.

  Like the women, Tony and Boris were also expected to fall into the customary behavioural pattern of the village, although in their case it meant a very sedentary, relaxed life. In the morning they went out in squads to look down into the valleys and report back to Petar Ivkov on any movements, whether friendly or hostile. This was repeated, by a different group, at dusk. For the rest, they sat around and drank beer, and gossiped and told dirty stories, while the children played at marbles and chased each other to and fro.

  There were some twenty children in the village, counting all those between four and fifteen in that category. One of the houses was actually a school, operated by a severe-looking woman who, judging by the occasional wails coming from inside the house, believed in corporal punishment. How much she actually taught her charges was a different matter, as she did not appear to have any qualifications beyond the ability to read and write, add and subtract, and carry out limited problems of multiplication and division. She was, however, well steeped in Communist dogma, and instilling this in her charges was her prime responsibility.

  Like the adults in the village, the children also attended the daily meeting in the town hall, when the secretary – Petar – would read them some of Lenin’s writings and lecture them on Stalin’s greatness. Tony and Boris were required to attend these meetings as well, and Tony was happy enough to do so, both because he was anxious to remain on good terms with the mayor, and because Petar regularly sent scouts down to the valley, and even as far as Belgrade itself, to bring him up to date on what was going on. Petar then disseminated such knowledge as he supposed his people should have, while all the time maintaining his attitude of strict neutrality. Tony estimated he was looking beyond the present situation to a future when the monarchy would have been destroyed or discredited, leaving open the possibility of a Communist takeover of the entire country.

  Tony could not see that ever happening, at least as long as the Nazis ruled in Berlin.

  None of the news they received was good, looked at from the Allied and hopefully true Yugoslav point of view. Moves were being made to separate Croatia from Serbia to form a new, independent state – under Italian auspices – and Serbia itself had been converted into a puppet administration under a General Nedic, who was apparently content to do whatever he was ordered.

  At the same time, it did not appear as if the Germans were taking the occupation very seriously. According to Petar’s scouts, while they were using the river valleys as corridors to move men and matériel south to Greece – obviously with the intention of assisting their Italian allies – they had also withdrawn a good many units, and especially panzers, back to the north, as if they regarded the Yugoslav question as being settled. Tony could not help but consider that a strategically timed attack on the thin line of communication might well cut off the German forces in Greece and give the Allies a much-needed victory. But the only man, as far as he knew, who commanded sufficient men and weaponry to undertake such an attack was Mihailovic, and nothing he had seen or heard in the general’s camp had suggested that he was capable, either physically or mentally, of carrying out such a coup.

  Meanwhile his own future, and that of the two women, remained dangerously obscure. Petar had not again raised the question of their moving on, but Tony suspected that this was less because he valued the services of Boris and himself – or even that he felt he should help his brother as much as possible – than that he liked having the women in the village, and probably even still had designs on them. This raised the even more unpleasant question of when Petar might choose to forward these ambitions. Tony realised he was in a most invidious position: as their self-appointed protector, he would have to be disposed of. He did not suppose this would be very difficult for Petar to achieve, as Tony’s only friends in the village were the women and Boris, and there was no guarantee that Boris would back him against his own brother.

  He doubted that Petar, who took himself very seriously as both mayor and party secretary, would descend to plain murder, and there was also the reassuring presence of his wife, a large and formidable woman who Tony could not see allowing her husband to engage in any open high-jinks. But there was always the possibility of an accident or fatally dangerous mission.

  Yet he had no alternative but to remain in the village, at least for the time being. There were only two possible havens he could seek. One was to return to Mihailovic, but that was impossible as long as he had Elena in tow. The other was to try to get north into Croatia, but he did not like the idea of that if the Croats were indeed allying themselves with the Axis power.

  What a fuck-up, he thought, to quote Sandrine.
/>   And there was no one he could discuss the situation with. The only member of his little group who had either the intellectual capacity or the lack of prejudice to consider their situation dispassionately was Sandrine, but ever since virtually raping him – and quite apart from Elena’s constant and protective presence – the Frenchwoman seemed determined not to find herself alone with him again. He wondered if that was from embarrassment, or if she was afraid of Elena’s reaction, or if he had not turned her on sufficiently – or if she feared that she might find herself irresistibly having another go at him . . .

