Just before dusk he tapped out his message about Russian activity in the area and stood by to receive an incoming signal. Its contents were totally unexpected. He was to stay with his present unit until Belgrade had been taken. He was then to make his way to Belgrade and the British Legation where he would meet with other SOE officers who had been acting, as he had, as liaison officers with the Partisans. From there they would be flown to northern Italy where they would continue liaison work, this time with the Ligurian partisans.
He realized, the instant he read it, that he had been a fool not to have expected such an order. It had been obvious for months that the guerilla phase of the war in Yugoslavia was coming to an end and that once Belgrade was taken, small sabotage units such as the one in which he was operating, would be defunct.
As he set off at dusk on what was possibly going to be one of his last sabotage missions in Yugoslavia, he pondered the problem he now faced. Was he again going to part from Olga without there being a satisfactory understanding between them, or was he going to ask her to marry him?
The unit was moving down a hillside swiftly in a double column. She was a little ahead of him, marching alongside Marko, a pack on her bag, a rifle slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. He knew that the pack was stuffed with sticks of gelignite and he grinned, remembering how insignificant his London girlfriends had always appeared when seen alongside his mother or Zorka. Insignificant was certainly not a word that could ever be used to describe Olga.
Sensing his eyes on her, she turned her head, looking back towards him. For a brief moment their eyes met and she flashed him a quick wide smile.
He returned it, knowing with a slam of utter certainty that he wanted to marry her, aware of only one possible obstacle. Had she become a communist? If she had, the political gulf between them would make mental affinity a near impossibility and their future life together would be fraught with difficulties. He wondered when he could possibly ask her such a question, for if her answer was the one he was hoping for, it would have to be when no-one else was within hearing distance.
Darkness fell and under the light of a pale moon, avoiding all paths and villages, they made directly for their objective.
At last Mitja, at the head of the column, halted. In front of him, about two hundred yards distant, lay the main railway line between Sarajevo and Belgrade.
Everyone knew the part they were to play. Marko and the men detailed to him found a commanding position from which they could offer Stephen and Olga covering fire from the sentries who regularly patrolled the line. Mitja did likewise.
‘Are you ready?’ Stephen whispered to Olga as, in the distance, a train carrying German arms and ammunition could be heard approaching.
She nodded, her face taut.
‘Right then,’ he said, adrenalin pumping along his veins. ‘Let’s go!’
In perfect accord they sprinted across night-wet grass to the railway embankment, scrambling up it as the train steamed into view. Though they had never worked as a team before both knew down to a split-second what their tasks were.
As Stephen fixed the charge and she knelt beside him, clamping the fog signal, he knew there would never be a more perfect moment to speak to her without being overheard.
‘There’s something I need to ask you,’ he said urgently, sweat beading his forehead as he wedged the explosive under the line. ‘Are you a communist?’
She sucked in her breath and then, trusting him completely, said succinctly, ‘No.’
With swift expertise he fixed the fuse. The train was bearing down on them at high speed and they had only seconds in which to put as much distance between it and them as was humanly possible. With a last look at the charge he grabbed hold of her hand, diving with her down the side of the embankment.
The train wheels were almost on top of the detonator and as they regained their balance and began running, he yelled over the roar of the engine, ‘Will you marry me?’
In a cacophany of screaming rending metal the night erupted around them. The train catapulted off the buckled rails and over the embankment, goods carriages telescoping into each other, debris rocketing over their heads. As he threw himself to the ground for cover, dragging her with him, she shouted back one word. ‘Yes!’
Romantic liaisons were deeply disapproved of between comrades in Partisan units and both of them knew they couldn’t display any sign of their new-found relationship. On the return march back to their base Olga strode alongside Marko. Stephen, several yards behind her, kept Yelich company.
The entire unit was in high spirits. Not only had their mission been successful, everyone knew that the battle for Belgrade was imminent and might even have started.
It was early morning when they entered the wood sheltering their camp site and the general mood was one of euphoria. It was dispelled almost instantly.
