Zadruga

by Margaret Pemberton

  Their way continued over level open ground and then dipped suddenly into a copse of trees. Hidden from aerial view by the foliage a handful of tents surrounded a stone-built shepherd’s bothy. At first glance Stephen estimated that there were twenty or so men clustered either in or around the tents, some cleaning equipment, others smoking and talking. Certainly there were more men in the camp than there had been at Peter’s headquarters.

  ‘The British officer has arrived!’ Lieutenant Stefanovich called out a little unnecessarily as they dropped down the steep incline towards the first of the tents.

  Rifles and rags were hastily put down, conversations brought to an abrupt end. As the men began to converge on him, demanding to know if he could speak Serbo-Croat, asking where he had come from, when supplies would be arriving, the door of the bothy flew open and an authoritative, athletic figure strode towards them.

  ‘So! You have arrived, Englishman!’ Nikita Kechko said in heavily accented English. ‘What took you so long?’

  Even though his orders were now to liaise fully with the Partisans Stephen had no intention of revealing any Loyalist positions, especially Peter’s, and he said merely, ‘I ran across a lot of German patrols, Major. They slowed my progress considerably.’

  Nicky stood, his hands on his hips, taking his measure of Stephen with dark, fiery eyes.

  Unlike his men, he wasn’t wearing a side-cap and Stephen could well understand why. His night-black hair was such a tangle of curls that it was hard to imagine a cap remaining in position. The thin line of an old scar ran through his left eyebrow and though he was in his early forties, perhaps even a little older, he was obviously extremely fit.

  Stephen’s second impression was one that, under other circumstances, would have made him chuckle. With his mass of unruly dark curls and equally dark smouldering eyes, Major Kechko bore a startling resemblance to Natalie.

  ‘Captain Stephen Fielding,’ he said, proffering his hand, ‘and just for your information, Major, I speak fluent Serbo-Croat.’

  If he-had said his name was Adolf Hitler and that he spoke fluent Japanese he couldn’t have met with a more stunned reaction.

  ‘Fielding?’ Nicky said at last, staring at him as if at a ghost. ‘Fielding? Is that a common English name, Captain?’

  ‘Fairly common,’ Stephen said, slightly bemused.

  ‘How come you speak fluent Serbo-Croat, Captain Fielding?’

  It was a reasonable enough question and Stephen said obligingly, ‘It is my mother’s language. She is Serbian.’

  The skin had become very tight across Nicky’s cheekbones. ‘Do you have a younger brother, Captain Fielding?’ he asked tautly.

  ‘No, but I have a sister. Do you know my family, Major Kechko? I understand you lived for a time in London and …’

  ‘No,’ Nicky lied abruptly. ‘No, I do not know your family, Captain Fielding. Tell me, is your sister younger than you?’

  ‘Zorka is four years my junior,’ Stephen said, bemusement turning to curiosity. ‘Why do you ask, Major Kechko?’

  Making a lightning calculation that left him with only one conclusion Nicky said with a wide grin. ‘I am interested. I am interested in the family details of all my men.’ He chuckled, vastly amused at fate’s perversity and draping his arm around Stephen’s shoulders in a typical gesture of male Slav friendliness, he said, ‘Let’s eat, Captain Fielding. And while we eat you can tell me what kind of help the Partisans can now expect from the Allies.’

  He led the way towards a scattering of rough-hewn tree stumps and fallen branches, the men who had been clustering around them following hard on their heels. From the bothy a couple of young boys emerged, carrying a heavy steaming cooking-pot and tin-plates.

  ‘Zorka is a strange name for an English girl,’ Nicky said musingly as they sat down, wanting to know more about the girl who was his daughter. ‘It is a very Slav name. Is your sister perhaps very Slav, Captain Fielding? Is she more Slav than English?’

  Amused by Kechko’s continuing interest in his family Stephen took the plate proffered him, saying truthfully, ‘My sister is very Slav in both looks and temperament.’ He remembered that Xan was with the Partisans and that Kechko might know him and added, ‘So much so that she’s engaged to a Yugoslav.’

  Nicky’s grin almost split his face. ‘A Yugoslav? Your sister is engaged to a Yugoslav?’

