The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  Whether the King was nobody or not, Harriet thought, he had been the ally and protector of the English community. She was not sorry that he was still on the throne.

  Neither was Guy. If he felt no enthusiasm for the King, he felt less for Antonescu who had, from necessity, been set up as a symbol of honest strength in the midst of perfidy and confusion. People saw him as a solution simply because there was no solution. They might have cause to regret their illusion.

  The day passed without incident. To most people it seemed the situation had been resolved so they were astonished when the police appeared in force that evening and ordered everyone off the streets.

  The Pringles, on their way to the English Bar, found themselves encompassed in the square. They hurried to reach the hotel before they could be turned back, but the revolving door was locked. No one could leave or enter. They ran to the glass door of the hairdressing shop: that, too, was bolted. The windows began to fill with the faces of guests inside. Harriet saw Clarence looking out at them and waved to him. Could he not obtain their admission? He shook his head in bewildered helplessness.

  Galpin, Screwby and other journalists were peering out of a side window. A porter thrust his way in front of them and pulled down a blind.

  The emptied square looked vast, the cobbles reflecting the rosy gleams of the sunset. In the hotel, the palace, Cina’s and the other buildings, all blinds had been pulled down, their pallid surfaces imposing a sabbatical void upon the evening.

  A police officer, seeing the Pringles, the only civilians now at large, told them to go home. Guy asked the reason for this police action and was told that martial law had been declared.

  ‘Why?’ Guy asked. ‘What is happening?’

  The officer shrugged and looked blank, then unable to keep his knowledge to himself, he said an attack was about to be made on the palace.

  ‘By whom?’

  The officer did not know.

  As the Pringles passed out through the cordon, troops were arriving in lorries. A tank, painted sky-blue, had stationed itself outside the hotel. Machine-guns were being set up wherever there was cover. In the street outside the entrance to the Pringles’ block a military van with a loudspeaker was demanding not only that everyone stay indoors, but that the blinds be drawn and balconies vacated. Anyone found in the street after half-past six would be in danger of arrest.

  Entering the flat some fifteen minutes after leaving it, the Pringles were delighted to find that David had arrived during their absence and was peering out through the balcony door.

  ‘What is happening?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘A coup, I imagine,’ said David. ‘Organised by the general. He’s divested the King but Lupescu and Urdureanu are still in the palace biding their time. In fact, people who know are laughing at the decree. The King will simply wait until he can seize power again. So we have this attack on the palace. A put-up job, but it may work.’

  ‘It’s a revolution?’

  ‘A sort of revolution. If we get down out of sight we’ll be able to see everything.’

  There was no sound from the square. Traffic had stopped. Darkness fell and still nothing happened. The two men lay peering through the stone tracery while Harriet pressed against the door-jamb. There was no sign of life below. Everyone, police as well as military, was concealed in shadow. The horse-man on his giant horse sat in solitude. About him the lights were reflected on a world of polished ebony.

  The silence of the waiting town had no undertones. It was as complete as the silence of the country.

  At last Harriet, cramped and bored, went out to the kitchen. The servants were all on the roof awaiting events. Harriet made sandwiches and took them into the room. The three sat cross-legged to picnic on the balcony floor. When Harriet returned to her position by the door-jamb, she said: ‘I can hear singing.’ The song was no more than a pulse in the air. As they listened, Yakimov arrived. The singing grew louder. With it came the sound of marching. The marchers were coming from the centre of the town. The singing stopped, cut short by an order, and there was a sound of shouting instead. The shouts grew nearer. An order was given in the square. The shadows came suddenly to life.

  ‘Now,’ said David, ‘we should see something.’

  Soldiers with rifles at the ready were running out of the darkness to range themselves across the junctions of the Calea Victoriei and the Boulevard Elisabeta.

  The noise of approaching feet and voices came like a rush of water, and soon it was possible to pick out individual threats to the King, Lupescu and Urdureanu. There was a repeated call of death to the King.