Velebit had remained behind on sentry duty and he came hurrying to meet them, his face ashen. ‘A courier came only seconds after you left,’ he said to Mitja. ‘We’re to begin moving forward to Belgrade.’
‘What else?’ Mitja demanded, knowing that such an order couldn’t possibly account for Velebit’s obvious distress.
A spasm crossed Velebit’s bearded face. ‘He said that Major Kechko had been killed in a bomb explosion. He said that there hadn’t been a burial, as there hadn’t been enough left of Major Kechko to warrant one.’
Every man stood in appalled silence. Violent death was commonplace among them but Nicky Kechko had been special. He had been their commanding officer when they had been trapped on Mount Durmitor and it had been every unit for itself. Under his leadership they had been one of the units to survive.
‘Shit,’ Yelich said, tears trickling down his face. ‘Hell, bollocks, shit!’
Stephen felt as if a fist had been slammed into his stomach. In the many months they had been together Nicky had been like an older brother to him. An irresponsible, irrepressible older brother; but an older brother all the same.
Turning away from the others he walked down to the stream, standing on its banks, his hands deep in his breeches pockets. He had never understood why his family life should have been of such absorbing interest to Nicky but he had known, right from the first, that Nicky’s interest had been deeply sincere. He remembered the last thing Nicky had asked of him and his throat tightened. Behind him a twig cracked and he turned, facing Olga.
‘I didn’t know if you wanted to be left alone or if you wanted some company,’ she said hesitantly.
‘I want your company,’ he said truthfully. ‘Let’s walk further along the bank and I’ll tell you about my friend, Nicky Kechko.’
Three weeks later they were in Belgrade. Olga’s home town was Zagreb and she had never been to Belgrade before.
‘It’s a bit hard to recognize,’ Stephen said to her grimly as they made their way through the bomb-blasted streets to the British Legation. ‘That ruined building over there was the Konak. No-one ever lived in it after old King Peter. King Alexander never cared for it and Prince Regent Paul built himself a palace of his own, on the outskirts of the city. I imagine Tito will have made his headquarters in it.’
‘And your grandparents’home? Where is that?’
‘Not far,’ Stephen said white-lipped, icy fingers of fear gripping his heart. ‘The minute I’ve reported to the Legation we’ll go there.’
Everywhere they looked there were traces of savage fighting. Burnt-out tanks littered the streets and in every square and on every scrap of waste ground there were wooden crosses marking graves.
As they approached the British Legation Stephen was relieved to see that it was still standing. It indicated that despite the damage done to the Konak, other solidly-built buildings, such as his grandparents’home, might also have escaped unscathed.
When he entered it, he did so alone, leaving Olga waiting for him outside its very English, mock Queen Anne frontage.
‘You’ve got eight hours, that’s all,’ he was told bluntl
y by a kilted brigadier. ‘Report to the aerodrome at 1800 hours.’
Vastly relieved that no time was to be wasted in an official debriefing he strode back outside, breaking the news to Olga as gently as he could.
‘It isn’t long, is it?’ she said a little unsteadily as he held her close.
His lips brushed the satin-sheen of her hair. ‘No,’ he said tenderly, ‘but the Germans aren’t just on the run in Yugoslavia. They’re on the run everywhere. In another few months the war will be over and we’ll be together for the rest of our lives.’
He was speaking the truth and she knew it. Comforted, her fingers intertwined with his. ‘Let’s go to your grandparents’house,’ she said, knowing that the moment of truth he was so fearing could be put off no longer. ‘If they’ve been bombed out of it, it might take all of your eight hours to find them.’
Unsaid was that they might not find them. That they might never find them or ever know what had happened to them.
With hands tightly clasped they walked through the cratered streets. Everywhere there were Russians, so many it was as if Belgrade had been turned overnight into a Russian town. Occasionally they caught sight of an American or a British flag hanging from a window, but it was the Russians who had fought with the Partisan First Army and liberated the city, and it was the Russians who were the heroes of the hour.
With his heart in his mouth Stephen turned into Prince Milan Street and approached the familiar, ornate iron gates of the Vassilovich konak. His relief, as he saw beyond them, was seismic.
