Partisan Page 5

  ‘I will come with you,’ Elena said.

  ‘You? Why?’

  ‘Tony thinks I should leave Yugoslavia until this is over.’

  ‘But . . . do you have a passport?’

  ‘No.’ Elena looked at Tony. ‘Do I have to have a passport?’

  ‘I suppose you do, in normal circumstances. But you will be a refugee. No one expects refugees to have passports.’

  ‘I think you want to think about this,’ Sandrine said. ‘I am going back to my apartment. Come with me, and we will talk about it.’

  Tony was growing both irritated and anxious; time was rushing by while they argued about what to do. The raid was now over, and people were returning to the streets. Things would be happening at the embassy. ‘You won’t find it easy to get home,’ he pointed out. ‘The bridge is down.’

  Sandrine looked at Elena.

  ‘This is true,’ Elena said. ‘But the wreckage can be crossed. We have done this, just now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We were looking for you.’

  ‘Oh, you sweetheart.’ Sandrine gave her a hug. ‘Was the building still standing?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then let us go there, and have a coffee, and decide what is best for us to do.’

  ‘Sandrine,’ Tony said, as unemotionally as he could. ‘The Germans are going to be here in a couple of hours.’

  ‘That is nonsense,’ Elena declared. ‘Our army will fight them. It is fighting them now.’

  ‘Your army is not going to hold up the panzers,’ Tony said. ‘If you do not leave now, you will not be able to leave at all.’

  ‘Then we will stay.’

  ‘You are going to surrender?’

  ‘No, no, I am going to fight.’

  ‘Now that is nonsense,’ Sandrine declared. ‘The Germans do not harm women. If you do not fight them, they will leave you alone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Tony said.

  ‘They have not harmed our women in France. Unless they were actively resisting.’

  Tony sighed, overtaken by a wave of desperation. ‘Sandrine . . . Elena . . . for God’s sake be real. The Germans regard the French as acceptable human beings; they regard the Slavs as subhuman.’

  ‘Are you saying I am a Slav?’ Elena demanded.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I am a Croatian,’ she said proudly.

  ‘A Croatian?’ someone asked. They had been surrounded by people trying to understand what they were arguing about. But French was a fairly common language in Belgrade.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Elena demanded aggressively, answering in Serbo-Croat.

  The man waved his arm. ‘These people are Croats!’ he shouted. ‘They are Fascists, supporters of Mussolini. They will betray us to the Germans.’

  The crowd uttered a roar and surged forward. Sandrine gave a little shriek, torn between identifying herself as French and thus abandoning her friend, and by saying nothing and risking what was beginning to look like mob violence.

  Tony had no such scruples. ‘Hold it!’ he shouted. ‘I am a British officer. I am taking these women to the French embassy.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded the self-appointed spokesman.

  ‘This woman is French.’ He indicated Sandrine.

  ‘I know this,’ said a woman in the crowd. ‘I have seen her. She works in that building . . .’ She pointed down the burning street. ‘She did. Down there.’

  ‘Then you may go with the officer, Frenchwoman,’ the spokesman said. ‘But you—’

  ‘She is my fiancée,’ Tony said.

  ‘She is a Croat.’

  ‘What has that got to do with it?’

  ‘She is a traitor to Serbia. All Croats are traitors to Serbia.’

  ‘I will fight for Yugoslavia.’ Elena jerked her arm free.

  ‘Grab her,’ the man said.

  Elena had already put her hand into her satchel. Now she withdrew it, her pistol levelled. ‘Take one step forward and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.’

  She spoke at large, but the gun was pointing at the spokesman.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Tony muttered. ‘You’d better get out of here, Sandrine.’

  ‘No,’ Sandrine said. ‘She is my friend.’

  ‘She defies us,’ the spokesman said, keeping very still. ‘Will you let her do this?’

  ‘Help me, Tony,’ Elena said. It was more a command than an appeal. ‘If you let them take me, they will lynch me.’

