The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  ‘Let us give our order,’ Harriet pleaded.

  David jerked round on her and snapped: ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I won’t shut up,’ she snapped back, and David, suddenly sniggering, looked down, all his diffidence returned. ‘We must order, of course,’ he said. ‘I suppose we’ll have Fleică de Braşov.’ They gave their order and the waiter was released.

  ‘Tell us what is going to happen here,’ said Guy.

  ‘Several things could happen.’ David shifted his chair closer to the table. ‘There could be a peasant revolt against Germany, but we, of course, will see that does not happen. The Peasant Party is in opposition to the Sovereign, so it gets no support from us. I’m the only Englishman in this country who has met the peasant leaders …’

  Guy interrupted: ‘I met them with you.’

  ‘Well, we’re the only two Englishmen who have bothered to meet them: yet those men are our allies. They are our true allies. They would lead a rising on our behalf, but they are ignored and snubbed. We have declared ourselves for Carol and his confederates.’

  ‘Why are the peasants so despised?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘They suffer from hunger, pellagra and sixteen hundred years of oppression – all enervating diseases.’

  ‘Sixteen hundred years?’

  ‘Rather longer.’ David now set out upon a history of Rumania’s oppression, beginning with the withdrawal of the Roman legions in the third century after Christ and the appearance of the Visigoths. He passed from the ravaging Huns to Gepides, Langobards and Avars, to the Slavs and ‘a race of Turkish nomads called Bulgars’. ‘Then in the ninth century,’ he said, ‘the Magyars swept over Eastern Europe.’

  ‘Isn’t all this part of the migration of nations?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Yes. Rumania is the part of Europe over which most of them migrated. There were, of course, intervals – for instance, a brief period of glory under Michael the Brave. That led to the most wretched and tragic period of Rumanian history – the rule of the Phanariots.’

  The waiter brought them soup. As David emptied his plate, he followed the further misfortunes of the Rumanian people until the peasant revolt of 1784. ‘Suppressed,’ he said, putting down his spoon, ‘in a manner I would not care to describe during a meal.’

  Harriet was about to speak. David raised a hand to silence her. ‘We come now,’ he said, ‘to the nineteenth century, when Turkish power was waning and Rumania was being shared out between Russia and Austria …’

  They had ordered the veal grilled with herbs. It was brought to the table on a board and there chopped into small pieces with two choppers. Silenced by the noise, David frowned until it was over, then started at once to talk again. He was interrupted by the arrival of a short, round-bodied, round-faced man who entered quickly and came quickly to the table, smiling radiantly about him.

  ‘Ah!’ said David, rising, ‘here’s Klein.’ Klein seized on both his hands and, talking rapidly in German, displayed an ecstatic pleasure in their reunion.

  When introduced to the Pringles, Klein bowed from the waist, saying: ‘How nice … how pleased to meet you!’ but he looked unsure of them until David said: ‘It’s all right. They’re friends.’

  The word ‘friends’ had, apparently, a special connotation. ‘Ah, so!’ said Klein, relaxing into the chair that Guy had brought to the table for him. He had the fresh, snub, pink and white face of a child. Had it not been for the fact he was bald and what hair he had was grey, he might have passed for a very plump schoolboy – but a super-subtle boy who, despite his smile of good humour, was assessing everyone and everything about him. He accepted wine, which he poured into a tumbler and mixed with mineral water, but he would not eat. He had come, he said, from the first meeting of a newly formed committee.

  ‘An important committee, you understand. It exists to discuss the big demand Germany now makes on Rumania for food. And what did we do on the committee? We ate, drank and made funny remarks. There was such a buffet – from here to here,’ he indicated some twenty foot of the wall, ‘with roasts and turkeys, lobsters and caviare. Such food! I can tell you, in Germany today they have forgotten such food ever existed.’

  He laughed aloud while David, watching him, curled his lip in appreciation of this picture of the Rumanians in committee.

  Klein gave Guy a smile, confiding and affectionate, and said: ‘I am, you understand, economic adviser to the Cabinet. I am called to this committee because each day Germany asks for more – more meat, more coffee, more maize, more cooking oil. Where can it all come from? And now she says: “Plant soya beans.” “What are soya beans?” we ask one another. We do not know, but Germany must have them. Every day come these requests – and each time they are more like demands. The Cabinet is nervous. They say: “Send for Klein, Klein must advise us.” I am a Jew. I am without status. But I understand economics.’

  ‘Klein was one of the best economists in Germany,’ said David.

