Power of the Sword c-10

by Wilbur Smith

  He had discovered with some dismay that Tara Malcomess had a highly developed political conscience, and that even though it was vaguely understood between him and Mater that Shasa would one day go into politics and parliament, his grasp of and interest in the complex problems of the country was not of the same calibre as Tara's. She held views that were almost as disturbing to him as her physical attractions.

  I believe, as Daddy does, that far from taking the vote away from the few black people who have it, we should be giving it to all of them. All of them! Shasa was appalled. You don't really believe that, do you? Of course I do. Not all at once, but on a civilization basis, government by those who have proved fit to govern. Give the vote to all those who have the right standards of education and responsibility. In two generations every man and woman, black or white, could be on the roll. Shasa shuddered at the thought, his own aspirations to a seat in the house would not survive that, but this was probably the least radical of her opinions.

  How can we prevent people from owning land in their own country or from selling their labour in the best market, or prohibit them from collective bargaining? Trade unions were the tools of Lenin and the devil. That was a fact Shasa had taken in with his mother's milk.

  She's a bolshy, but, God, what a beautiful bolshy! he thought, and pulled her to her feet to break the unpalatable lecture. Come on, let's go for a swim. He's an ignorant fascist, she thought furiously, but when she saw the way the other women looked at him from behind their sunglasses, she wanted to claw their eyes out of their faces, and at night in her bunk when she thought about the touch of his hands on her bare back, and the feel of him against her on the dance floor, she blushed in the darkness at the fantasies that filled her head.

  If I just let it start, just the barest beginning, I know I won't be able to stop him, I won't even want to stop him, I and she steeled herself against him. Controlled and aloof, she repeated, like a charm against the treacherous wiles of her own body.

  By some extraordinary coincidence it just so happened that Blaine Malcomess had shipped his Bentley in the hold, alongside Centaine's Daimler.

  We could drive to Berlin in convoy, Centaine exclaimed as though the idea had just occurred to her, and there was clamorous acceptance of the idea from the four younger members of the party, and immediate jockeying and lobbying for seats in the two vehicles. Centaine and Blaine, protesting mildly, allowed themselves to be allocated the Bentley while the others, driven by Shasa, would follow in the Daimler.

  From Le Havre they drove the dusty roads of north-western France, through the town that still had the ring of terror in their names, Amiens and Arras. The green grass had covered the muddy battlefields where Blaine had fought, but the fields of white crosses were bright as daisies in the sunlight.

  May God grant that mankind never has to live through that again, Blaine murmured, and Centaine reached across and took his hand.

  in the little village of Mort Homme they parked in front of the auberge in the main street, and when Centaine walked in through the front door to enquire for lodgings, Madame behind the desk recognized her instantly and screeched with excitement.

  Henri, viens vite! Cest Mademoisefle de Thiry du chateau, and she rushed to embrace Centaine and buss her on both cheeks.

  A travelling salesman was ousted, and the best rooms put at their disposal; a little explanation was needed when Centaine and Blaine asked for separate accommodation, but the meal they were served that night was exquisitely nostalgic for Centaine, with all the specialities - terrines and truffles and tartes, with the wine of the region, while Madame stood beside the table and gave Centaine all the gossip, the deaths and births, the marriages and elopernents and liaisons of the last nineteen years.

  In the early morning Centaine and Shasa left the others sleeping, and drove up to the chateau. It was rubble and black scorched walls, pierced with empty windows and shell holes, overgrown and desolate, and Centaine stood in the ruins and wept for her father who had burned with the great house rather than abandon it to the advancing Germans.

  After the war the estate had been sold off to pay the debts that the old man had accumulated over a lifetime of good living and hard drinking. It was now owned by Hennessy, the great cognac firm; the old man would have enjoyed that little irony, Centaine smiled at the thought.

  Together they climbed the hillock beyond the ruined chAteau and from the crest Centaine pointed out the orchard and plantation that marked the old wartime airfield.

  That is where your father's squadron was stationed, on the edge of the orchard. I waited here every morning for the squadron to take off, and I would wave them away to battle. They flew SE5a's didn't they? Only later. At first it was the old Sopwiths. She was looking up at the sky. Your father's machine was painted bright yellow. I called him le petit jaune, the little yellow one, I can see him now in his flying helmet. He used to lift the goggles so I could see his eyes as he flew past me.

  Oh Shasa, how noble and gay and young he was, a young eagle going up into the blue. They descended the hillock and drove slowly back between the vineyards. Centaine asked Shasa to stop beside a small stone-walled barn at the corner of North Field. He watched her, puzzled, as she stood for a few minutes in the doorway of the thatched building and then came back to the Daimler with a faint smile on her lips and a soft glow in her eyes.

  She saw his enquiring look and told him, Your father and I used to meet here. In a clairvoyant insight Shasa realized that in this rickety old building in a foreign land he had been conceived. The strangeness of this knowledge remained with him as they drove back towards the auberge.

