Zadruga

by Margaret Pemberton

  His mother had told him that his cousin was younger than himself and, at an age when seniority made a signficant difference, he had anticipated that Peter would be smaller than himself and malleable.

  He smiled to himself at the recollection. Not only was Peter far from being smaller it was obvious, even then, that he would never be malleable. With his jet-black hair and strong straight mouth, he was as forceful in looks as he was in personality. Within five minutes they were friends. Before the day was out they regarded themselves not as cousins, but as brothers.

  At subsequent family reunions he had also made friends with Xan and later all three of them had had to endure Zorka toddling after them wherever they went. Soon, as she became less of a nuisance, they had become a firm foursome but within that foursome, whenever they had split into pairs for games, the split had always been himself and Peter, Zorka and Xan.

  He shifted his pack against the train window, leaning against it more comfortably. As they had grown up the balance had never shifted. In retrospect, he couldn’t think why he had been even faintly surprised when Zorka had told him that she and Xan were in love and were going to marry. They had always been a pair and it was impossible to think of them as being anything else.

  The train crawled into Derna and an hour later, as night fell, he was bundled with all his baggage aboard a Halifax bomber.

  As he waited for take-off he found himself still thinking about his cousins. Where Peter possessed the wide, high cheekboned face of a Slav and was, like his stepfather, well over six feet tall and as broad-chested and dark as a pantomime demon-king, Xan was an inch or so under six feet and slenderly built. People meeting them as a family for the first time always assumed that Peter was Max’s natural son and that Xan, with his grey long-lashed eyes and classically handsome bone-structure, was his stepson.

  ‘Xan’s mother must have been an extraordinarily beautiful young woman,’ he once overheard his grandmother say to his mother. ‘In physical appearance he’s obviously all his mother’s son while Peter is just as clearly all his father’s.’

  ‘I never met Ivan Zlarin,’ his mother had reminded her, ‘though I must admit I’ve always been curious about him.’

  ‘Major Zlarin was very …’ his grandmother had begun and then she had become aware that he was listening and annoyingly, instead of finishing her sentence and allowing him to learn a little more about Peter’s war-hero father, she had begun to talk of something else.

  An RAF sergeant brought him back to the present, fitting his parachute and easing the webbing into position over his shoulders, saying reassuringly as he did so, ‘You’ve got a good night for it, sir. Nice and clear with no forecast of low hanging cloud.’

  Stephen grinned, not remotely apprehensive about the jump he was to make. All he was apprehensive about was Peter’s reaction when he told him the purpose of his mission. The area into which he was parachuting was south-west Serbia, on the border with Bulgarian-held Macedonia. As the aircraft began to lose height he readjusted his parachute harness. He had always looked forward to reunions with Peter, but had never arrived at one in such a spectacular manner before.

  As the hatch was lifted and a blast of icy wind tore at his face and hair he could see small fires on the ground, indicating his landing position.

  ‘Despatching your supplies now!’ the flight sergeant shouted to him, rolling containers holding his own supplies and supplies for Peter and his men to the edge of the hatch. ‘Be ready to follow them!’

  The plane banked into a stiff turn. The containers were ejected. He placed himself in position at the open hatch and then, as the flight sergeant brought his hand down in a sharp cutting action, jumped.

  He had always enjoyed the danger and exhilaration of night-time drops and this one was no exception. He was in mountainous country and he was thankful for the fires indicating he was heading for a relatively smooth piece of ground and not a ravine.

  He could hear jubilant shouts as the containers hit the earth and he tensed himself against the shock of his own landing. Seconds later he was down, rolling with practised ease over damp, sweet-smelling grass. As he slipped out of his harness he saw that he had landed a little way from the ring of bonfires. He began to gather up his parachute, grinning to himself in elated anticipation as booted feet thundered towards him.

  ‘Stephen! Stephen, my brother!’ a familiar voice shouted out in typically Slav manner, racing towards him. ‘I was told we were to rendezvous with a Captain Fielding but I hardly dared believe it would be you!’