  Klein smiled and twitched a shoulder, but did not repudiate this claim. ‘Here it is very funny,’ he said. ‘They call me in to advise. I say: “Produce more: spend less.” What do they reply? They laugh at me. “Ach, Klein,” they say, “you are only a Jew. What can you know of the soul of our great country? God has given us everything. We are rich. Our land all the time produces for us. It cannot be exhausted. You are a silly little Jew.”’

  As Klein laughed, his face flushed with mischievous glee, Guy laughed with him, delighted by this new acquaintance. And no one, Harriet was beginning to realise, enjoyed a new acquaintance more than Guy did. Aglow with interest in Klein, he neglected his food and, leaning forward, questioned him about his unofficial position in the Cabinet, then about his departure from Germany and arrival in Rumania two years before.

  Klein’s story was much like that of other refugee Jews in Bucharest except that his reputation as an economist had enabled him to stay in Germany longer than most. He had been warned in the end by a German friend that his arrest was imminent. He had walked empty-handed out of his Berlin flat, taken a train to the Rumanian frontier and, having had no time to buy the usual entrance permit, had crossed the frontier on foot after dark. He had been caught and spent six months in the notorious Bistriţa prison, where Drucker was now held. Friends had bought his release.

  ‘But still,’ he said, ‘I have no permit to work. Still I am illegal. If I am not useful, then back I go to Bistriţa.’ He laughed happily at the prospect.

  David, watching Guy’s eager questioning of Klein, twisted his mouth with a quizzical amusement, pleased that he had brought them so successfully together. Harriet felt less pleased. She had heard a great deal about David Boyd, whom Guy regarded as an especial friend, one whose knowledge and conversation offered considerably more than the limited, personal concerns of Inchcape and Clarence. Now here was David, whose interests were, like his own, impersonal, social, economic and historical. She sighed at the thought of so much talk. It was not, she told herself, that she was unappreciative, but the impersonal quickly tired her. She felt a little out of it, a little jealous.

  Perhaps sensing this, Klein turned smiling to her to include her. He said: ‘So here we all are Left-side men, eh? And Doamna Preen-gel? She, too, is Left-side?’

  ‘No,’ said Harriet, ‘I am fighting the solitary battle of the reactionary.’

  Guy laughed to prevent Klein taking this seriously, and squeezed her hand.

  Klein said: ‘You like Rumania, Doamna Preen-gel? It is interesting here, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘But it is interesting,’ Klein insisted. ‘And wait! It will become more interesting. Do you think the Allies can safeguard this country? I think not. It will be necessary to buy off the Germans with more and more food – with so much food, there will be a famine. If you stay, you will see the break-up of a country. You will see revolution, ruin, occupation by the enemy …’

  ‘I don’t want to stay so long.’

  ‘But you will see so much,
’ Klein reasoned with her, ‘and all so interesting.’ He looked round the table as though offering them all a joyous future. ‘I say to this committee: “Listen! In this country it is necessary that we have 200,000 wagon-loads of wheat in one year. This year, with the land workers mobilised, we shall have perhaps 20,000, perhaps less. It is necessary,” I say, “that you demobilise those peasants and at once send them back to the land. If you do not, the people will starve.” And they laugh at me and say: “We know you, Klein, you are of the Left. You do not look to the glory of Greater Rumania, you look to the welfare of the stupid, dirty peasants. Rumania is rich. Rumania cannot starve. Here, one day you throw seed on the ground, the next day it is bread. If we are short of wheat, merely it is necessary to stop exports.” “If you do that,” I say, “how will you make up the money?” “All that is necessary,” they say, “is a new tax.” I say: “What can we tax? What is not already taxed?” And they laugh at me: “Ha, Klein, it is for you to answer! You are economist.”’

  Shaking with laughter at the thought of the trouble ahead, Klein put a hand to Harriet’s shoulder. ‘Listen, Doamna Preen-gel: Rumania is like a foolish person who has inherited a great fortune. It is all dissipated in vulgar nonsense. You know the story the Rumanians tell about themselves: that God, when He had given gifts to the nations, found He had given to Rumania everything – forests, rivers, mountains, minerals, oil and a fertile soil that yielded many crops. “Hah,” said God. “This is too much,” and so, to strike a balance, he put here the worst people he could find. The Rumanians laugh at this. It is a true, sad joke!’ said Klein, but he told it without any sign of sadness.