  Stephen nodded, amused by the major’s almost childish delight, knowing he was going to increase it even further. ‘His name is Xan Karageorgevich,’ he said, as a helping of beans was spooned on to his plate. ‘You may know him. He’s a Partisan.’

  ‘But of course I know Major Karageorgevich!’ Nicky’s elation knew no bounds. ‘He is one of Tito’s most trusted aides and is with him now on Mount Durmitor.’

  There was uproar from the men clustering around him.

  ‘Karageorgevich!’ Lieutenant Stefanovich shouted for the benefit of those who had perhaps not heard. ‘The British officer’s sister is engaged to Major Karageorgevich!’

  Stephen was receiving so many slaps on his back that he could barely keep his plate on his knees. ‘Major Karageorgevich is my distant cousin,’ he said, and this time the uproar was total.

  From all sides he was told that he wasn’t just a fellow officer, that he wasn’t even merely a comrade and friend, but that he was a fellow South Slav. A Partisan. A blood brother.

  ‘Soon you will meet up with your cousin,’ Nicky promised, utterly enthralled at the prospect of his unknown daughter marrying a man who was one of Tito’s most trusted aides. ‘As soon as we have eaten we will strike camp and set off towards Mount Durmitor.’

  Five days later they still weren’t at Durmitor and Stephen was beginning to suspect they never would be. German patrols were as thick on the ground as daisies in an English field. Twice, sometimes three times a day, enemy planes flew overhead necessitating a mad scramble for the nearest ravine or gully. When, under cover of darkness, they finally climbed into Durmitor’s rocky foothills they

  did so knowing that the Germans were hard on their heels.

  It soon became obvious to Stephen that the mountain’s night-black slopes were alive with men, all of them snaking upwards in long thin columns. When his own party made contact with a party of stragglers and wounded he realized that there were entire battalions of Partisans on the mountain and that they were all trying to cross its perilous ridges before dawn exposed them to German air attack.

  It began to rain and the ground became muddy and treacherous underfoot. Short, inadequate stops for rest were made. As the way became steeper Stephen grew increasingly anxious for the safety of his horse and pack-horse and, as it became apparent that Yelich had the eyes of a cat and the sure footing of a mountain-goat, he handed the wireless-laden pack-horse into his care.

  Just before dawn a complex of deep caves were reached and exhausted men, horses and mules stumbled gratefully into them.

  ‘Can you contact Cairo on your transmitter?’ Nicky asked him. ‘Can you tell them that Tito and nearly all his men are trapped on the Durmitor ridge? Perhaps Cairo could send planes to keep the Germans at bay?’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘It’s impossible to make contact from a cave. Even if I could, Cairo doesn’t possess enough bombers to come to our aid. Sorry, Major Kechko.’

  ‘Nicky,’ Nicky said, slumping down on to the dry but freezing cave floor. ‘Call me Nicky and I will call you Stephen. Have you photographs of your family, Stephen? Have you a photograph of your mother and your sister?’

  With raw, rain-lashed fingers Stephen undid his greatcoat and the jacket beneath it. Then he reached into his inner pocket for his wallet. From outside the cave came the sound of enemy planes approaching.

  ‘This photograph is of my mother,’ he said, withdrawing a small black and white photograph that had been taken on the beach in front of the Negresco and handing it to Nicky. ‘This one is of my mother with Zorka. It was taken in the summer of 1939, just before the beginning of
the war. And this one is of my father.’

  As the planes dropped their small ten and twenty kilogram bombs the cave walls shuddered and an avalanche of shale reigned down on them. Nicky was oblivious. Ignoring the photograph of Julian he stared down at Natalie’s face, and at the face of his daughter.

  His daughter was very beautiful; dark-haired and dark-eyed with a wide, generous, smiling mouth. He wondered how anyone could ever believe that the fair-haired Julian Fielding had fathered her. He wondered, also, what it would have been like to have reared her; to have had her love and respect. He smiled wryly. That he could ever have done so was a crazy notion. He had never stayed with one woman, or in one place, long enough to call anywhere home. His daughter was much better off believing the caring and respectable Julian Fielding to be her father than she would have been in a strife-torn Croatia, trailing in his own wake.

