Alexis was visibly happier than he had been for months, vastly relieved that the marriage for which he was so responsible, was again viable. Shaking Julian warmly by the hand he promised that in the very near future he would bring Zita and Katerina and Peter to Paris in order that they could all make Zorka’s acquaintance.
Katerina was paler than usual and very quiet. This was not her goodbye to Julian. Her goodbye would be said in another hour or so, at the train station.
When he had gone, bearing gifts from Zita for Natalie and the baby, she discreetly left the house on the pretext of visiting her dressmaker.
She walked to the station, grateful that it lay in the opposite direction to Terazije Square and the maze of cobbled streets behind it. There were rumours that King Peter was, at last, about to make his return to the city and the streets were more crowded than normal, a buzz of expectation emanating from the cafés.
Alexis had said that when Peter did return to the city, he had no intention of taking up residence in the palace Sandro had so carefully renovated for him and she wondered where he would live and if, rather than leaving the palace unoccupied, Sandro would move back into it.
Although her apple-green dress was elegantly plain and unadorned her head-turning grace drew many admiring glances and she lowered her parasol discreetly, not wanting to be recognized and waylaid by a relative or a friend.
Hundreds of times over the last few days she had asked herself if going to the station to say goodbye to him was in her best interests and the answer had always been the same. It wasn’t. It was going to tear her apart. The alternative, however, was unthinkable. She couldn’t say goodbye to him in public, as though they had never been more to each other than loving friends.
As she entered the station’s cave-like coolness she remembered the evening she had entered it in order to say goodbye to Natalie and knew that, terrible as that leave-taking had been, the one that lay ahead of her was going to be far, far worse.
‘The king is coming!’ she heard on every side of her as she squeezed through the crowds towards the platform for the departure to Budapest and the connection onwards to Paris. ‘His train is due in at any moment! The king is coming and is hoping not to be noticed!’
Katerina, too, did not want to be noticed. With her face no longer shielded by her parasol she neared the platform and saw him waiting for her at the barrier.
‘I thought you weren’t going to come!’ he said tautly, and uncaring of the crowds around them, uncaring of the physical distance they had so scrupulously maintained ever since their last meeting in the little house behind Terazije Square, his arms went around her and his mouth came down hard on hers.
There was pandemonium around them as amid a cacophony of whistles, cries of ‘The king’s train is here!’ erupted jubilantly. There were other shouts, too. Shouts warning all departing passengers that the train for Budapest was about to leave.
At last, in agonizing reluctance he raised his head from hers. ‘It isn’t too late,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We could leave together!’
She pressed a finger gently against his mouth. ‘Goodbye,’ she said thickly. ‘God bless.’
White clouds of steam were belching towards them. A porter had already carried his bags on to the train. Releasing his hold of her he said harshly, ‘I love you. I shall always love you. You were never second best,’ and then he turned on his heel and strode down the platform.
As he boarded the train it was already moving. Within seconds he slammed a window down and leant out, his eyes holding hers until the train emerged into bright sunshine and he could see her no longer.
She stood, as she had once stood before, until the train was out of sight. Once again a part of her life was over. It was a part of her life she would never forget. A part of her life she would treasure for always.
At last, numbly, she turned away from the barrier. The crowds had all moved to the far side of the concourse where a red carpet had been hastily unrolled and only one large, looming figure stood between her and the station’s cavern-like exit. Her eyes focused on him in disbelief.
He walked towards her, ignoring the eruption of cheers that indicated King Peter had at last re-entered his capital.
‘You look as though you’re in need of comfort,’ he said bluntly.
She remembered his recent bereavement and knew that grief would be the last thing she could ever hide from him.
‘Yes,’ she said, knowing that he had seen everything and had understood everything and wondering how she could ever have thought him insensitive. ‘I am.’
He said simply, as farouche in manner as ever, ‘So am I.’