  The meal was finished. Most of the other diners had left the restaurant; David, Guy and Klein however seemed prepared to stay all afternoon. After a while, Klein passed to stories of his life in prison. He gave the impression it had all been uproariously funny.

  ‘And it was so interesting,’ he said, ‘so interesting! With such a lot of people crowded in a common cell, there was such a life, such stories, such feuds, such scandals. Always something happening. I remember one day the warders came in to beat a prisoner who was a little mad – in prison many get a little mad – and as they beat him, he screamed and screamed. This the warders did not like, so they put over his head a pillow of feathers. It stopped the screaming but when they took it off – what a surprise! The man was dead. Smothered! The warders stood like this …’ Klein’s mouth fell open and his eyes protruded, then he laughed: ‘And the prisoners – oh, they laughed so much!’

  Klein went on to describe the cells slimed with damp, the floors deep in filth, the raped boys who, once corrupted, sold themselves for a few lei, and all the new crimes that came into existence in this community of men packed together with the hatreds, angers and lusts of propinquity.

  ‘How terrible!’ said Harriet.

  Klein laughed: ‘But so interesting!’ He explained that he had never been officially released but had made a condoned escape. ‘And when they told me I might escape, almost I did not wish to leave, it was so interesting. Almost I wished I might stay to hear the end of so many scandals and feuds, and plots and plans. It was like leaving a world.’

  At last the head waiter came himself and slapped their bill down in the middle of the table. When they had no choice but to go, Guy invited Klein and David to come back to the flat for tea, but they were going to the Minerva for a private talk. David agreed to call in later and Harriet, rather thankfully, took Guy home alone.

  When they were indoors, he handed her a sealed envelope on which was written ‘Top Secret’ and said: ‘Sheppy gave these out. He says they’re to be kept under lock and key. I’m afraid of losing mine. Put it away for me, somewhere safe.’

  Most of the drawers of the flat had locks but not one lock a key. Harriet put the envelope into a small drawer inside the writing-desk, saying: ‘It should be safe there. After all, we’re the only people in the flat.’

  15

  Clarence, returning from his party with the Polish officers, made his appearance after tea. He entered unsteadily, tried to cross the room and fell, instead, into a chair. Despina, who had admitted him, went out exploding with laughter.

  ‘I want to get drunk,’ said Clarence.

  Harriet said: ‘You are drunk.’

  He waved an arm laxly in the air. ‘Tell Despina to go out and bring back lots of beer.’

  ‘All right, where’s the money?’

  ‘Ha, you spoil everything,’ Clarence grumbled. He shut his eyes.

  Despina now made an excuse to return and take another look at him. He shouted at her: ‘Hey, Despina, buy beer,’ and handed her a hundred lei.

  ‘You won’t get drunk on a hundred lei,’ said Harriet.

  ‘I don’t want to get drunk. I am drunk. I only want to stay drunk.’

  Guy, who had been reading, put down his book, saying: ‘Stop wrangling, you two,’ and produced a five-hundred-lei note. He sent Despina for the beer. While she was out, David arrived, his cap and shoulders white with snow. When he had taken off his outdoor clothes and settled by the fire, he noticed Clarence sprawling, eyes shut, sulky and uncomfortable, and asked with derision:

  ‘What’s the matter with Clarence?’

  ‘He’s drunk,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Not exactly drunk,’ Clarence’s beautiful and gentle voice came as though from a great distance, ‘but I hope to be.’

  Harriet said: ‘Do you want to get drunk, too, David?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ David looked round for a drink.

  ‘It’s coming.’

  Despina came back with a boy carrying a crate of beer. Excited by the sight of it, Guy jumped up, saying: ‘Let’s have a party. Let’s invite everyone we can think of.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Clarence roused himself. ‘There won’t be enough,’ but Guy was already at the telephone ringing Inchcape. Inchcape said the snow was falling heavily; and he was in no mood to come out. Guy then tried to contact Dubedat, whom he thought might, for some reason, be at the Doi Trandafiri. While a piccolo was searching the café for Dubedat, Guy, with nothing to do but hold the receiver, reaffirmed his belief that Dubedat should be invited to move into the spare room.

  ‘A man is made by his circumstances,’ said Guy. ‘If you want to change him, you must change his circumstances.’

  Harriet was aggrieved by Guy’s persistence, yet felt an irritated respect for it. She replied sharply: ‘He can change his own circumstances. He’s earning money now. You should not deprive him of initiative.’

  Her tone caused in the other two a slightly embarrassed stir, so that she felt annoyed both with herself and with Guy.