  Tony sighed, but he suspected she could be right; they would certainly beat her up. They were both angry and frightened, the ultimate lynch-mob characteristic.

  ‘I am taking this woman to the French embassy,’ he said. ‘If you wish to bring charges against her, you may do so there.’

  ‘The French embassy is closed,’ someone said. ‘I saw this. They have all gone, and the gates are locked.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Tony said. He supposed he had to be classified as a deserter. Unless they assumed he was dead. But that was something he would have to sort out later. ‘I am still taking this woman,’ he said.

  The crowd surged forward. Sandrine gave another of her little shrieks. Elena fired. Tony suspected she had intended to shoot into the ground in front of them, but she was overexcited and her hand jerked; the bullet ploughed into the leg of one of the men. He gave a shout of pain and fell down.

  The forward movement ceased, and Tony, realising that they had burned their bridges, drew his own revolver. ‘Just stay put,’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ he told the women.

  ‘Where?’ Sandrine asked.

  Tony gave a hasty glance left and right. People were accumulating from either side, and every street not blocked by fire was crowded. Even had they wanted to, they lacked the ammunition to shoot their way through, and if they tried that and failed they would certainly be lynched.

  There could be only one escape! ‘There!’ he pointed.

  Sandrine looked at the flames swirling across the street behind them. ‘We’ll burn.’

  ‘It’s better than hanging. Go.’

  Cautiously Sandrine moved down the street. Elena went behind her, walking backwards, pistol still pointing at the crowd. Tony followed.

  ‘Fetch a policeman,’ someone shouted.

  But the police had already arrived. ‘You there!’ a constable shouted. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Run,’ Tony commanded.

  He turned to set an example, holstering his revolver as he did so. Sandrine had stopped at the wall of heat and smoke confronting her. Tony grasped her arm and urged her forward; she began to choke and fell to her knees. He wrenched off his belts and tunic and wrapped the heavy material round her head, making sure there was enough left over to use himself; then he scooped her from the ground and ran. A glance over his shoulder told him that Elena was behind him; she had followed his example and scooped her skirt up to wrap round her own head. He dug his face into his share of the tunic and stumbled forward.

  The heat was so intense it was almost a physical force, and more than once he nearly fell. He could feel his arms and hair burning, but it was a surprisingly short distance to the other side. He stumbled into open air – and more people, but these were on his side, at least for the moment.

  ‘He’s on fire,’ someone shouted.

  ‘The baths! Quick!’ shouted someone else.

  Eager hands grasped his arms and hurried him forward. He gathered that others were doing the same for Elena. The tunic slipped from Sandrine’s head and she stared at him. ‘My legs are burning,’ she said.

  Tony couldn’t speak, and a moment later they were being hurried up the steps of the municipal baths. This building had been struck by a bomb, and the façade had crumbled. But the large pool inside remained. Tony and Sandrine were half carried across the rubble to the edge and thrown into the water, which brought forth another of Sandrine’s little shrieks.

  Then they were in the mercifully cool water, going down, down . . . Tony’s
feet touched the bottom and he kicked to send himself up again, only then wondering if Sandrine could swim. Apparently she could not. She was beating the water and gasping for breath. Tony held her shoulders and towed her to the side, where other hands lifted her out. She lay on the coronation, panting and spitting water. The chic was all gone. She had lost her shoes and her bag, her stockings were in tatters, her dress was torn and clinging soddenly to her body, and her hair was plastered to her head.

  But she was alive.

  Tony was helped out of the water next, and he looked round for Elena. She was also being pulled to safety, a soaking mass. But she retained her satchel.

  ‘I thought we were dead,’ she said.

  ‘You should have been,’ said a heavily built, somewhat elderly man who was crouching between them. ‘Where did you come from?’

  Elena and Tony exchanged glances, and she got the message: it was safest to leave the talking to him for the time being.

  ‘We were in the Paris Temps office,’ he explained. ‘This lady’ – he indicated Sandrine – ‘is an editor there. When the raid started, we went down to the cellars. We had meant to stay there, but the heat grew too intense, so we made a run for it.’

