Zadruga
Page 24
Christmas in the Fielding home was the most miserable Christmas she had ever experienced. The New Year was no better. Turkey had entered the war and her troops had attempted to cut Britain’s Suez Canal artery with the East. Though they had failed, the attempt had meant large numbers of Russian and British troops being pinned down in the Sinai desert when they might have been elsewhere.
Elsewhere, to Natalie, meant Serbia. In February came news that typhoid was raging throughout the country. More British Red Cross units and Scottish Women’s Ambulance units were sent and Natalie lay sleepless night after night wondering if her family were among the dead and dying.
At the end of the month Julian wrote to her telling her he had been injured in the thigh and was being sent to the Duchess of Westminster’s Hospital at Le Touquet. Diana had heartily regretted not having volunteered to nurse there and decided that the time had now come for her to volunteer her services to the Red Cross. When she did so, Natalie accompanied her.
Diana was told that as she had no previous experience she would be wise to apply to Guy’s Hospital as a VAD probationer and Natalie, conspicuously seven months pregnant, was advised to join one of the many sewing guilds. She had duly gone along to the sewing guild that met at Claridges Hotel in Mayfair, taken one look at the cluster of upper-class, middle-aged ladies neatly and diligently stitching clothes for servicemen and the poor and had decided they would be far better off without her.
‘Soldiers are having a tough enough time without having to fight their way into any odd-shaped garment I might make,’ she said glumly to Diana who, home after her first week at Guy’s, was sitting in a state of exhaustion, her feet in a bowl of hot water.
At the beginning of March there was more bad news from France. The list of wounded was horrendous and there seemed to be no end in sight.
Natalie had been relieved to think of Julian safe in his hospital bed and was torn between hoping he was hurt so badly he wouldn’t be able to return to the front and praying his injury wasn’t so severe it would leave him with a permanent limp.
At the end of March she met Nikita.
She had persisted in visiting the church hall in Camden in which her fellow Serbs met, even though the atmosphere was disappointingly staid. Her mother-in-law thought it outrageous she was continuing to do so now that she was so heavily enceinte, but Natalie was uncaring. Now that Diana was nursing at Guy’s life had become extremely boring. Her advanced pregnancy precluded her from seeking relief from it by riding in the park or even from walking very far and a few hours of being lapped in her native tongue was welcome diversion.
Immediately she set eyes on Nikita she knew she had found a soul-mate. He was only a few years older than herself and tall and slenderly built. There was a whippy look to him that indicated he would be an ugly customer in a fight – and there was something else about him that made it obvious he would not need much excuse to join any fight that was going. With a mop of thickly curling black hair and lashes as long as a girl’s fringing dark fiery eyes, he could easily have been mistaken for her twin. He was also quite obviously feeling as bored and as out of place in the decorous church hall as she was herself.
As a heavily pregnant lady her place was with the other married women, embroidering and talking and keeping an eye on the many small children running about. The men stood or sat in groups at the other side of the church hall as divided from their womenfolk as if they were in church. Their wives rarely approached them, women unknown to them never.
Natalie had no time for such conformity. She looked across at the newcomer, realized he would have been far more at home in the Golden Sturgeon and knew she had found a kindred spirit. Oblivious of her condition she walked across the hall towards him.
Her prey, aware that she was heading unmistakably in his direction, looked extremely disconcerted.
‘Hello,’ she said disarmingly, as if they had just met at a Konak tea party or the Vassilovich Summer Ball. ‘My name is Natalie Fielding. I haven’t seen you here before. Have you any news of what is happening in Serbia? How long is it since you were there?’
‘I’m not Serbian, I’m Croatian,’ he said suspiciously, wondering if her husband was perhaps one of the men standing nearby him. He looked around, but there was no-one English-looking in the hall and with a name like Fielding her husband couldn’t possibly be a Slav.