  At the entrance to the village in front of the little church with its green copper spire, they stopped again and went into the cemetery. Michael Courtney's grave was at the far end, beneath a yew tree. Centaine had ordered the headstone from Africa but had never seen it before. A marble eagle, perched on a tattered battle standard, was on the point of flight, with wings spread. Shasa thought it was a little too flamboyant for a memorial to the dead.

  They stood side by side and read the inscription: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN MICHAEL COURTNEY RFC KILLED IN ACTION 19 APRIL 1917.

  GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN.

  Weeds had grown up around the headstone, and they knelt together and tidied the grave. Then they stood at the foot of it, their heads bowed.

  Shasa had expected to be profoundly moved by his father's grave, but instead he felt remote and untouched. The man beneath the headstone had become clay long before he was born. He had felt closer to Michael Courtney six thousand miles from here when he had slept in his bed, worn his old thomproof tweed jacket, handled his Purdey shotgun and his fishing-rods, or used his gold-nibbed pen and his platinum and onyx dress studs.

  They went back along the path to the church and found the village priest in the vestry. He was a young man, not much older than Shasa, and Centaine was disappointed for his youth seemed to her a break in her tenuous link to Michael and the past. However, she wrote out two large cheques, one for the repairs to the church's copper spire, and the other to pay for fresh flowers to be placed on Michael's grave each Sunday in perpetuity, and they went back to the Daimler with the priest's fervent benedictions following them.

  The following day they all drove on to Paris; Centaine had wired ahead for accommodation at the Ritz in the Place Vendeme.

  Blaine and Centaine had a full round of engagements meetings, luncheons and dinners, with various members of the French government, so the four younger members of the party were left to their own devices and they very soon discovered that Paris was the city of romance and excitement.

  They rode to the first stage of the Eiffel Tower in one of the creaking elevators and then raced each other up the open steel staircase to the very top and oohed and aahed at the city spread below them. They strolled with arms linked along the footpath on the riverbank and under the fabulous bridges of the Seine. With her baby box Brownie, Tara photographed them on the steps of
Montmartre with the Sacre

  Coeur as a backdrop; they drank coffee and ate croissants in the sidewalk cafes and lunched at the Cafe de la Paix, dined at La Coupole and saw La Traviata at the Opra.

  At midnight when the girls had said goodnight to Centaine and their father and retired demurely and dutifully to their room, Shasa and David smuggled them out over the balcony and they went dancing in the boites on the Left Bank or sat listening to jazz in the cellars of Montparnasse, where they discovered a black trombone player who blew a horn that made your spine curl and a little brasserie where you could eat snails and wild strawberries at three in the morning.

  In the last dawn, as they crept down the corridor to get the girls back to their room, they heard familiar voices in the elevator cage as it came up to their floor, and only just in time the four of them dived down the staircase and lay in a heap on the first landing, the girls stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths to stifle their giggles, while just above them Blaine and Centaine, resplendent in full evening dress and oblivious of their presence, left the elevator and arm in arm strolled down the passage towards Centaine's suite.

  They left Paris with regret and reached the German border in high spirits. They presented their passports to the French douaniers and were waved through to the German side with typical Gallic panache. They left the Bentley and Daimler parked at the barrier and trooped into the German border post where they were struck immediately by the difference in attitude between the two groups of officials.

  The two German officers were meticulously turned out, their leather polished to a gloss, their caps set at the exact regulation angle and the black swastikas in a field of crimson and white on their left arms. From the wall behind their desk, a framed portrait of the Fuhrer, stern and moustached, glowered down upon them.

  Blaine laid the sheaf of passports on the desk top in front of them with a friendly Guten Tag, mein Herr', and stood chatting to Centaine while one of the officials went through the passports one at a time, comparing each of the holders to his or her photograph and then stamping the visa with the black eagle and swastika device, before going on to the next document.

  Dave Abrahams passport was at the bottom of the pile, and when the officer came to it, he paused and re-read the front cover and then pedantically turned and perused every single page in the document, looking up at David again and scrutinizing his features after each page. After a few minutes of this the group around David fell silent and began exchanging puzzled glances.

  I think something is wrong, Blaine,Centaine said quietly, and he went back to the desk.

  Problem? Blaine asked, and the official answered him in stilted but correct English.

  Abrahams, it is a Jewish name, no? Blaine flushed with irritation, but before he could reply David stepped up to the desk beside him. It's a Jewish name, yes! he said quietly, and the official nodded thoughtfully, tapping the passport with his forefinger.

  You admit you are Jewish? I am Jewish, David replied in the same level tone.

  It is not written in your passport that you are Jewish, the customs officer pointed out.

  Should it be? David asked. The officer shrugged, then asked, 'You wish to enter Germany, and you are Jewish? I wish to enter Germany to take part in the Olympic Games, to which I have been invited by the German government. Ah! You are an Olympic athlete, a Jewish Olympic athlete? No, I am a South African Olympic athlete. Is my visa in order? The official did not reply to the question. Wait here, please. He went through the rear door, carrying David's passport with him.

  They heard him speaking to someone in the back office, and they all looked at Tara. She was the only one in the party who understood a little German, she had studied the language for her matriculation examinations and passed it on the Higher Grade.