  Learning that Dubedat was not to be found in the Doi Trandafiri, Guy rang the English Bar to see whom he could find there. David, impatient with the disconnected conversation that resulted, began to talk of a visit he planned to make to the peasant leader, Maniu, who had a house at Cluj. Clarence sighed ostentatiously and said: ‘Oh Lord!’ When David gazed at him in surprised enquiry, he giggled and said: ‘Why don’t you learn to talk to yourself David?’

  David’s left eyebrow rose, his small mouth turned to one side. Surveying Clarence’s abandoned figure with amused contempt, he said: ‘Because, my dear Clarence, I don’t want to talk to myself.’

  ‘Then you have more sympathy with others.’ After a moment Clarence, struck by his own wit, began to laugh helplessly.

  David watched him with an expression that asked the world: ‘Have you ever seen a more ludicrous sight?’

  Suddenly aware of the irritated tedium in the room, Guy put down the receiver, jumped up and said: ‘More beer?’ His return to the centre of things restored the atmosphere, and David, a full glass in his hand, asked: ‘Well, what’s been happening here since war broke out?’

  Guy said: ‘Apart from the assassination, nothing.’

  Clarence suddenly shouted: ‘Sheppy’s Fighting Force.’

  There was a pause. David, his tone not much interested, his gla
nce acute, asked: ‘What is Sheppy’s Fighting Force?’

  There was another pause, then Guy, torn between the need for discretion and the desire to entertain his friend, said: ‘We’re supposed to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘David’ll be dragged in,’ said Clarence. ‘Everybody’ll be dragged in, except me. I opted out. I said to him,’ Clarence waved his glass about, ‘I said: “I’m a pacifist. I’m not prepared to take life. I’d like to know exactly what you want us to do.” “I’m not at liberty to tell you what you’re expected to do,” said Sheppy. So I said: “I think it would save time if I told you, here and now, I’m not at liberty to do it.”’

  Laughing in spite of himself, Guy agreed: ‘He did say that.’

  Clarence, revivified by the beer and his own brilliance, burst in: ‘I said: “I’m seconded from the British Council. The Council does not permit its members to take part in anything but cultural activities.” And Sheppy said’ – here Clarence flung a finger into air and made a drunken effort to imitate Sheppy’s peremptory tone – ‘“You are called here as Englishmen – young, robust, patriotic Englishmen who ought to be on active service and for one reason or another are not. You are required to perform an important mission …” “I’m not robust,” I said, “I have a weak chest.”’ Here Clarence subsided again, giggling to himself.

  Harriet, sitting forgotten outside the circle, saw David smile at Guy in innocent enquiry: ‘Who is this fellow Sheppy?’

  ‘He’s out here to organise a sort of private army.’

  ‘What does he expect to do?’

  ‘It’s all very hush-hush.’

  ‘Have you signed the Official Secrets Act?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then why worry? Anyway, he can’t make you do anything.’

  ‘I know that. But he’s right. We ought to be on active service and if we’re not, we should do what we can.’

  ‘What is he like, Sheppy?’

  So much had been revealed now, that Guy clearly felt there was little point in keeping back the rest. He did not interrupt as Clarence described Sheppy marching into the room where they were gathered at the Athénée Palace, hanging a map on the wall and demanding: ‘What have we here?’ One of the telephone engineers, stepping forward and examining it, had said, as though making a revelation: ‘The Danube.’ ‘Right!’ Sheppy had congratulated him. ‘Now,’ Sheppy went on, ‘I expect from you laddies implicit obedience. Two or three of my henchmen are being flown out and you must regard them as your superior officers. You’ll be rank and file. Yours not to reason why, yours but to do and die. Right?’ He had paused for agreement and been met with silence. He had gone on: ‘I’m not telling you much – security and all that – but I can tell you this. We’re forming a Striking Force to strike the enemy where he’ll feel it most. One place we’ll strike him is the belly. Nearly four hundred thousand tons of wheat went from Rumania to Germany last year – and how did it get there? Along the Danube. Big plans are afoot. We’ll be blowing things up. One of them’s the Iron Gates. Remember, this isn’t a lark: it’s an adventure.’ He had brought his one hand down on the table and his one eye had jerked about from face to face. ‘There’ll be lots of fun, and we’re letting you in on it.’ Then he had drawn himself upright and assuming his machine-gun rattle, had shouted: ‘Be prepared. Await orders. Keep your traps shut. Dis-miss.’