‘Croatian, Bosnian, Serbian, it doesn’t make any difference, does it?’ Natalie said, aware of his discomfiture and blithely ignoring it. ‘When this war is over and the Habsburg empire is no more, we’ll all be one country. You do believe in a future Kingdom of all South Slavs, don’t you?’
His eyes returned to her, the alarm fading, interest growing. ‘With Croatians, Bosnians, Serbians, Slovenes all equal? Yes. That’s why I’m in London. I’m a member of the Yugoslav Committee.’
‘The Yugoslav Committee?’ Natalie had never heard of such a thing. Excitement began to spiral through her. ‘What is the Yugoslav Committee?’
He looked around to see if the men he had been standing with were still listening to their conversation. They weren’t. Disconcerted by Natalie’s advanced state of pregnancy they had edged away, not wanting to be singled out by her as he had been.
‘Do you know Ante Trumbich who used to be Mayor of Split?’
She shook her head.
‘Trumbich and Franjo Supilo, editor of Novi List …’
‘I haven’t heard of Novi List either,’ Natalie said, unabashed by her ignorance.
‘Then you should have done,’ he said rudely. ‘It’s a leading journal of the Serb-Croat movement. Trumbich and Supilo and Ivan Mestrovich met with a group of Serbian exiles from Bosnia in Florence last November and …’
‘Who is Ivan Mestrovich?’ Natalie asked with interest, her excitement mounting. She felt as if she were in the Golden Sturgeon again; as if she were once again at the centre of events, plotting and planning for the day when a Karageorgevich would rule a Kingdom of all South Slavs.
‘Mestrovich is Dalmatian and a sculptor,’ he said impatiently. ‘He’s also one of the acknowledged leaders of the movement calling for the union of Dalmatia with Croatia and as he’s now joined forces with Trumbich and Supilo …’
‘My father is Alexis Vassilovich, a personal adviser to King Peter,’ Natalie said, determined not to be left out of the name dropping. ‘King Peter is my uncle. My mother is a Karageorgevich.’
She had expected him to be impressed. He wasn’t.
‘Do you always interrupt people when they are telling you something? When Mestrovich, Trumbich and Supilo met in Florence they formed the Yugoslav Committee, the aim being to promote the idea of a Yugoslav federation. I’m a member of it and I’m in London to set up the headquarters here.’
Natalie was entranced. He was a nationalist in the same mould of Gavrilo and Trifko and Nedjelko. He was setting up a nationalist organization in London and she would be a member of it. There would be no more long hours of tedious boredom. From now on she would be able to work actively for the day when all south Slavs would be united, no matter what their religion. Life would be just as interesting as it had been in Belgrade when she had had her weekly meetings at the Golden Sturgeon to look forward to.
Somewhere in her brain a warning bell rang.
It was her meetings at the Golden Sturgeon that were responsible for her present predicament. Hadn’t she told Katerina that she bitterly regretted them? Hadn’t she said she would never be so foolish again?
‘We don’t meet here of course,’ her new-found friend said, his eyes sweeping contemptuously around the church hall. ‘The people who come here are not politically educated.’
‘I am,’ Natalie said serenely, ignoring the warning bell, hungry to be involved in exciting events again.
‘You?’ For the first time he abandoned sullen rudeness and grinned. His teeth were very even, very white. ‘You’re a woman. You should be sitting with the other women, minding babies and embroidering.’
‘Kechko. Nikita Kechko.’
‘It might interest you to know, Nikita Kechko, that I used to meet with Gavrilo Princip, Trifko Grabez and Nedjelko Cabrinovich in the Golden Sturgeon in Belgrade;’ she said, forgetting entirely her vow to Julian that she would never speak of her friendship with Gavrilo to a living soul. ‘And I met Gavrilo in Sarajevo the day before he shot the Archduke. Now do you think I should be minding babies and embroidering?’
His eyes held hers and suddenly she was aware of a physical reaction she hadn’t felt for months, a reaction she hadn’t thought possible now she was so heavily pregnant.
‘Prove it,’ he said abruptly.