As he lifted her hand and slipped it into the crook of his arm she knew that her future was no longer inconceivable but very, very obvious. She knew also that nothing would happen quickly; that everything would take its time; that the relationship she and Max were about to build together would be built slowly and carefully and on foundations nothing would ever shake.
Together, the only people on the concourse not thronging in welcome around the newly returned king, they stepped out of the station’s gloom and into the brilliantly sunlit square beyond.
May 1943 – June 1945
Chapter Twenty-One
The office in Baker Street looked out towards Regent’s Park and as Stephen Fielding faced a massive desk fronting a top floor window he could glimpse nannies wheeling prams and small children carrying bags of bread to feed to the ducks.
‘Take a pew,’ the civilian-suited figure behind the desk said affably. ‘This is likely to take some time.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Stephen, parachute wings on his uniformed arm, sat down in the cracked leather armchair facing the desk.
‘You’ve been serving in the Canal Zone I believe?’ his silver-haired interviewer asked pleasantly.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you have languages? French, German and Serbo-Croat?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Stephen said, already certain of where the conversation was heading. ‘I have a degree in Modern Languages and my mother is Serbian.’
The gentleman he was facing, and whose name he did not know, swung his swivel-chair to the left so that he, too, could look down over the park. Without any eye contact at all with Stephen he said musingly, ‘And you know Yugoslavia? You’ve visited it with your mother?’
‘I know the country and have visited it often, though not with my mother.’
His interviewer did not pursue the curiosity of his last statement. ‘Good,’ he said succinctly. ‘First let me fill you in on the present situation in Yugoslavia and then I’ll tell you why you’re here.’ He steepled his fingers together. ‘Ever since the Germans invaded the country in 1941 the Allies have been giving logistical support to General Dräza Mihailovich. General Mihailovich is, as you no doubt know, a former Royal Army officer and the acknowledged leader of Yugoslav Resistance. He and his men go by the name Chetniks, which can be a bit confusing as in Serbo-Croat Chetnik merely means any kind of irregular guerilla organization and there are other, not so disciplined groups which also go by that name. To differentiate Milhailovich’s men from other Chetnik groups we generally refer to them as Loyalist Chetniks. Recently, however, we have received information that much of the sabotage being carried out against the Germans is, in fact, not being carried out by Mihailovich and his Loyalists but by a rival resistance organization known as the Partisans. If this is true, it leaves us with a problem. Is Tito, the leader of the Partisans, more worthy of our support than Mihailovich?’
Stephen frowned slightly. ‘Why does there have to be a choice, sir? Surely both groups can liaise?’
The man behind the desk swung his chair around, facing him again, saying dryly, ‘In a simple situation that would be the most obvious and satisfactory solution. However, in the Balkans nothing is simple.’
He crossed one leg over the other, revealing a surprisingly louche purple sock. ‘Mihailovich and his Loyalist Chetniks are
monarchists. Tito and his followers are communists. Though their short-term aim, resistance to the Germans, is the same, their ambitions for a post-war Yugoslavia are so vastly different that no co-operation can possibly exist between them. Consequently it is a question of supporting one or the other of them, but not both.’
He leaned back in his chair, swinging his foot. ‘Which is where you come in, Fielding. Before such a decision can be reached we need to know if the information we have received is true or propaganda. The outfit for which I am responsible, Special Operations Executive, parachuted a three-man military mission into the country some time ago, their brief being to make contact with Mihailovich. The outcome wasn’t successful. Two members of the mission were British with only a small understanding of Serbo-Croat and to compensate for this deficiency the third member of the mission was a Canadian of Croat descent. Tito is also a Croat and when Mihailovich learned a Croat was with the mission he was immediately mistrustful and refused to rendezvous with it.
‘I’m hoping that, if you agree to leave your present unit and join SOE, you will lead a similar, and this time successful, mission into Yugoslavia. You’ve got all the necessary qualifications. You’ve already served with a Parachute battalion, you know the country, speak the language, and your family connections are such that Mihailovich is sure to trust you.’