  The piratical figure that flung arms around him, hugging him in a vice-like grip, was barely recognizable. When they had last said goodbye, four years ago, Peter had been an ultra-smart Royal Yugoslav Army officer. Now a fierce black moustache decorated his face and he was wearing a black woolly cap, sheepskin bolero and breeches tucked into what looked to be German field boots. A bandolier crossed his chest, stuffed with ammunition, a revolver and a murderous-looking knife were jammed through his broad leather belt and a rifle was slung over one shoulder.

  Stephen returned the bear-like hug and then, as Peter’s companions ran welcomingly up to him, he looked around at the jagged black peaks of mountains etched against the night-sky, saying with laughter in his voice, ‘It’s not the Negresco, is it? Where do we lay our heads, Peter? A cave?’

  ‘You should be so lucky!’ Peter’s grin nearly split his face. ‘Caves are for generals! Come on, let me introduce you to my men and then we’ll ferry the supplies you’ve brought back to our headquarters and down some slivovitz. This is Marko and this is Vlada.’

  Marko and Vlada hugged him exuberantly saying almost in unison, ‘Bravo! Well met, Captain Fielding!’

  ‘And this is Tomas, Tomas is our cook. You need to keep on the right side of him! And Vlatko, my second-in-command, and Milos, my adjutant.’

  ‘Welcome, Captain Fielding!’ Vlatko said warmly, thumping him on the back. ‘I hope you’re only the first of many British officers who are going to come and join us!’

  ‘And this is Peko and this is Joshko.’

  Shouts of welcome almost deafened him and he couldn’t hear the names of the remaining handful of men. One hand that grasped his, though its grip was as firm as all the rest, was disconcertingly small-boned and later, as he helped seach for the containers and load them on to sturdy peasant carts, he saw that it belonged to a slim-hipped, extremely effeminate looking youth, his Serbian army breeches and German jackboots set off by a RAF flying jacket and a RAF cap worn at a jaunty angle.

  As they put out the fires and left the landing-zones he was bemused. A homosexual Slav was a rarity and he certainly hadn’t expected to encounter one among Mihailovich’s guerilla fighters.

  ‘You will want news of my mother and our grandparents,’ Peter said as they began to descend from what Stephen now saw was a plateau, into a ravine. ‘I’ve had no personal contact with them for eighteen months but I received news from a courier a week ago that they were all alive and still in Belgrade, though living under terrible conditions.’

  They were both silent for a few moments, thinking of their grandparents, knowing that neither of them had the physical strength necessary for such an ordeal. Alexis was seventy-six and troubled with rheumatism and though Zita was younger, she had never been robust since her winter trek across the Albanian mountains.

  ‘And Max and Xan?’ Stephen asked, hopeful that where they were concerned the news would be more cheerful. ‘Are they both in the resistance as well?’

  ‘It could be said that Xan is,’ Peter said dryly. The track they were following was now running along the banks of a rushing stream and he raised his voice to be heard above it. ‘As for Max, he was one of the generals who instigated the coup d’état against Paul,’ he continued, not elaborating further on Xan’s whereabouts. ‘Even though he and Paul were not close, he was deeply distressed at having to take such action. He had no choice though, not if Yugoslavia was to retain a remnant of honour, even my mother r
ealized that.’

  ‘And where is he now?’ Stephen asked as Peko and Joshko hauled one of the peasant carts past them.

  Peter grinned, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. He both loved and respected the bear of a man who was his stepfather and was proud that even though Max was now in his mid-fifties he was still a soldier and still a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘Last I heard of him he was commanding Bosnian resistance forces. Wherever he is, he’ll be thrashing the Germans and enjoying himself hugely.’

  Ahead of them in the moonlight was the indistinct shape of a farmhouse. ‘Home,’ Peter said with satisfaction. ‘I hope to God when we open the supplies we find some weapons in good working order.’

  Looking at the men around him Stephen didn’t think weapons were in any short supply. Apart from knives and revolvers jammed through belts, every shoulder boasted a rifle and there were captured enemy Schmeissers and sten guns in plenty.

