Zadruga

by Margaret Pemberton

  Natalie was equally glad to drop the subject. She had known Julian wouldn’t approve of her participation in nationalist activity. He was an Englishman, not a South Slav, and he couldn’t possibly understand the age-old dream of South Slav unity.

  It was Diana who exasperatedly brought the subject up again.

  ‘I think we should invite Nicky to next Sunday’s cocktail party,’ she said to Natalie as she accompanied her to the nursery to say goodnight to Stephen. ‘Some of Julian’s Foreign Office colleagues have been invited, the ones not medically fit for active service and a scattering of others who are also home on leave. Nicky is just the sort of person they should be meeting. He’ll be able to tell them everything they’ve ever wanted to know about the Balkans and…’

  ‘No,’ Natalie said firmly, unable even to imagine Nicky in her mother-in-law’s drawing-room.

  ‘But why ever not?’ Diana’s carefully pencilled eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘It would be the perfect opportunity for Julian to meet him and …’

  Natalie suppressed a shudder. She had done her best to give Julian the impression that Nicky was a mature, respected intellectual in the mould of Ante Trumbich and Franjo Supilo and Ivan Mestrovich. If he once met him he would be instantly disillusioned for though Nicky was, of course, respectable and intellectual, he didn’t look it. As Diana had once so tactlessly pointed out, he looked like a Balkan brigand.

  ‘Nicky isn’t in London this weekend,’ she lied as they reached the nursery door. ‘He’s attending a meeting in Bath …’

  ‘Bath?’

  ‘There are a lot of South Slav emigrants in Bath,’ Natalie said quickly before Diana could think up any awkward questions. ‘Oh look, doesn’t Stephen look gorgeous when he’s ready for bed?’

  The last few days of Julian’s leave flew by with terrifying rapidity. One minute they were on a hearth rug before a roaring log fire happily playing with Stephen and Bella, the next a maid was packing Julian’s kitbag for him and he was dressing in hideous khaki again.

  She sat on the bed, watching him, all the joy and comfort ebbing away. ‘You haven’t spoken about it,’ she said quietly. ‘You never speak about it.’

  He turned away from his dressing-table mirror towards her. ‘It?’

  ‘The war. Flanders.’

  A shutter came down over his eyes. Slowly he turned back to the mirror and finished fixing his collar. ‘What is there to say?’ he said at last. ‘It’s beyond description. Words can’t capture it, they can only trivialize it.’

  She remained silent and, his collar fastened, he walked towards her, sitting down beside her and taking hold of her hand. ‘The fighting isn’t the worst part,’ he said gently. ‘At least when we’re actually fighting the adrenalin is running. The worst part is the day-to-day living in the trenches; the dreariness of being among rats; the permanent stench of death and decay, the dirt and the unceasing drain of casualties.’

  ‘When it started, people who were supposed to know said it would be all over by Christmas,’ she said, leaning against the comfort of his broad shoulder. ‘This is the second Christmas and it still isn’t over. Surely it must be over soon? Surely it can’t go on for much longer?’

  She didn’t know it, but she was echoing his mother’s words to him. ‘How much longer will the war go on? When will it end?’ It was a question every man, woman and child in all the countries involved, wanted answering and there was no answer. The war had become a murderous treadmill grinding round and round without any significant retreat or advance, with the beginning no longer distinguishable and the end nowhere in sight.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said heavily. ‘I wish to Christ I did.’

  Her hand tightened on his. ‘How much longer before you have to leave?’

  ‘The car is already waiting for me. Five minutes. Ten at the most.’

  ‘Make love to me,’ she said urgently. ‘Make love to me one more time before you leave.’

  He had no time in which to undress. Unbuttoning his trousers he made love to her as if she were a French whore, his khaki uniform scratching her skin, his jacket buttons scoring her flesh.

  It was savage, primeval lovemaking in which tenderness was abandoned and naked need was all.

  ‘Oh God, I love you!’ he panted, as the climax of his life built up inside him. ‘Only you! For ever!’