  The marchers were now very near. Another order was given in the square. The soldiers ranged across the Boulevard Elisabeta raised their rifles. The marchers came on. An officer bawled again. The soldiers fired into the air. The report brought the uproar to an immediate stop. There was a moment of silence, then the scuffle of retreat – but, retreating, the marchers raised their voices in a song of defiance. It was ‘Capitanul’.

  The soldiers remained in position, but there were no more orders. ‘Capitanul’ became again a pulse on the air, then faded out of hearing.

  Guy and David rose to their feet. Guy said: ‘Let’s have a drink.’

  Harriet asked: ‘That was a poor sort of revolution?’

  ‘It was enough,’ said David. ‘Antonescu can now say: “You’re in mortal danger. I cannot protect you. You must go.”’ Guy poured out the ţuică and David held up his glass: ‘Farewell to the King. He’ll be gone before morning.’

  Later the story went round that that night Carol wrote on his dinner menu: ‘Auf Wiedersehen’, resigned to going but certain his country must in the end recall so sharp-witted a King.

  16

  The following morning Harriet could hear the babble in the square before she was out of bed. The city was celebrating.

  During breakfast, Despina darted in and out of the room with stories shouted up to her by the other servants. The King, she said, had refused to sign the abdication order until 4 a.m., and then only after a squabble about the pension he would receive. He had been driven at once to Constanza in a German diplomatic car and put on board his yacht. Lupescu and Urdureanu had gone with him, but the palace was not empty. There was a new King, Michael; young, handsome and good, he would rule benignly, like an English king.

  Meanwhile, people were pouring into the square from every side street, many of them peasants who had come from the country, the men in white frieze, the women brilliant as oriental birds in the dresses they wore only on feast days and holidays. It was clear that no one would work today. Harriet said to Guy: ‘Surely you need not go to the University?’ but he thought he ought to put in an appearance, and took himself off as usual.

  Harriet was still at the table when she heard ‘Capitanul’ being sung beneath the balcony. She ran out, her coffee-cup in her hand, and gazed down on the ranks of green-clad men who were marching round the church below her. They cut through their audience, straight across the square to the palace, where the guards, who the night before had fired over their heads, now raised arms in the fascist salute.

  As they lined up in their hundreds before the palace, the crowd surged about them, kissing their hands and slapping their backs.

  The jubilation so stimulated the air that she felt jubilant herself. Yet what was there to rejoice about? The new regime might mean a fresh start, but the lost provinces were still lost. The country must still obey the demands of its voracious ally.

  Harriet was recalled by shouts of ‘Corniţa’. Despina had been out and now, aglow with all the sensations, congratulations and fantasies of the market-place, stood in the room with one hand behind her back. As Harriet entered, she whipped out her hand with a flourish and presented a roast of meat.

  It was Friday, a meatless day. ‘Special for the abdication,’ she said: ‘and it is not veal, it is beef.’ They had not eaten beef since early spring. ‘Now the King is gone,’ she cried, ‘there will be no mor
e meatless days. We shall eat roast beef for every meal,’ and she said that when a peasant, recognising her as Hungarian, had refused to serve her, she had shouted: ‘Sitie kiansinlai blogi,’ and overthrown his basket of tomatoes. The bystanders were in such a state of revelry that they treated the incident as a joke.

  ‘Is no one sorry the King has gone?’ Harriet asked.

  Despina shrieked with laughter at the idea. ‘No one, no one. A robber, a cheat, a lecher – such was the King! Away with him!’ She made a rude gesture of dismissal and described how Carol and Lupescu, about to leave the palace with boxes of jewels and bags of gold, had been seized by Horia Sima and flown to Berlin where the Führer waited to repay old scores. ‘O să-le taie gâtul,’ she said, sweeping a finger across her own throat.

  ‘Is this true?’ Harriet unbelievingly asked.

  True? Of course it was true. Everyone was talking about it.