  The men trundled the handcarts up to the farm and immediately began unloading them. Peter led the way inside, having to bend his head as he did so to clear the doorway.

  ‘Bring out the slivovitz, Olga,’ he said to an unseen girl, throwing his rifle down on to the nearest chair and then, turning again to Stephen he said, ‘Well, what do you think of my headquarters? Cosy, aren’t they?’

  The low-ceilinged room was lit by an oil lamp and there was a wood-burning fire in the grate over which a huge cooking pot was hung. The only furnishings were a large table and a miscellaneous assortment of wooden chairs and stools and a ladder leading up to the open door of a loft in which Stephen could glimpse pallets piled with straw and covered by rough blankets.

  ‘The Negresco is a slum in comparison,’ he said with a grin, looking around for Olga and the slivovitz.

  There was no farmer’s wife or daughter to be seen. Instead, the slim figure that had so attracted his attention earlier, placed a bottle and glass on the table.

  As he saw the expression on Stephen’s face, Peter chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not commanding a troop of Amazons. Everyone else is male.’

  There was no flicker of amusement on the girl’s face. She merely said, ‘I’ll help unload the supplies now, Major,’ and with the peaked RAF cap emphasizing her delicate bone-structure, left the room.

  ‘There are quite a few girls among General Mihailovich’s forces,’ Peter said, reaching out for the slivovitz. ‘They fight like demons and that’s what they are; fighters not camp followers.’ He poured the fiery home-brewed alcohol into the glass they were to share, saying with another chuckle, ‘Don’t try your luck there, Stephen. Not unless you want to find yourself facing the wrong end of a sten gun!’

  Later, as they all sat around the huge table and the contents of the steaming cooking pot had been ladled into bowls, Stephen found himself looking constantly in Olga’s direction. She was very young, scarcely out of her teens, and it seemed incredible to him that she could live in such close intimacy with hardened soldiers and not be plagued by unwelcome sexual overtures. That she did so, however, was immediately obvious from the men’s attitude towards her. There was nothing sexual in it, nothing patronizing. She was, like them, a soldier of the resistance.

  Toasts were beginning to be drunk and with great difficulty he dragged his eyes away from her, drinking to the success of the Allied cause; to young King Peter’s health; to General Mihailovich’s health; even to the memory of his and Peter’s mutual great-great grandfather, the legendary Karageorge.

  Later still, as the evening grew progressively noisier, Peter said to him, ‘Let’s go outside. I want to know why you’re here. I don’t believe for one moment it’s simply to act as a straightforward liaison officer.’

  Rather reluctantly Stephen rose to his feet and followed him from the room. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining why he had been sent to Yugoslavia. Peter and his men had been fighting the Germans for nearly two years under the harshest possible conditions. The news that the Allies were considering switching support from them to their communist enemies would be far from welcome.

  Once outside the single-storey farmhouse Peter walked a little distance to where the land dipped steeply. Sitting down on the lip of the hill he took a cigarette from his breast pocket and said, ‘Well? Spill the beans as you and Uncle Julian would say.’

  Stephen sat beside him. The night sky had lightened and on the horizon there was a faint rim of gold, presaging dawn. ‘It isn’t good,’ he said bluntly. ‘Rumours have reached London that Loyalist resistance to the enemy is not all it’s been made out to be and that the Partisans are being far more effective. My mission is to meet with General Mihailovich and to verify whether the rumours are true or false.’

  ‘Christ!’ Peter ran a hand through his sleek-dark hair.

  Stephen felt a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach. He had anticipated a reaction of stunned incredulity and there had been none in Peter’s savagely utterly blasphemy.

  ‘Christ!’ Peter said again, this time with even more ferocity. ‘Bloody, bloody Christ!’

  Stephen waited. Down in the valley an early rising cock crowed lustily.

  Peter drew heavily on his cigarette and at last said, ‘The hell of it is, there’s foundation for such rumours, Stephen. Not because we aren’t eager to fight, but because of the consequences when we do.’

  Stephen remained silent. On the horizon the rim of gold had become an apricot haze.