  ‘You were lucky,’ the man said. ‘But you are wearing a uniform,’ he said to Tony.

  Tony had lost his cap, and his tunic, lying on the coronation, was scorched beyond recognition. But his khaki trousers and heavy brown shoes indicated that he was not a civilian.

  ‘I am a British officer. We were going to go to the French embassy. But I understand it is closed.’

  ‘I believe so. Now we must get you some dry clothes.’

  ‘No,’ Elena said.

  ‘But mademoiselle—’

  ‘We will let them dry on us. I am still burning.’

  ‘And you are burned,’ the man pointed out. ‘At least let me look at you.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘I am the bath-keeper,’ the man said. ‘I am Ivkov.’

  ‘Can you not send these people away?’

  There were still quite a few people in the building, staring at them, discussing them.

  Ivkov stood up and clapped his hands. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You have seen enough. Get out. Go and see who else you can rescue.’

  Reluctantly they withdrew.

  ‘I have an office,’ Ivkov said. ‘Come in there.’ He helped Elena to her feet.

  Tony scooped Sandrine into his arms. She snuggled against him; water continued to dribble from her hair. ‘My legs—’

  ‘Mr Ivkov is going to help us,’ he told her.

  At the far end of the baths there was a doorway, which gave access to a surprisingly large and even more surprisingly undamaged office. Ivkov let them in, and then closed the door behind them.

  ‘Her first,’ Elena said.

  Tony laid Sandrine on the desk, and she moaned. Ivkov bent over her, then carefully lifted the tattered dress to her waist. Her stockings were in threads, dangling from her suspender belt; predictably she wore spotless white knickers. A good deal of the flesh on her legs was very red, but it did not appear that the skin was broken. Tony realised with a guilty start that she had the most splendid legs. Because of both Bernhard and Elena he had never allowed himself to look too closely before. But then, he had never had an opportunity like this before.

  ‘Getting her into the water saved her,’ Ivkov said. ‘I have some cream.’ He opened a cupboard, and returned with a jar.

  ‘I will do it,’ Elena said.

  ‘I should look at you also,’ Ivkov said.

  ‘Very well. You do it.’ She took the jar from Ivkov’s hands and gave it to Tony, then turned back to the bath-keeper. ‘Where do you want to look?’

  Tony let them get on with it; he palmed some of the cream, hesitated a moment and then slowly and carefully began to rub it on Sandrine’s legs; he had never done this to a woman before, and was terribly aware of the white silk only inches away from his fingers.

  At his first touch she gave one of her little screams; these subsided into a series of groans, accentuated when he had to tear away strips of torn stockings. He would have liked to take them right off, but her suspender belt was beneath her knickers, and that would have been a shade too intimate – certainly with Elena only a couple of feet away.

  She stood at his elbow. ‘Let me.’

  She took over the massaging.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Just a few slight burns. Let Ivkov look at you.’

  ‘You are all right,’ Ivkov said. ‘Your hair is singed. You have no eyebrows, eh? And your face is cut.’

  ‘I’ll survive. But thank you, friend. You saved our lives.’

  ‘You did that for yourselves. You say you are going to the French embassy? But—’

  ‘I know. It’s been evacuated. Well, we’ll have to try the British one instead.’

  ‘I think it has been bombed.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I am so thirsty,’ Sandrine said.

  She had at least stopped moaning.

  ‘I have water.’ Ivkov produced a bottle. ‘Or would you prefer schnapps?’

  ‘A bit of both,’ Tony said. ‘I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?’

  ‘There is some bread and cheese – what is left of my dinner.’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ Elena said.

  Ivkov bustled off.

  ‘He is a good man,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘I still wouldn’t tell him who or what you are,’ Tony said.

  She made a face.

  ‘Did he say your embassy has been bombed?’ Sandrine asked. She was sitting up now and had straightened her skirt, but she was shivering as shock set in. Tony reckoned she should be in bed.

  ‘He didn’t say it had been destroyed. I still think we should get along there, then you can be seen by a doctor.’