‘My mother was only a distant cousin of the late king, not a first cousin,’ Stephen said, not wanting there to be any misunderstanding.
His interviewer patted one of the buff folders on his desk. ‘Her mother was a Karageorgevich,’ he said, unperturbed. ‘That will be testimonial enough for Mihailovich.’ He heaved himself from his chair, signalling that the interview was at an end. ‘Cairo is the centre of operations where the Balkans are concerned and I want you to fly out there immediately.’
His acceptance of the offer made to him having been taken for granted, Stephen rose to his feet. ‘What about the men who are to accompany me, sir? Will they be flying out with me?’
‘No. Your team are already in Cairo. And don’t worry about your reception committee when you hit Yugoslav soil. The leader of the Loyalist group who will take you to Mihailovich is someone well known to you.’
Stephen stood very still, hoping with all his might, mind and strength that the assumption he had leapt to was going to be correct.
‘All Mihailovich’s officers are former Royal Army officers and Peter Zlarin is no exception,’ his interviewer said, a glimmer of dry amusement entering his voice. ‘On this mission, no matter what the other difficulties, I think it can be guaranteed suspicion and mistrust will not be among them.’
‘Yugoslavia?’ Julian said, not remotely surprised. ‘I wondered how long it would take before SOE recognized you would be of use there.’
‘And to meet up with Peter,’ Stephen said with deep satisfaction.
Julian moved towards the fireplace and knocked his pipe out. ‘Your relationship to Peter would have been the clincher as far as SOE were concerned,’ he said, wondering which arm of the intelligence service had first realized that Loyalist guerilla leader Major Peter Zlarin was first cousin to Captain Stephen Fielding of the 156th Parachute Battalion. ‘Once the connection was realized and once they knew how familiar you were with the country and the language they couldn’t have done anything else but ask you to join them.’ He grinned, looking far younger than his fifty-five years. ‘Your mother will be pleased. Dear God, your mother is going to be ecstatic!’
‘Yugoslavia!’ Natalie said in stunned wonder. ‘Are you truly going to be fighting for freedom in Yugoslavia?’ Eyes shining like a girl’s she turned to face Julian. ‘Was this your doing, darling? Did you arrange it all?’
Julian shook his head, amused as always by her belief that as an ex-ambassador he had only to say the word and the whole of Whitehall would leap to his bidding. ‘No. Now that the German position in Italy is crumbling it’s only sense that Allied attention should begin to be focused on the other side of the Adriatic and I imagine every Serbo-Croat and Greek speaker in the army will be transferred there.’
With all his heart he wished he could tell her the true nature of Stephen’s mission and that he was going to rendezvous with Peter. Unable to do so he changed the subject, saying, ‘As Stephen leaves for Cairo tomorrow, let’s have dinner at the Dorchester tonight. Do you think we can persuade Zorka’s new young man to join us?’
‘He isn’t her young man,’ Natalie admonished, a shadow crossing her face. ‘Xan is Zorka’s young man. Her present friend is a work colleague, nothing more.’
Her change of mood was shared by Alexis and Stephen. Since the Germans had invaded Yugoslavia two years ago there had been no news of Katerina and Max, or of Max’s son, Xan.
Stephen said tentatively, trying to offer his mother what comfort he could, ‘I imagine Xan is with the Loyalists. Zorka believes so. She says if he were dead she would know.’
Natalie drew in a sharp breath, empathizing with her daughter utterly. When Julian had been in Flanders she, too, had been certain that instinct would tell her if harm came to him. She said a little unsteadily, ‘I wish they’d married when we were last all together. I wish we knew if Mama and Papa and Max and Katerina are still alive. I wish Hitler was in his grave and this bloody, bloody war was over.’
‘So do we all,’ Julian said gently, drawing her towards him and sliding his arms comfortingly around her.