  ‘In the early days, in late 1941 and early 1942, we inflicted huge damage on the Germans. Unable to retaliate successfully against us, they began retaliating on the civilian population.’ He paused for a moment and then continued harshly, ‘I was with Mihailovich when he booted the Germans out of a small town called Kragujevac. It was recaptured. The instant the Germans were again in possession they shot five thousand men, women and children in reprisal. It wasn’t an isolated incident. In October 1941 Hitler ordered that a hundred Yugoslav civilians be executed for every German killed by resistance forces, and that fifty Yugoslavs die for every German wounded. What would British troops do if they knew that for every German killed a hundred British civilians, many of them women and children, would be slaughtered?’

  Stephen didn’t look at him or answer. He was staring down at the grass between his feet, thinking again of his aunt and grandparents in German-occupied Belgrade.

  ‘What General Mihailovich did was to revise his strategy,’ Peter continued. ‘Instead of engaging in acts of resistance that carried too high a price he decided we should build up our strength numerically and concentrate on preparing for the day when the entire country, supported, by an Allied landing, rises up against the Germans. Until then, although we still carry out acts of sabotage, we do so mainly to disrupt German transport systems.’

  ‘And the Partisans?’ Stephen asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘The Partisans don’t have our scruples,’ Peter said bitterly. ‘To them, war is war and civilians have to take the consequences.’

  Stephen stared down into the distant valley. In the rosy glow of morning it was spectacularly beautiful. The slopes were thick with oak and beech trees and every now and then there was a glimpse of the stream they had followed the previous evening.

  He knew what opinion would be taken in London. It would be the same opinion the Partisans held. ‘I’m afraid London is going to agree with them,’ he said heavily. ‘The argument is going to be that a resistance force has to engage the enemy, no matter what the cost.’

  Peter ground his cigarette into ashes and rose to his feet. ‘That’s Xan’s viewpoint too,’ he said tersely. ‘He’s been fighting with the Partisans ever since Mihailovich issued his directive that sabotage must be carried out without Germans being killed in the process.’ He dug his hands deep into his breeches pockets. ‘It’s hard to blame him. Sitting on a mountain, doing nothing more than blow up an occasional bridge or making a raid on an armaments depot is a hard test of endurance. Like many others who have joined the Partisa
ns he hasn’t turned communist. He just can’t stand the relative inactivity into which we’ve been plunged.’

  Sounds of movement were now coming from the farmhouse and Stephen also rose to his feet. ‘I need to speak with Mihailovich as soon as possible,’ he said unhappily. ‘However valid his reason for not engaging with the enemy he has to know what the consequences will be if he continues with it.’

  Peter turned and began to walk back to the farmhouse. ‘It will take us a good five days to reach him. I need to take one of the horses down into the village to be reshod. It will only take an hour or so. We’ll have breakfast, ride down to the village and then be on our way.’

  Breakfast was blackbread and slivovitz. It was a drink Stephen’s grandfather had introduced him to at an early age but Belgrade slivovitz wasn’t as raw as home-brewed mountain slivovitz and Alexis had certainly never encouraged him to drink it at breakfast. With his eyes watering and his throat burning he downed it in a traditional single swallow, longing for a civilizing cup of English tea.

  In daylight Peter’s men looked even more fearsome than they had the previous night on the dark mountainside. Even though it was still only early morning they were armed to the teeth, knives jammed through belts and thrust down boots, handguns hanging nonchalantly at their hips. All of them were heavily moustached, the majority of them having beards as well. Coherent uniforms were non-existent. Royal Yugoslav army jackets topped German breeches. British battledress was enlivened by Bulgarian boots. Sleeveless sheepskin jackets proliferated.

  Across the breakfast table a noisy argument began as to who was going to accompany Peter and himself down into the village.

  Peter grinned at him. ‘Don’t be flattered, Stephen. You aren’t the attraction. The village girls are.’

  It was settled that Marko, Vlada and Milos would ride with them.

  ‘The villagers always inundate us with gifts of food,’ Peter said to Stephen as they saddled up. ‘It would be a shame not to be able to transport back everything offered.’