  In hungry, hoarse tones she urged him on and as he exploded inside her, shouting out in triumph, her own cries sounded as if they had been torn from her heart.

  Afterwards, when he had gone, she sat for a long time at the window, staring sightlessly out over the park, wondering how long it would be before they were reunited again; how long it would be before the war was over and they would be able to travel to

  Belgrade together, taking Stephen with them.

  In January came news that King Nikita of Montenegro had capitulated to Austro-Hungary and fled to Italy, leaving his son behind to demobilize the army and await Austro-Hungarian occupation.

  Natalie was heart-sick. She had never been overly fond of King Nikita, finding him tiresomely egotistical, but she remembered how devoted her mother had been to his daughter, Zorka. Tears glittered on her eyelashes. At least in dying young Zorka had been spared the anguish of seeing her beloved country occupied by a long-hated enemy.

  In February came news that Albania had been invaded. Natalie was distraught. If Albania had been invaded, what would happen to the Serbian troops who had trekked over the mountains? Would they be killed? Captured? She had hurried to the café in Camden where she regularly met with Nicky and his friends, wanting to know their views on the situation.

  ‘They’ll have to take refuge somewhere else,’ Nicky said to her starkly. ‘Robert Seton-Watson thinks they’ll make for North Africa or Corfu.’

  She was just about to ask if Mr Seton-Watson knew where the necessary ships would come from when there came the sound of someone entering the cafe in a hurry.

  Seconds later Natalie sensed someone approaching behind her. She turned around to see who it was, her eyes widening in disbelief.

  ‘Mrs Fielding, I’m sorry to disturb you,’ the most junior of her mother-in-law’s maids said in obvious distress. ‘But I had to find you and the chauffeur said you’d be here.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Natalie asked bewilderedly.

  The maid tried to speak and couldn’t. Instead she burst into tears.

  Fear seized hold of Natalie, so monstrous that as she tried to rise to her feet she stumbled. ‘Is it Stephen?’ she demanded, white-lipped. ‘Has something happened to Stephen?’

  The maid shook her head. ‘No, Mrs Fielding. It’s young Mr Fielding. There’s been a telegram. He’s dead. Killed in action.’

  Natalie gasped and swayed. Her friends had all risen to their feet. Someone had hold of her arm, someone else was asking if the café proprietor had any brandy.

  ‘Which one?’ she demanded in a choked voice. ‘Mr Edward or Mr Julian? Which one?’

  The maid stared at her, in growing horror, comprehension slowly dawning. ‘I … I don’t kn .. kn .. know, Mrs Fielding,’ she stammered.

  ‘Oh God!’ Natalie pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, struggling for composure. ‘Did the chauffeur bring you here? Is he outside?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Fielding. He’s waiting to take you back to the house …’

  Natalie never remembered leaving the café. Nicky and his friends surged out on to the pavement after her and she remembered only the concern on their faces as she half fell into the rear seat of the Mercedes and the chauffeur closed the door for her.

  ‘Quickly!’ she said, dry-mouthed when he slid once more behind the wheel. ‘For the love of God, quickly!’

  With scant regard for the other traffic on the road he swept down Camden High Street and into Park Way. She could hear the blood drumming in her ears, her heart slamming against her rib cage. She didn’t want Edward to be dead; Edward with his strong outdoor physique and his kind, gentle manner; Edward who l
oved Northumberland so and who had never wanted to leave it. The thought of Edward being dead was monstrous. Obscene. Yet if it wasn’t Edward…

  Panic rose up in her throat, threatening to choke her. What would she do if it was Julian who had been killed? What would happen to her and Stephen? How would she survive without the comfort he gave her? The laughter? The lovemaking?

  In Albany Street the car slowed to a standstill, enmeshed in a midday traffic-jam.

  ‘Can’t you force a way through?’ she asked the chauffeur frantically.

  He shook his head. ‘No, madam. It’s hopeless. There’s nothing for it but to sit it out.’