  His smile deepened as he looked down at the photograph of Natalie. It had been taken on a breezy day on the Promenade des Anglais. She was wearing a long, narrow, white summer dress and there was the gleam of what looked to be gold at her ears and wrist. She was smiling radiantly at whoever was taking the photograph, pushing her wind-blown hair away from her face, her vibrancy and vitality almost tangible.

  His throat tightened. Until a short time ago he had not thought of her in years. Now, looking down at the photograph, he was again enraptured by the sheer voluptuousness of her smile. She had been the most excitingly unpredictable, intensely passionate woman he had ever known and he marvelled at how he had so nearly forgotten her.

  He thought back to their last meeting. For months prior to it he had anticipated that when he returned to his homeland, she would return with him. Then her husband had returned from Salonika; there had been the family reunion in Nice; and there had been her incredible announcement that she could never return to Belgrade, that King Alexander would not allow her to do so. For a few brief moments he pondered on how different his life might have been if that veto had never existed and then, reluctantly, he handed the photographs back to Stephen.

  ‘You are a lucky man,’ he said to him as Stephen put the photographs back in his wallet. ‘Your mother and your sister are both very beautiful. Are they happy, too?’

  ‘My mother’s parents and sister are in Belgrade and they’re not happy about that situation,’ Stephen said dryly. ‘But the war apart? Yes, they’re happy. Both of them have happy natures and both possess the precious gift of making those around them happy as well.’

  Nicky nodded, understanding very well the quality about Natalie that Stephen was describing, pleased that their daughter had inherited it. Another thought occurred to him, one that filled him with delighted speculation. ‘Zorka was the name of a Montenegrin princess,’ he said, in case Stephen was not aware of the fact. ‘Her father was called Nikita, like me.’ Then, grinning to himself, he settled himself comfortably against the cave wall and within minutes was asleep.

  The next day, shielded from air attack by dense cloud and mist the arduous march continued. Stephen thought of his aunt and grandmother making a similar trek across the Albanian mountains with a young baby to care for and marvelled again at their stamina and endurance.

  ‘Once we’ve crossed the heights we have to drop down to the Piva gorge and cross the river,’ Nicky said to him as dusk began to fall. ‘The Germans will be trying to get there first to destroy the bridge. If they do, we stand no chance. We’ll simply be rats caught in a God-Almighty trap.’

  On the second day on the mountain Stephen managed to make brief radio contact with Cairo. He was told he wasn’t the only British officer on Durmitor. A six-man mission had been parachuted in four days earlier and had established immediate contact with Tito.

  ‘They must be in the forward columns,’ Nicky said to him as they trudged upwards through knee high, melting snow. ‘Have you any more chocolate left in your rations? I feel hungry enough to eat one of the horses.’

  They crossed the Piva on a swaying suspension bridge and then watched, appalled, as Stuka dive-bombers decimated it, trapping columns of wounded on the other side. Moving by day was now impossible. Only at night could they make any progress. In front of them, the forward columns were engaged in heavy fighting, clearing a route for those coming behind. Stephen wondered if Xan was with them. If Xan was still alive.

  As German attacks became even more ferocious a message was passed down through the columns to all units. No more central orders would be issued. From now on tactical decisions would be made by the commanders of each unit. Only in small, mobile groups was it going to be possible for any of them to survive.

  ‘I hate mountains,’ Lieutenant Stefanovich said savagely as they rested in one of the innumerable caves. ‘I come from the Vojvodina. In the Vojvodina we have meadows and woodland but we have no mountains, thank God. Never again, as long as I live, do I want to see another mountain!’

  There was a flurry of stones as a figure Stephen assumed to be a courier slid down the steep approach and entered the cave.

  ‘Major Karageorgevich!’ Lieutenant Stefanovich said in stunned wonder, recognizing him first.

  In the cramped confine of the cave Major Kechko’s men scrambled hastily to their feet.

  ‘I understand you have a British liaison officer in your unit,’ Xan said to Nicky and then, before Nicky could reply, he saw Stephen standing at the rear of the cave, grinning at him.

  ‘Stephen! Stephen!’ he exploded striding towards him, hugging him tight. ‘Why the devil didn’t you try and get a message through to me? How long have you been with Kechko? Have you any letters for me from Zorka?’