The white-walled house was still standing. In the courtyard there was a jeep bearing a Russian pendant and nearby, on the ground, lay a torn and muddied German flag.
As they walked up the stone steps towards the heavy oak door it swung open and Stephen saw a sight he knew he would never forget; a sight he would treasure in his memory as long as he lived. Laza, emaciatingly thin, shabbily dressed, was beaming at him with blackened teeth.
‘I saw you coming, Mr Stephen,’ he said as Stephen stepped over the threshold. ‘I saw you coming from the window in the general’s study.’
‘The general?’ Stephen said, embracing him.
‘General Zerdlov,’ Laza said, beaming welcomingly at Olga. ‘Throughout the war the house was a German headquarters. Now it is a Russian headquarters. When it was a German headquarters your grandparents and aunt moved in with my parents in their little house down near the river. Now the Russians are in temporary residence they are allowing your grandparents and aunt the use of some of the rooms.’
‘They’re here now?’ Stephen’s voice cracked under the weight of his relief. ‘All of them?’
Laza nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright. ‘They are in the Italian room, Mr Stephen. Mr Xan is with them. He told them you would be here soon.’
Stephen passed his hand across his eyes. That both his grandparents and his aunt were still alive after living for more than three years under German occupation was more than he had dared hope for. He turned to Olga, knowing that the next few moments were going to be the most emotionally charged of his life. ‘Come on, my love,’ he said a little unsteadily, taking hold of her hand. ‘I want you to meet my family.’
Laza walked ahead of them across the marble-floored hallway and one-handedly opened the double doors of the small, south-facing drawing-room. ‘Mr Stephen,’ he announced, a tremor in his voice. ‘And a young lady.’
Dimly Stephen was reminded of the moment when, as a small boy he had walked into the Negresco’s sun lounge and been introduced to his grandmother and aunt for the first time. Then, as now, they had been sitting together taking afternoon tea and he had thought them both exquisitely beautiful. His grandmother had been dressed in a gown of soft turquoise and his aunt had been wearing cream and brown and burnt umber, the colours emphasizing the titian highlights in her mahogany-dark hair. With a catch in his throat he realized that by a freak coincidence his grandmother was again wearing turquoise and his aunt was wearing an ivory blouse and a deep caramel-coloured skirt very similar in shade to the skirt and blouse she had been wearing all those years ago. There was only one major difference. Instead of being highly fashionable the clothes they were now wearing were much-mended and heart-achingly shabby.
As his grandmother gave a small cry and rose to her feet, opening her arms welcomingly, he saw that though the suffering she had undergone had altered the quality of her beauty it had not eradicated it. Her snow-white hair was piled high on her head in lush, deep waves and though her face was now webbed by tiny fine lines her wonderful bone structure and wide radiant smile made them insignificant.
‘Stephen!’ she said joyously, her arms closing around him, ‘Oh, Stephen! I can hardly believe it’s you! Xan is here as well! He arrived an hour ago and he said you would soon be here, but I didn’t dare believe him!’
From a window-seat overlooking the courtyard Xan grinned, highly pleased at having beaten his English cousin in the race to the family home.
‘And Xan has brought us news of Peter and Max,’ his grandfather said gruffly from his position in front of the fireplace. ‘A temporary amnesty has been extended by Tito to officers serving with General Mihailovich. Xan has persuaded both Peter and Max to take advantage of it.’
Very gently Stephen extricated himself from his grandmother’s embrace. Before talk turned to other family matters there was an important introduction and announcement to be made.
‘I want to introduce you to Olga,’ he said to the room at large, taking hold of Olga’s hand. ‘She was a member of Peter’s unit when he was in Montenegro. For the past few weeks we have been in the same unit and she’s been helping me sabotage the Sarajevo-Belgrade railway line. She’s also the girl I’m going to marry.’
Katerina gave a cry of delight, walking swiftly towards them both. ‘You were with my son?’ she said to Olga, her eyes shining as she embraced her. ‘You were with Peter?’