  What is he saying? Blaine asked.

  They are talking too fast, a lot about "Jews" and "Olympics", Tara answered, then the rear door opened and the original official came back with a plump rosy-faced man who was clearly his superior, for his uniform and his manner were grander.

  Who is Abrahams? he demanded.

  I am!

  You are a Jew? You admit you are a Jew? Yes, I am a Jew. I have said so many times. Is there something wrong with my visa? You will wait, please. This time all three officials retired to the rear office, once more taking David's passport with them. They heard the tinkle of a telephone bell, and then the senior officer's voice, loud and obsequious.

  What's going on? They looked to Tara.

  He's talking to somebody in Berlin, Tara told them. He's explaining about David. The one-sided conversation in the next room ended with Jawohl, mein Kapitdn, repeated four times, each time louder, and then a shouted Heil Hitler! and the tinkle of the telephone.

  The three officials filed back into the front office. The rosy-faced superior stamped David's passport and handed it to him with a flourish.

  Welcome to the Third Reich! he declared, and flung his right hand up, palm open, and extended towards them, and shouted, Heil Hitler! Mathilda Janine burst into nervous giggles, Isn't he a lark! Blaine seized her arm and marched her out of the office.

  So they drove into Germany, all of them silent and subdued.

  They found lodgings in the first roadside inn, and contrary to her usual custom, Centaine accepted them without first inspecting the beds, the plumbing and the kitchens. After dinner nobody wanted to play cards or explore the village and they were in bed before ten o'clock.

  However, by breakfast time they had recovered their high spirits, and Mathilda Janine had them laughing with a poem she had composed in honour of the extraordinary feats that her father, Shasa and David were about to perform in the Games ahead of them.

  Their good humour increased during the day's easy journey through the beautiful German countryside, the villages and hilltop castles right out of the pages of Hans Andersen fairy tales, the forests of pine trees in dark contrast to the open meadows and the tumbling rivers crossed by arched bridges of stone. Along the way they saw groups of young people in national dress, the boys in lederhosen and feathered loden hats, the girls in dirndls, who waved and called greetings as the two big motor cars sped past.

  They lunched in an inn full of people and music and laughter, on a haunch of wild boar with roast potatoes and apples and drank a Moselle with the taste of the grape and sunshine in its pale greenish depths.

  Everybody is so happy and prosperous-looking, Shasa remarked as he glanced around the crowded room.

  The only country in the world with no unemployment and no poor, Centaine agreed, but Blaine tasted his wine and said nothing.

  That afternoon they entered the northern plain on the approach to Berlin, and Shasa, who was leading, swung the Daimler off onto the verge so suddenly that David grabbed for the dashboard and the girls in the back squeaked with alarm.

  Shasa jumped out, leaving the engine still running, shouting 'David! David! just look at them, aren't they the most beautiful things you have ever seen. The others piled out beside him and stared up at the sky, while Blaine pulled the Bentley in behind the Daimler and he and Centaine climbed out to join them, shading their eyes against the slanting sun.

  There was an airfield adjoining the highway. The hangar buildings were painted silver and the windsock waved its long white arm in the small breeze. A stick of three fighter aircraft turned out of the sun, coming around in formation to line up for the strip. They were sleek as sharks, their bellies and lower wings painted sky blue, their upper surfaces speckled with camouflage and the boss of their propellers bright yellow.

  What are they? Blaine called across to the two young pilots, and they answered as one. 109S., Messerschmitts. The machine-gun snouts bristled from the leading edges of the wings, and the eyes of the cannon peered malevolently from the centre of the spinning propeller bosses.

  What I'd give to fly one of those! An arm And a leg And my hope of salvation! The three fighters changed formation into line astern and descended towards the air
field.

  They say that they can do 350 mph, straight and level- Oh sweet! Oh sweet! Look at them fly! The girls were infected by their excitement, and they clapped and laughed, as the war machines passed low over their heads and touched down on the airstrip only a few hundred yards beyond.

  It would be worth going to war, just to get a shot at flying something like that, Shasa exulted, and Blaine turned back to the Bentley to hide his sudden anger at the remark.

  Centaine slid into the seat beside him and they drove in silence for five minutes before she said: He's so young and foolish sometimes - I'm sorry, Blaine, I know how he upset you. He sighed. We were the same. We called it "a great game" and thought it was going to be the glory of a lifetime that would make us men and heroes. Nobody told us about the ripped guts and the terror and how dead men smell on the fifth day in the sun. It won't happen again, Centaine said, fiercely.

  Please don't let it happen again! In her mind's eye she saw once again the burning aircraft, with the body of the man she loved, blackening and twisting and crisping; then the face was no longer Michael's but that of his only son, and Shasa's beautiful face burst open like a sausage held too close to the flames and the sweet young life juices burst from it.

  .Please stop the car, Blaine, she whispered. I think I am going to be ill. With hard driving they could have reached Berlin that night, but in one of the smaller towns that they were passing through the streets were decorated for some sort of celebration, and Centaine asked and was told that it was the festival of the local patron saint.