  Natalie hadn’t the remotest intention of sitting it out. She flung the door open and as the maid and chauffeur stared at her in disbelief she scrambled out of the car.

  The pavement was almost as crowded as the road and as she began to run old and young pedestrians alike had to jump smartly out of her path. She was uncaring of the consternation she was causing. She had to reach home. She had to find out if it had been Edward or Julian who had been killed.

  She ran the length of Albany Street and into Chester Court. Panting for breath, her hair beginning to fall from its pins, she dodged across the road and into Cambridge Gate, running, running, running.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Katerina stepped out of Belgrade Cathedral on her husband’s arm she had no idea where they would now go, the situation was such that a honeymoon was out of the question. The Austro-Hungarian army may have been put to flight but it would no doubt re-attack at the first opportunity. She wondered if her husband would remain in Belgrade to defend it and, if he did, if he would have private quarters into which she would be expected to move.

  ‘Can you hear the gunfire?’ he asked her with a slight frown as Belgrade’s newly liberated population surged around them, shouting congratulations. ‘The army must still be flushing out Austro- Hungarian stragglers.’

  Even as he spoke his own men began again to shoot triumphantly into the air for all the world as if the wedding was taking place in a country zadruga and Katerina was unable to hear the gunfire to which he was referring, or to make her own voice heard.

  The hastily arranged wedding-breakfast was to take place in the Konak, though as the Austrians had stripped the palace of its furnishings Katerina was uncertain if there would be a table for the food or even chairs for the few guests to sit on.

  Reflecting that her wedding was proving to be just as bizarre and hotch-potch as Natalie’s had been, she allowed her husband to hand her into the waiting carriage, a ripple of shock running through her as his hand touched hers.

  Her cheeks burned as she thought of the intimacies to come. How on earth was she going to survive them? At least when Natalie had married Julian she had been on familiar enough terms with him to be able, without awkwardness, to address him by his Christian name. How could she possibly address Major Zlarin as Ivan? She couldn’t even think of him as Ivan.

  Panic welled up in her as their carriage began to trundle away from the cathedral. Why didn’t he smile across at her and try and put her at her ease? Why wasn’t he aware of her difficulty? It would be so easy for him to solve it for her. All he had to do was to say he hoped she would soon get used to the sound of his name on her lips. Given such an invitation she might have found herself speaking his name quite easily and with only a little shyness. If Julian had been in the same position, he would have solved all constraint by being lovingly teasing.

  Her hands tightened in her lap. She mustn’t think of Julian. To think of Julian would be to open the door on more pain than she could possibly bear. He was married to Natalie now and, as marriage to Natalie was what he had wanted he was, presumably, happy.

  As their carriage continued through shell-blasted streets still chaotic with rejoicing citizens and triumphant soldiery, she wondered if Natalie, too, was happy. It was hard to think of any reason why she shouldn’t be. Though Britain was at war, she hadn’t been invaded as Serbia had been invaded. London citizens hadn’t been dragged out on to the streets and raped and shot as had happened daily in Belgrade during the weeks of Austrian occupation. Natalie hadn’t had to endure the harrowing sights she and Zita had witnessed.

  Over and above all those considerations, Natalie had Julian to love and care for her. That being so, how could she be anything else but happy? True, she hadn’t been in love with Julian when they had married but that was because she had been so young it had never occurred to her to think of him, or anyone else for that matter, as being a possible suitor. Now that they were married, Katerina didn’t see how Natalie could be anything else but in love with him. For Natalie, everything had worked out for the best. Her ill-advised friendship with Gavrilo Princip and their catastrophic meeting in Sarajevo had resulted not in disaster for her, but in great good fortune.

  As many of the troops who had greeted them at the cathedral with volleys of rifle-fire continued to ride riotously alongside their carriage, she looked across at the man she had married in growing apprehension. He was still frowning slightly, his thoughts obviously on the last pockets of fighting taking place down near the river. She wondered if even Max would have been so absorbed in military matters if riding with his bride to his wedding breakfast, especially a bride he had not previously courted and who it could be assumed was feeling shy and ill at ease.