Stephen turned away. He was quite accustomed to displays of love and comfort between his parents and it wasn’t their embrace that made him feel uncomfortable. It was his knowledge that at least one member of their family in Yugoslavia was still alive and that for security reasons he could not tell her so.
Natalie continued to rest her head against Julian’s shoulder. Ever since Stephen had been old enough to tell stories to, she had told him of Tsar Stephen Dushan and of the Slav heroes who had freed her homeland of Turkish domination, wanting him to be as familiar with his Slav heritage as his schooling would make him familiar with his British heritage. Now, in fighting on Yugoslav soil to free the country from an invader, Stephen would be emulating the heroes so familiar to them both and though she was deeply proud, hard on the heels of her pride had come fears for his safety.
‘Does the Dorchester manage to rise above rationing?’ Stephen asked, aware of the direction his mother’s thoughts had taken and wanting to distract her. ‘Or are we going to be faced with a ghastly meat-alternative such as whale?’
Natalie shuddered. ‘If we are, I shall stick to pink gins.’
‘Pink gins,’ Julian said to Stephen, a smile tugging at the comers of his mouth, ‘have enabled your mother to sleep through the most horrendous of air raids in her own bed and to be high-handedly contemptuous of public shelters. Fine for her, but nerve-wracking for those of us who are not similarly anaesthetized.’
Stephen grinned. In the early days of the war his father had done everything possible to persuade his Aunt Diana and his mother and Zorka to move to their family home in Northumberland. Diana, more for her children’s sake than her own, had done so. His mother and sister had not. Natalie had declared that in the last war, neither her mother nor sister had fled Belgrade until they had done so in the company of the king and the army and that she had not the slightest intention of leaving London, especially as King George and Queen Elizabeth were not doing so. Zorka had merely said that her position as secretary to a high-ranking civil servant made it impossible for her to leave and that even if it didn’t, she wouldn’t do so.
As his parents exchanged loving, complicit glances he said, ‘As it’s the last time I’ll be able to do so for a long time I’m going to take Rosie for a run in the park.’
Hearing her name, his mother’s aged black spaniel waddled hopefully towards him.
‘I think you mean a walk, Stephen,’ Julian said wryly. ‘It’s been quite some time since Rosie ran.’
Stephen fondled the top of Rosie’s silky head. ‘A walk then,’ he said, sad
ly aware that Rosie might not be alive when he next returned home and wondering how his mother would cope with her loss.
One of his first memories had been of Rosie’s predecessor, Bella, romping playfully around his ankles. When Bella had died at the ripe old age of fourteen, his mother had been distraught. It had been as if a member of the family had died. She had vowed she would never have another dog, that no other dog could ever replace Bella. His father had sensibly ignored her protestations and had brought Rosie home and Stephen knew he would never forget the look of gratitude his mother had given his father when he had placed the tiny black bundle in her arms.
With Rosie on a lead he left the house and crossed Cheyne Walk, heading for Battersea Bridge and the park on the far side of it. When he had been a small boy, living in his grandparents’house at Cambridge Gate, the park his mother had always taken him into had been Regent’s Park. He could never remember his father accompanying them there but later, when they moved to Paris, he had very clear memories of his father walking hand-in-hand with him along the banks of the Seine and of their flying kites together in a small park behind their home on the Avenue du Bois.
Five idyllic years in Paris had been followed by three years in Madrid and then they had moved to London again and his parents had bought the house in Chelsea that was still their home. It had been a happy, privileged childhood. Every year, at least once a year and sometimes twice, there had been family reunions with his mother’s Yugoslav relations. Their favourite rendezvous was the Hotel Negresco in Nice and some of the happiest days of his life had been spent with his sister and his cousin and stepcousin on the pebbly beach fronting the hotel.
As he crossed the bridge in the bright May sunshine he wondered just when Xan and Zorka, friends since babyhood, had realized they were in love. Everyone, apart from his mother, had been staggered when they had made their announcement.
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