It was hard for Olga to answer her and make her voice heard. Xan was giving an exultant whistle. Alexis was saying buoyantly, ‘Congratulations! Congratulations! We need to make a toast! Where is Laza? Where the devil is that bottle of klekovacha I hid away?’
Zita was saying, ‘I can’t believe it! I truly can’t believe all the wonderful things that are happening today!’
‘When are you going to get married?’ Xan asked Stephen practically when the din had died down and Laza had hurried in with the precious bottle of klekvoacha. ‘Immediately, or when the war ends?’
‘When it ends. It’s impossible to do it any sooner. I leave for Italy tonight.’
‘Then we could have a double wedding,’ Xan said, crossing the room and kissing Olga warmly on both cheeks, thoroughly approving of his cousin’s choice of a bride. ‘What better way could there be of celebrating the peace?’
Zita gave a gasp of incredulity. ‘But that’s a wonderful idea,’ she said as Alexis pressed a glass of klekovacha into her hand. ‘The Russians will have gone by then and we can clean up the ballroom and hold the reception there. It will be just like old times! Cissie and her husband can come and stay with us and Vitza can come and stay and …’
A shadow crossed Katerina’s face. ‘You’re forgetting something, Mama,’ she said gently. ‘You’re forgetting that if the wedding is in Belgrade, Natalie won’t be able to attend it.’
Zita stared at her. For a brief, beautiful moment she had forgotten all about the ban on Natalie ever returning home and now all her happiness drained out of her and she turned to Alexis, seeking for his hand, saying brokenly, ‘I forgot, Alexis. How could I have done so? How could I possibly have forgotten?’
Olga looked towards Stephen, mystified.
He said quickly, hating to see his grandmother robbed so cruelly of her dream of a wonderful double wedding, ‘Perhaps we could have the weddings at the Orthodox church in Nice. Nice has always been second home to us all and …’
‘No,’ Xan said peremptorily, back in the window-seat, sitting longways with an arm h
ooked loosely around his knees.
As all eyes flew to him in dazed disbelief he said again, ‘No. I’ve no intention of marrying Zorka anywhere else but in Belgrade.’
Katerina sucked in her breath sharply.
Alexis said, ‘I don’t think that’s being very sensitive, Xan. Natalie will want to see her daughter married …’
‘If Xan feels so strongly about marrying Zorka in Belgrade, I’m sure my mother will understand,’ Stephen said, a shutter coming down over his face. ‘But I shan’t be marrying here. My mother’s suffered enough heartache over the years by not being able to attend family celebrations in Belgrade without being unable to attend my wedding as well.’
A lock of silky-dark hair had fallen low over Xan’s brow and he pushed it away with an impatient gesture. ‘For goodness sake, Stephen! What do you take me for? Of course I’m not suggesting a ceremony Aunt Natalie won’t be able to attend!’
‘Then what are you suggesting?’
Xan grinned. ‘I’m suggesting a double wedding in Belgrade,’ he said again, enjoying Stephen’s incomprehension.
Stephen waited, knowing that though Xan was teasing him, he wouldn’t be doing so purposelessly.
With the easy grace which characterized all his movements Xan swung his legs from the window-seat and stood up, saying in exaggerated exasperation, ‘It’s so obvious I can’t believe that you can’t see it.’
He looked around at his family. Only his grandfather had a gleam of understanding in his eyes. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and said, ‘When the war ends, and it will end within the next few months, the man wielding power in Yugoslavia is not going to be a Karageorgevich. It’s going to be Tito.’
Stephen drew in his breath sharply.
Xan grinned, knowing that Stephen had mentally leapt ahead of him and now understood fully, knowing also that he would be cursing himself as a fool for not having understood long ago.
For the sake of Zita and Katerina he continued patiently, ‘Tito isn’t going to care if Aunt Natalie returns to Belgrade. The veto King Alexander put on her ever returning home is now as dead as Alexander himself. It was Prince Paul who senselessly perpetuated it and Prince Paul is now history. Times have changed. The world has changed. No-one cares any more about the whys and wherefores of the First World War. The subject is as obsolete as the dodo.’
Zadruga Page 48