His shirt was open at the throat, revealing a strong, olive-toned neck. She wanted to lick his flesh, to slide her hands inside his shirt, running them over his shoulders and chest. His trousers fitted snugly, a buckled leather belt low on his narrow hips. She wondered what he would look like naked; what he would be like in bed.
For the first time in her life she was shocked with herself. How could she be so sexually aroused by a stranger when she was within weeks, perhaps days, of giving birth? Surely it wasn’t natural. And it most certainly wasn’t loyal.
She thought of Julian lying injured in his hospital bed in France and for the first time wondered what sort of loyalty it was she owed to him. Their marriage wasn’t, after all, a conventional one. She hadn’t married him because she was in love with him. She had married him in order that her parents wouldn’t be parted. That being the case, she surely didn’t owe sexual loyalty in the way she would have if they had married for love. It was an interesting thought and one that would, no doubt, be of importance in the future. At the moment, however, she was eight months pregnant and indulging in lascivious thoughts was not only undignified, it was probably abnormal. Checking them with difficulty, she said, answering his question, ‘Gavrilo is shy with women. Trikfo has no time for them, Nedjelko has.’
‘Mother of God,’ he said softly. ‘You do know them.’
The expression in his eyes had changed and she knew that from now on he would take her seriously. She wondered from where he knew Gavrilo and Nedjelko and Trifko; if he had met them in Sarajevo before they had left Bosnia for Serbia, or if he had met them in Belgrade.
Before she could ask he said, ‘Is that why you’re in London?’ Respect had replaced patronizing amusement. ‘You came to avoid being extradited?’
For the first time it occurred to Natalie that her flight could be seen as being the stuff of which legends are made.
‘Yes,’ she said, enjoying her feeling of importance. ‘But I’m going to return at the first possible moment.’
His eyes flicked to her swollen stomach. ‘And your husband? He’s English?’
As he moved his head slightly she saw a thin white scar slicing through his left eyebrow. She wondered if it had been caused by a knife blade. She could imagine him in a knife fight. There was something very feral about him. Something very dangerous.
‘Yes. He was a diplomat in Belgrade and …’
‘NICKY!’
Natalie broke off in mid-sentence as a burly, bearded figure descended on them, resplendent in boots and breeches and traditional embroidered waistcoat.
‘I’m going to have to go,’ Nikita said to her swiftly. ‘We’ll meet again. Here. I’ll introduce you to the Yugoslav Committee.’
‘Greetings, my friend!’ a deep bass voice boomed. ‘How are you? I’m sorry I’m late.’
Looking as if he had just stepped off a Balkan hillside and not a London street the newcomer engulfed Nikita in an affectionate bear hug.
Natalie wondered if he was a member of the Yugoslav Committee, if he might even be Ante Trumbich or Franjo Supilo or Ivan Mestovich. She didn’t wait to be introduced and to find out. Slav male dignity was easily affronted and aware that her advanced pregnancy would be an embarrassment to Nikita she turned on her heel and walked away as quickly as her bulk would allow.
She wasn’t the least despondent at their conversation coming to such an abrupt end. They had said all that was necessary. At the thought of being introduced to active nationalists elation sizzled through her. She was going to be at the centre of events again; actively involved in shaping the destiny of her country.
As she stepped out into the busy street she wondered what Julian’s reaction would be when she wrote him with the news. The chauffeured Mercedes was waiting for her and as she crossed the pavement towards it, she frowned. Julian would not be pleased. In fact, he would be quite seriously displeased. As the chauffeur arthritically clambered out from behind the wheel and opened the nearside rear door for her, she decided that it would be best not to write to France with news of Nikita and her impending involvement with the Yugoslav Committee.
For a second, as the chauffeur closed the door behind her and she sank back with relief against the leather upholstery, she was overcome by a sensation of déjà-vu. She dismissed it, resting her hands on her swollen stomach. This moment hadn’t happened before. It wasn’t identical with the one when she had determined not to tell Katerina about her visits to the Golden Sturgeon. This was different. Nothing bad was going to come out of her friendship
with Nikita. This time she was going to be sensible about things.