  An uproar from the square sent Harriet hurrying out with Despina at her heels. The young King was standing on the main balcony of the palace – a tall young man in army uniform, his ministers behind him. As he lifted a hand in greeting, the crowd howled its enthusiasm. For the first time, Harriet saw men and small boys clambering over the statue of Carol the Great. Soldiers, making way for the cars that were trying to reach the palace, shook hands on all sides with excited members of the crowd.

  When the new King retired, those near the palace railing, made bold by the good-fellowship of the times, ventured inside. Soon, people were strolling in and out of the gates and round the small ornamental lawns as freely as in a public park.

  Despina gasped in astonishment. Never, never, she said, had such a thing been done before.

  Harriet felt she must go out and see these wonders at closer range, but as she was about to leave the flat, there was a ring at the door. Bella had called.

  Harriet had heard nothing from her since their chance meeting in the Calea Victoriei. Now, her arms full of flowers, she threw herself on Harriet with more animation than she had ever shown before. Handing her a bunch of roses as though the occasion were one of rejoicing for them both, she said: ‘Oh, the excitement. It’s wonderful. Wonderful,’ then seeing that Harriet was holding bag and gloves, she shouted: ‘But you can’t go out. You might be attacked. Carol was pro-British, so the English are terribly unpopular. It’ll pass, of course – but, just at the moment, you’re safer indoors.’

  ‘You weren’t attacked.’

  ‘Oh, I’m different. I have Rumanian papers and I speak German. My German is so good the shopkeepers fall over themselves to serve me.’

  Harriet took her out to the balcony where she settled into a deck-chair, saying: ‘Why go out when you’ve got a front row seat?’

  Her skin apricot, her hair bleached by the sun, Bella was looking extremely handsome and seemed almost intoxicated by the night’s happenings. ‘How wonderful to have a strong man in power!’ she said. ‘Everyone is saying that Rumania will regain all her territory.’

  ‘What makes them think that?’

  ‘Because Antonescu is a real dictator. He knows how to deal with Hitler and Musso. He’s one of them. I don’t mind betting, within three months, this country will be on its feet again.’

  ‘What about the Iron Guard? They could cause a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Not them.’ Bella hooted at the thought of them. ‘The general will stand no nonsense from that rabble. Their leaders are all dead. People are saying they’re like potatoes: the best of them are underground.’

  Bella’s confidence was such she almost conveyed to Harriet her belief that there was nothing to fear: their world would settle down again. She felt cheered by Bella’s visit that brought back to her the pleasures of their companionship. In this city a woman could go nowhere alone but two women, chaperoning each other, were free to do what they liked. She said:

  ‘When this is all over, let us start going again to Mavrodaphne’s.’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ Bella heartily agreed. She looked up eagerly as Despina, who had run out to a cake-shop, set down a tray of coffee and cream cakes. ‘How much do you pay that girl?’ she asked when Despina had gone.

  ‘A thousand a week.’

  ‘Merciful heavens! That’s as much as a schoolmaster gets. You spoil them. I’ve told you before. It makes things difficult for the rest of us.’

  A fresh burst of cheering greeted Michael’s reappearance on the balcony.

  ‘He’s nice boy,’ said Bella, ‘but not as colourful as his father. It’s a pity about Carol, really. They say that when Antonescu shouted at him: “You must abdicate,” he burst into tears and said: “But I haven’t done so badly.” It made me feel quite sorry for him.’

  ‘He had a gift for bursting into tears at the right moment,’ Harriet said.

  Bella seemed to resent this. She said: ‘He was very virile.’

  ‘David Boyd says all these stories about his virility were put out by the palace.’

  ‘David Boyd!’ said Bella with contempt. ‘A lot he knows about it.’ To restore Bella’s good humour Harriet appealed to her for information: ‘What do you think has happened to Carol?’

  ‘Nobody knows for sure,’ Bella nodded towards the palace. ‘He may still be over there,’ she said.

  The Guardists, in full throat, appeared out of the Calea Victoriei.

  ‘There’s that bloody song again,’ said Bella. ‘But, you wait and see! The general will make mincemeat of that lot once he’s established.’