  *

  So he reckoned his only course was to watch his back and wait for something to turn up. When it did, it was not what he had expected.

  He was out in the hills on afternoon patrol, with several other men including Ivkov, just over a fortnight after their arrival in Divitsar. Suddenly they saw dust in the distance. Tony still had his binoculars, and these he levelled, soon identifying several cars and trucks on their way up the road that led to the village.

  ‘Are they Germans, do you suppose?’ Boris asked.

  It was difficult to imagine who else they could be. In which case Tony had to suppose that Petar had after all decided to turn them in. In which case . . . He frowned as he refocussed the glasses. The approaching vehicles lacked the smartness he associated with the Germans, and they were not accompanied by the motorcycle outriders he associated with German patrols. And now that they were closer he could make out that the men in the open cars were not wearing German caps or helmets, or any uniforms at all, although they certainly appeared to be well armed. But that such a group – he estimated them to be about a hundred strong – should be moving about the hill country, openly and in broad daylight, raised all manner of possibilities.

  ‘Let’s get back to the village,’ he said, and led the group down the hillside.

  The women were just returning from the hills, and they and the children clustered round them, asking questions. Tony went directly to the town hall.

  ‘Not Germans?’ Petar was as surprised as Tony had been. ‘What can it mean?’

  ‘That the Germans have withdrawn?’ Tony asked. They had seen no troop movement, not even an aircraft overhead, for the past week.

  ‘If that could be so . . .’ Petar said. He waved his arms. ‘Prepare to greet our visitors,’ he shouted.

  Now they could hear the growl of the engines as the motorcade drove up the road, and a few minutes later it came into view around the bend. Tony noted that in the time since last he had seen it, it had changed its formation. Now one of the trucks was in the lead, and this vehicle swept through the street – which was lined with cheering villagers – until it reached the far end, just beyond the last house, which was, in fact, that occupied by Tony, Boris and the women. Here it stopped, and disgorged its load of some twenty men armed with tommy-guns, who took up their positions as if on parade, but with guns levelled.

  Tony was the only one who noticed this development, or the fact that the last truck had also stopped away from the main body, at the other end of the street, and its twenty occupants had also got down with tommy-guns levelled.

  The villagers’ attention was taken by the two cars and the third truck, which had pulled to a halt in the centre of the village immediately before the town hall. Here again armed men debouched, and one of them – a heavy-set man with a thick moustache and a revolver on each hip – walked across the street. He exuded such an atmosphere of menace that even the dogs slunk away from him.

  Petar Ivkov hurried down the steps to greet him. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘You are from Belgrade?’

  ‘I am today from Uzice,’ the commander replied. ‘But my home is Zagreb.’

  ‘Zagreb?’ Petar frowned in bewilderment. ‘But that is—’

  ‘In Croatia,’ the commander said. ‘My name is Ante Pavelic, and these are my men.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Petar was still totally confused, but Tony had a sudden understanding of who these men had to be . . . and why they were here.

  He grasped Sandrine’s arm and thrust her towards the hut. ‘Inside,’ he snapped. ‘Elena . . .’

  Both women gaped at him in amazement. Everyone else was looking at Pavelic.

  ‘If you will tell me how we may help you,’ Petar was saying.

  ‘You can help me by lining up against those walls,’ Pavelic said. ‘You are going to be shot.’

  Part Three

  RESISTANCE

  Phoebus, arise:

  And paint the sable skies,

  With azure, white and red.

  William Drummond

  Chapter Seven – Massacre

  For a moment neither Petar nor his companions moved; they even attempted to laugh, assuming that what they had just been told had to be a joke. Then it slowly dawned on them that it was not a joke.

  ‘Haste,’ Pavelic said. ‘We have not got all night.’

  The villagers exchanged glances. In their eagerness to greet people they had assumed to be friends, they had left their firearms in their houses.

  ‘Get in there,’ Tony muttered, pushing the two women into their hut. Ivkov followed him.

  ‘What is happening?’ Sandrine asked. ‘He can’t be serious.’