This time she was going to be careful.
Chapter Thirteen
As Major Zlarin sprinted down the stone hospital stairs and out into the chaos of the street Katerina stared after him, the pistol he had thrust into her hands clutched close to her chest, scarcely able to believe the enormity of what had happened. From out of nowhere, without the least encouragement, he had asked her to marry him. It was incredible. Unbelievable. And what was even more incredible, what was absolutely beyond all belief, was that she had accepted him.
A posse of soldiers surged past her carrying an injured comrade and she pressed herself back against the wall to enable them to pass. What on earth had she been thinking of? How could she possibly have agreed to marry a man she scarcely knew? A man she had never yet addressed by his Christian name? It was the kind of thing Natalie might have done. As she thought of how little Natalie had known Julian before marrying him, she realized that it was, in fact, exactly what Natalie had done. Natalie, however, had had good reason to marry Julian. Dazedly she wondered as to the reasons behind her own untypical heedless, reckless behaviour.
There was only one, but it was sufficient. If she married Major Zlarin, she could not be emotionally blackmailed into marrying Max. Her fingers tightened on the pistol. She may have behaved recklessly but she hadn’t behaved senselessly. Whatever the circumstances she couldn’t possibly marry Max and her father’s letters had left not a shadow of doubt that that was now the match intended for her. Traditionally even Serbian peasant marriages were arranged affairs with young men, as well as young women, marrying in accordance with their parents’wishes. Such arrangements were considered to be the natural order of things and it was very rare that the parents’ say in the choice of a son-in-law or a daughter-in-law was defied. Now that her own parents were in agreement that she should marry Max, so logically suitable in so many ways, refusing to do so would be near impossible.
The noise of panic in the street was growing louder, the rumble of distant cannon-fire intensifying. Unregretful of the momentous decision she had just taken she turned and began to run back up the stairs towards her ward. She had to tell her mother and Cissie and Helga that the army was retreating to the south and that Belgrade was going to be totally exposed to Austrian occupation. And she had to tell her mother that Major Zlarin had asked her to marry him and that she had accepted him.
‘Dear God,’ Cissie whispered, when Katerina gasped out her news about the retreat. ‘What will happen to us? What are we going to do?’
‘We’re going to do what nurses have always done in these situations,’ Zita said
, her fine-etched face exhausted and resolute. ‘We are going to carry on caring for the injured. If that also means caring for the enemy then so be it.’
Katerina had been holding the pistol low, half hidden in the folds of her skirt and neither her mother nor Cissie had noticed it. It was Helga who saw it first.
‘Mein Gott! Did the major give you that?’ she asked, her eyes widening.
Katerina moved her hand slightly, bringing the pistol into full view. All three of them stared at it, appalled.
‘Yes. It’s for use in an emergency.’
‘You shouldn’t have taken it from him.’ The lines of strain around Zita’s mouth had deepened. ‘What if you use it in panic? What if you kill someone?’
For the first time Katerina wondered if her mother had any real understanding of what might happen to them when the Austrians arrived. She said patiently, ‘If I hadn’t taken it from him, and if he hadn’t known we had at least one weapon with which to protect ourselves, he would never have allowed us to stay in the city. He would have had us arrested and put us aboard one of the trains taking the troops south.’
‘Did Major Zlarin say from where the army was retreating?’ Zita asked, deciding not to pursue a subject that could have no satisfactory outcome. ‘Will Papa and Max be retreating through Belgrade? Is there any chance of our seeing them?’
All the time they had been talking they had been jostled and pushed as relatives of the sick rushed in to say last goodbyes before joining in the general evacuation.
Katerina regained her balance after a kerchiefed woman, all her worldly goods in clumsy bundles, half fell against her. ‘He said it was a full-scale retreat from Shabatz.’
‘Then that will include your father and Max …’