  ‘They’ll be back of course,’ he said suddenly, ‘and as long as they don’t have Bulgaria as an ally we might be able to rebuff them yet again.’

  ‘And if Bulgaria joins with them?’ she asked, grateful that the silence had been broken, however unromantically.

  ‘Then they’ll overrun us,’ he said, his frown deepening.

  He was in dress-uniform and with his assertive jawline and magnificent physique, looked splendidly imposing. As the officer-in-charge of the forces who had kept the enemy at bay across the Sava all through September and October, he was a hero in the eyes of all Belgraders and she knew she must be the envy of countless young women. Certainly Vitza, when she returned to the city and heard of the wedding, would be envious.

  As she tried to gain comfort from the knowledge and as she wondered vainly how to prolong the conversation and how to bring a more personal element into it, he said with obvious concern, ‘You haven’t yet told me how you and your mother fared during the occupation. Was it very bad? Did you have to use the pistol I gave you?’

  She hesitated, wanting to be able to communicate with him, yet not wanting to mar her wedding day by dwelling on the hideousness of the last few weeks and especially the hideousness of her mother’s near-rape and the nightmare that had followed it.

  ‘You were right when you told me it would be grimmer than I could possibly imagine,’ she said at last. ‘It was. And I did use the pistol. I’ve already told Papa of the circumstances and I will tell you too, of course, but not now. I don’t want to remember horror today. I just want to be happy that the Austrians are in full flight and …’ she hesitated again, a slight blush rising to her cheeks, ‘… and that it is our wedding day.’

  With vast relief she saw his habitually brooding expression soften. ‘I’m sorry it isn’t a more traditional wedding,’ he said with such obvious sincerity that she felt her apprehension beginning to ebb. ‘You know, of course, that it was your father who was anxious the wedding take place now and not later?’

  She nodded, feeling her blush deepening. ‘He thinks the war is going to continue for a long time, perhaps for years,’ she said, anxious that he should understand why her father had suggested their wedding take place so quickly and that he should not think it had been at her own urging. ‘He says that this time when he leaves for the front it could quite possibly be years before he is home again and I think …’ her voice trembled slightly, ‘… I think he wanted to ensure that he saw me married. I think he was fearful that if he didn’t do so now, he might not be alive to do so in the future.’

  Ivan nodded, ‘He didn’t quite say as much to me,
but I was aware of the fear that prompted his request and I was, of course, more than happy to comply with it.’

  As if sensing how disconcertingly formal he sounded he stretched out a gloved hand to hers, saying in a slightly more relaxed manner, ‘I appreciate how difficult our marrying so quickly must be for you.’

  ‘It is difficult,’ she said frankly, her hand shyly answering the pressure of his. ‘But as long as we are both aware of the difficulties they won’t last for long.’

  Their carriage was turning into the Konak’s courtyard and he said with equal frankness, ‘There’s been no opportunity for me to say so before, but I’m deeply honoured that you accepted my proposal of marriage.’

  It was her turn, now, to feel awkward. Though he hadn’t said so specifically, she knew he was referring to the fact that she was a Karageorgevich. In normal times, a marriage between a daughter of the House of Karageorge and an army major would have been considered highly irregular. She would have been expected to marry within her own extended family circle or, if she married outside it, to marry a man of title and wealth, perhaps a member of the Russian nobility or a Polish princeling.

  For the first time she wondered what Ivan thought her motivation had been in accepting his proposal. Did he think she had fallen in love with him at first sight, as he had apparently fallen in love with her? And if he did, should she disabuse him of the idea? Should she be honest with him and tell him that though she wasn’t in love with him yet, she was certain she soon would be? Should she tell him about Max?

  The carriage rocked to a halt in the courtyard and as scores of people wishing them well surged around it, she realized the difficult decision would have to be made later.

  Behind them other carriages were turning in off the street; her parents’ carriage; the best man’s and bridesmaid’s carriage; the carriages containing the sprinkling of guests, some of them family members, some of them Ivan’s fellow officers.