  ‘I’m afraid he is serious.’ Tony looked at Elena. These were her people. But for the moment even Elena looked utterly confounded.

  ‘You too, ladies,’ Pavelic was saying. ‘Be sure you have your brats with you. Captain Grosnic, make a selection.’

  Tony watched through the slightly open door of the hut as the Croatian captain walked up and down the still shocked line of women.

  ‘You,’ he said, pointing. ‘And you. And you. Step out.’

  The three girls – they were only teenagers – looked at each other, then left the ranks.

  ‘Marina!’ one of the older women screamed.

  The youngest of the girls stopped to look over her shoulder, and had her arm seized by one of the Croat militiamen, who jerked her, and her companions, into their midst. Captain Grosnic selected three more women, these slightly older, and all married; the six women were the most attractive of the villagers.

  ‘What do they want with them?’ Sandrine whispered at Tony’s elbow.

  ‘What do you think? For God’s sake, keep out of sight.’

  Petar Ivkov had at last regained some of his composure. ‘You cannot be serious,’ he protested.

  ‘I am always serious,’ Pavelic told him. ‘Now, all of you, turn round and face the wall.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Petar shouted. ‘You are Yugoslav. We are Yugoslav. We should be fighting the Germans, together.’

  ‘But you are Communists,’ Pavelic said. ‘You are the enemies of mankind. Your fate is to be exterminated. Besides, the Germans are our friends. Commence.’

  The tommy-guns began to chatter, and the evening dissolved into horror. Several men, women, and children fell in the initial bursts. Too late, some of the men turned and ran at their assassins, but were cut down before they could cross the street. Mrs Ivkov ran to her husband’s side, and died on her knees before she could reach him. Petar himself just stared at his murderers, his right hand clutching his medal of office, then he joined his wife on the ground. Some of the villagers tried to run up the street, and were met by the bullets of the men posted to block the road. Others tried to regain their houses, but were followed by the chattering tommy-guns. A few tried to get between the houses, but suffered the same fate. The machine-guns were turned even on the dogs, but only a few of these were hit; the rest scampered off into the gloom.

  The initial slaughter was over in a few minutes; the gunshots, and the shrieks of pain and terror, were swallowed up in the echoes from the hills to either side. Now there were single shots, as the murderers slung their tommy-guns and drew their pistols, to despatch anyone lying amidst the corpses who revealed the slightest sign of life.

  Tony’s fingers curled round the butt of his revolver, but there was nothing he could do
against a hundred armed men. At the same time, he realised he was going to have to do something, and very soon; the militiamen were starting to go through the houses, kicking the doors open, and dragging those who had had the time to seek shelter out into the open to be despatched. The fugitives were nearly all women and children, which made the already sickening evening worse.

  Tony realised that he did feel sick. This was certainly not warfare; it was genocide. Not a single person in the village had had the time to arm himself. Now they lay scattered against the wall while their blood flowed down the sloping street.

  Elena stood at his shoulder beside Sandrine, and they heard the scream of the first girl being raped.

  ‘These are your people,’ he reminded Elena.

  ‘My people? These are Ustase. I have heard of this man Pavelic. He has been to our house in Belgrade. Even then I knew him for a thug. Why do you not shoot him? He is right there.’

  She drew her Luger from her satchel.

  ‘Because if either of us shoots him, we are dead,’ Tony said.

  ‘Do you not think we are going to die, anyway?’

  ‘That is up to you.’

  She regarded him for several seconds, then faced the door as it was pulled open.

  ‘Well, hey,’ said the militiaman, looking from Elena to Sandrine. ‘Here’s a couple of beauties. Outside! And you,’ he told Tony and Ivkov.

  ‘I am a Croat,’ Elena said, very loudly.

  ‘Out!’ the man repeated, reaching for her arm while keeping his tommy-gun pointed at Tony.

  ‘My name is Elena Kostic,’ Elena said, more loudly yet. ‘My father is Benjamin Kostic, who owns the Kostic boarding house in Belgrade. Tell your commander this.’

  Pavelic had heard the argument, and now himself came over to them. ‘Elena Kostic,’ he said. ‘I remember you. But . . . are you a Communist?’