  ‘I’d have got a message through to you if I could,’ Stephen said, noting with amusement that Xan’s grey uniform wasn’t the usual hotch-potch of peasant and captured enemy clothing and that the jacket was enviably well-cut, ‘but I’ve barely been able to establish contact with Cairo and I knew they would do the job for me. As for how long I’ve been with Major Kechko, it feels like a lifetime but is probably only a week.’

  ‘And a letter from Zorka?’ Xan asked urgently, his handsome face taut with tension. ‘Have you got a letter for me?’

  ‘I might have,’ Stephen said, his grin deepening. ‘Is there anywhere we can talk in private on this God-damned mountain without being cut to pieces by German bombs or guns?’

  ‘We can talk in English,’ Xan said and then, interpreting correctly the slight lift of Stephen’s eyebrows he added, ‘on the other hand we can risk life and limb and go outside for a few minutes.’

  Once outside Stephen said, ‘Major Kechko lived in London some years ago. His English is pretty good.’

  ‘And you want to ask me about Peter?’

  ‘I don’t need to ask you. I was with him until the message came through that it had been decided to discontinue all support of Mihailovich and his forces. According to Major Kechko, you’re one of Tito’s right-hand men. What’s going to happen to the Loyalists now? Is Tito going to wage war on the Loyalists as well as the Germans?’

  The ledge outside the cave was narrow and beyond it the ground fell steeply away, sweeping down to a tributary of the Piva. On the far side of the valley was yet another mountain and Stephen knew that if he looked through his field-glasses he would see German troops massing on its slopes.

  Xan said heavily, ‘The brutal answer is yes. A large proportion of Loyalist Chetniks have begun collaborating with the enemy and taking part in German actions against us. When that occurs the Partisans have no option but to fight back.’

  ‘And what about Loyalist Chetniks who would sooner kill themselves than collaborate. Chetniks like Peter and his men?’

  ‘They’ll do what I have done. Join the Partisans.’ Seeing Stephen’s deep frown he added reassuringly, ‘Peter understands why I did so, Stephen. There’s no division between us. I still love him and admire him just as much as I’ve always done.’

  The unselfconscious ease with which his Slav cousins were able verbally to express the
ir feelings had always been a source of envy to Stephen. He, too, loved and admired Peter but English reticence would never have allowed him to say so in such a direct manner.

  He reached into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and withdrew the letter that had been there ever since he had left London. ‘Here,’ he said, his throat tight. ‘Is this what you’ve been waiting for?’

  Xan snatched the letter from his grasp. ‘You devil!’ he said, his face ablaze with joy, ‘Why didn’t you give me it earlier? I was beginning to think you hadn’t brought one!’

  Without waiting for a reply to his questions he ripped the envelope open, feasting his eyes on the contents.

  Stephen looked away and at the German infested mountain on the far side of the valley, marvelling as he always did at how different in physique Xan was to his father. Only the dark hair and high cheekbones were similar and even then they were not the same. Xan’s hair was silky, not coarse, and there was a faint hollow under the cheekbones that emphasized the Greek classicism of the rest of his features, robbing them of any hint of Slav heaviness.

  ‘What happens now?’ he said to Xan when he had finished reading, referring to their military position. ‘We were told a short while ago there would be no more central orders issued. Is it going to become a case of every man for himself?’

  Xan folded Zorka’s letter and put it securely in an inner pocket of his tunic. ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘But the German ring is so complete that the only way of breaking out of it is in small groups. Tito wants you to stay with Major Kechko. He already has two British officers and four other ranks with him, one of them a wireless operator. It’s a pity, because it means I don’t know when I’ll see you again.’

  ‘I’ll see you in Belgrade,’ Stephen said, his throat tighter than ever.

  Xan nodded, not trusting himself to speak and then, as enemy aircraft approached, he embraced Stephen hard and turned on his heel, sprinting back to his waiting horse.

  That night, led by Nicky Kechko, Stephen and his companions slipped through the German lines. Two days later, shortly after they crossed the border into Bosnia, Stephen established radio contact with Cairo and the order he had received from Tito, via Xan, was confirmed. He was to stay with Major Kechko until further notice.