  ‘I am all right,’ Sandrine said. ‘I will be all right.’

  Tony looked at Elena.

  ‘Let us have breakfast,’ she said. ‘Then we will decide what to do.’

  Ivkov had returned with the food. They ate hungrily.

  ‘Were your homes hit?’ the bath-keeper asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Elena said.

  ‘You should return there, before the Germans come. It is not good to be on the street when the enemies come. I remember 1914, when the Austrians came. I was only a boy then, but what they did, and two handsome women . . .’ He shook his head. ‘You should be at home, behind locked doors.’

  ‘He is right,’ Elena decided. ‘If we cannot leave the city, then we should go home. You will come home with me, Sandrine, and I will look after you. You too, Tony.’

  ‘Oh, he will be all right,’ Ivkov said. ‘He is wearing a uniform. They will take him prisoner.’

  ‘Do you think he wants to be taken prisoner?’

  Ivkov scratched his head.

  ‘Suppose we run into those dreadful people again?’ Sandrine asked.

  ‘We will shoot our way through,’ Elena decided.

  ‘With one pistol?’ Tony asked.

  She grinned at him. ‘I have your gun as well.’ She took the belt out of her satchel. ‘I picked it up when you dropped it.’

  ‘You are a genius.’ He holstered it.

  ‘What dreadful people?’ Ivkov asked.

  ‘Croatians,’ Elena replied without hesitation. ‘Traitors who were declaring for Mussolini.’

  ‘They are swine,’ Ivkov said. ‘All Croatians are swine.’

  ‘I am sure you are right,’ Elena said. ‘Well . . .’

  Ivkov opened the door.

  Elena kissed him and hugged him against her. ‘I will never forget you.’

  ‘Nor I you,’ he agreed, going very red in the face.

  Tony helped Sandrine off the table. Her legs gave way, and he had to catch her round the waist. ‘Can you make it?’

  ‘I will make it,’ she said through gritted teeth

  ‘Let
me help.’ Elena came back to hold her other arm.

  The two women looked like a pair of the most pitiful scarecrows, their hair hanging in streaks around their faces, their dresses torn and smoke-stained, their legs bare except for the tattered remnants of their stockings, and neither of them had shoes. Compared with them, Tony realised he was relatively well dressed, and if his tunic was beyond repair, he still had the rest of his clothes – and his shoes.

  On the other hand, he reflected, once they gained Elena’s house she would be able to fit them out, somehow. But first they had to get there.

  He shook hands with Ivkov. ‘As Elena said, we shall be eternally grateful for your help.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Ivkov said. ‘It has been an adventure.’ He grinned. ‘If ever you feel like another bath, come back.’

  ‘We may just do that,’ Tony promised. He put his arm back round Sandrine’s waist and eased her away from the desk. His fingers touched Elena’s, and she smiled at him over Sandrine’s head. Between them they half carried the Frenchwoman to the door, and stopped as they heard the sound of rippling gunfire, the shouts of men and women.

  The Germans had made good time.

  Chapter Three – Escape

  ‘You cannot go out there,’ Ivkov said. ‘You’ll be killed.’

  ‘We cannot stay here,’ Elena said.

  ‘Well . . .’ He looked from one to the other. No matter how bruised and dirty and untidy they might be, they were still two very pretty girls.

  ‘You go home to your wife,’ Elena told him. ‘We will go home to my mother.’

  She nodded to Tony, and he cautiously stepped out of the shattered main doors. The crowd had entirely disappeared, with good reason. Aircraft were again circling overhead, but now they were altogether larger planes, and they were dropping men rather than bombs. He thought he could count hundreds of the small figures drifting downwards, and from the firing he assumed there was a considerable number already on the ground.

  Once again the unexpected. If he knew that the Germans had used paratroopers in Belgium and Holland at the very start of the War, he had never personally seen them in action. But the strategy was simple: seize Belgrade long before the main body could reach it, but equally before the Yugoslav resistance could be organised.