  The Guardists, a small contingent, were leading a long procession of priests and nuns. Bella explained that it was St Michael’s Day – not only the name-day of the new King but the day of Michael Codreanu, the Iron Guard saint. This coincidence must have impressed the crowds, for they watched in a respectful silence until suddenly there was renewed uproar. A man was leaving the palace on foot. Bella started up.

  ‘Good heavens,’ she said, ‘that’s Antonescu himself. People are going mad. I must go down and see the fun.’

  As Harriet made to rise, Bella put a hand on her shoulder. ‘No, you stay here,’ she commanded. ‘I’ll keep in touch. I’ll ring up every day and give you the news.’

  As soon as she saw the lift descend with Bella in it, Harriet ran down by the stairs. Because of Bella’s fears for her Harriet avoided the square, taking the first turning into the Boulevard Elisabeta. She had imagined the shops would be shut, but except for the sense of heightened activity life went on as usual. The peasants had brought in their produce on barrows. The restaurants were open. In the café gardens people sat beneath striped umbrellas drinking morning coffee.

  In the Calea Victoriei, however, the new force was manifesting itself. Young men and women, pushing their way boisterously through the crowds, were handing out Guardist leaflets. A group of girls, flushed, rather wild in their appearance, and still rather bashful of their own importance, were going from shop to shop distributing posters. As fast as they were delivered, the posters appeared in the windows, portraying a romantically handsome young man, long-haired, large-eyed, dark as a gipsy, beneath which were the words: CORNELIU ZELEA CODREANU – PREZENT. This was an idealised image of the captain who was ever present among his followers.

  Soon the face of Carol’s enemy, who had been, until a few weeks before, a despised traitor, was exhibited everywhere as national hero, martyr and saint.

  When Harriet entered the University, she knew at once that the building was empty, or almost empty. The porter had probably taken the day off. She went down the corridor. The lecture-room door stood open. No one had pulled down the blinds. Midday poured hot and heavy on to the vacant seats.

  She found Guy in his office. He was sitting over some exercise-books, apparently intent, but jerked his head round when she entered. Hoping for a student, he looked surprised to see her. He said: ‘They’ve all taken a holiday.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come home?’

  ‘There were three classes this morning. Someone might have turned up for one of them.�
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  ‘The Iron Guard is out in force today.’

  ‘I heard them. You weren’t anxious about me, were you?’ He took her hand affectionately. ‘No need to worry. The Guardists won’t cause trouble at the moment. They don’t want to spoil their chance of coming to power.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t stay here any longer. Let’s walk across the park.’

  He stood up, then thought to look at his watch. ‘The last hour has only just begun,’ he said. ‘I must allow a bit more time. Someone might turn up.’

  ‘They won’t. They dare not risk it.’

  But Guy would not give up hope. He strolled round the room, humming to himself, and Harriet, suffering for him, said: ‘I’ll go out and wait on the terrace.’

  He remained inside some ten minutes longer. When he appeared he said in a jaunty way: ‘Come along, then. Let’s go to the park.’

  The heat swelling in the air, pressed like an eiderdown on the senses, but there was no lull in the excitement. The gipsies were cock-a-hoop among their flower baskets, shrieking about them as though the day were a triumph for their race.

  The park was full of peasants. As usual most of them were grouped in wonder, gaping at the tapis vert. Its grass was still trimmed and watered, but the swagged surround was losing its shape. The general neglect was evident. The hedges were unclipped, weeds and grass grew in the beds. The canna lilies and gladioli fell unstaked across the paths. The dahlias, that last year had been a firework display, were lost in a jungle of dead flowers and foliage.

  The Pringles took the path that dropped down to the lake café. Peasants were sitting in the shade of the chestnuts, but stiffly, arms round knees, self-conscious here in the city, exuding, for all the festivity of their dress, a mute sense of endurance. In the past there had always been half a dozen men here selling sesame cakes and Turkish delight, but sweet-meats were rare and expensive now, and only one man remained. He held a tray of peanuts.