The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  People caught leaving the country were sometimes arrested, sometimes merely stripped of their valuable possessions and allowed to proceed.

  ‘That Ionescu’s gone,’ said Bella. ‘Him that used to be Minister of Information. He overbalanced trying to face all ways at once. He became a Guardist but he knew he was for it. His children were carrying little fur muffs. Muffs! – at this time of the year, I ask you! Naturally they roused suspicion. The customs men tore them to pieces and found them stuffed with jewellery and gold. I always thought him too clever by half.’

  Another who went was Ionescu’s mistress, the singer Florica. She reached Trieste and then turned round and came back again. She was reported as having said: ‘I thought of my country and knew that at such a time I could not leave it.’

  But, as Bella pointed out, she was a gipsy and no true Rumanian, so her behaviour was, as one might expect, peculiar.

  Harriet, as she walked about in the sticky autumnal heat, saw no open signs of persecution, not even of the Dâmboviţa Jews. What she did see, daily, were processions of Cabinet ministers, civil servants, officers of the armed services, priests, nuns and schoolchildren following the most impressive funerals. For the Guardist leaders were busy disinterring their Martyrs. Raised in batches to which were given heroic names like the Decemvirü and the Nicadorii, the bodies were paraded in giant coffins all over the city and reburied with ceremonies that must be attended by any who hoped to maintain any sort of position in public life.

  Down in the Chicken Market Harriet found a memorial service being held over the spot where Calinescu’s murderers had lain. The trembling old peasant who sold her a cabbage said that among the mourners were ‘the greatest men in the world’.

  Who were they? she asked and was told: ‘Hitler, Mussolini, Count Ciano and the Emperor of Japan.’

  After the ceremony the site was roped off and spread each day with fresh flowers, to the inconvenience of the market traffic.

  ‘The great day, of course,’ said Bella, ‘will be when they dig up His Nibs at Fort Jilawa. They’ll wait till November, the anniversary of his death. Then, Nikko says, trouble will really begin.’

  The papers announced that the demand for admission to the Iron Guard was so great, the list had to be closed.

  Among those who appeared in Guardist uniform was the Pringles’ landlord, who was also their next-door neighbour. In the past, when he had met Harriet on the landing, he had greeted her courteously: now, in his green shirt and breeches, his moustache sternly waxed, he stared over her head and she began to fear him. He might have – almost certainly did have – a key to their flat. She remembered the mysterious disappearance of the oil-well plan. He had been one of her suspects. If he came in while they were out, he would almost certainly discover Sasha.

  Once or twice, when she left the flat, she saw a man dodge out of sight on the lower flight. She spoke of this to Guy, who thought it would be some agent of the landlord. Embarrassed at having English tenants, he might be seeking an excuse to break their agreement.

  She said to Despina: ‘Keep the front door bolted. If the landlord wants to come in, do not let him.’

  ‘No, no, corniţa,’ Despina assured her, appearing to understand the whole situation. ‘If anyone comes, I do like this …’ She opened the sitting-room door a crack and put her nose to it. ‘If it is the landlord – pouf! I do like this.’ She slammed the door shut. ‘He is a bad man,’ she added in explanation. ‘He beats his cook.’

  There were now four meatless days in a week, but even on the other days meat was hard to find. Despina would be away for two or three hours queueing at market stalls and often, on returning, would hold out, with a dramatic gesture, her empty basket. ‘In the market today, no sugar, no coffee, no meat, no fish, no eggs. Nothing, nothing.’

  Watching the processions, the daily pageantry amid utter confusion, it seemed to Harriet that the whole country had succumbed, without any sort of resistance, to a lunatic autocracy.

  She said to Guy: ‘Everyone in Bucharest is trailing round after these Guardist turn-outs. Why is there no opposition to it all?’

  ‘There’s no chance of any active opposition,’ he said. ‘The only people with the moral fibre to oppose anything are in prison. The Communists – but not only the Communists: the Liberal Democrats, everyone and anyone likely to show a spark of revolt: they’re all in prison.’

  ‘What about Maniu?’

  ‘What can he do? Anyway, from what I’ve seen of him, I should not think he’s much more than a showpiece: Rumania’s “Good Man”. He was the leader of the Transylvanian peasants, and Transylvania is lost. You must realise that this new dictatorship is much tougher than the old. There are not only prisons now, there are concentration camps: and there are these young men trained at Dachau, all waiting for a chance to beat someone up. Yet,’ Guy added, ‘there is opposition of a sort. A typical Rumanian opposition. Satire. It’s the most difficult sort to repress.’ He told her how in the Doi Trandifiri, the meeting place of intellectuals, there was proof that the liberal sanity of the past survived. Deathly fearful though people were, there they were still able to laugh. They had nicknamed the Iron Guard ‘le régime des pompes funèbres’ and a great many funny stories went round about Horia Sima and his visions. Sima was in conflict with Codreanu’s father who declared that his son’s spirit disapproved of the present leader and had appointed his father as his vicar-on-earth. The old man had to be put under house-arrest and, knowing he was in danger of assassination, he said he preferred to stay indoors as fewer accidents happened there.

  ‘There’s opposition, too,’ said Guy, ‘from a much more influential source – the German minister. He’s tired of all this marching and singing “Capitanul”. He wants the country back at work. Several big industrial firms have had to close down because the directors are in prison and the workers are all in the Iron Guard. The financial situation is chaotic, Carol banked all the national wealth abroad in his own name. Now it’s frozen. On top of that, the Guardists want to start a full-scale persecution of the Jews.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the Germans encourage that?’

  ‘No. What do they care about Rumanian racial purity. This is merely a raw material zone. Fabricius said to Sima: “Persecutions are all very well in Germany where there are ten efficient Germans to one efficient Jew, but here there isn’t one efficient Rumanian to ten efficient Jews. If we do get law and order here, we’ll probably have the Germans to thank for it.”’

  19

  Now that he saw him every day, Sasha had become for Guy a more evident responsibility. Finding that he could not borrow or hire a gramophone, Guy brought in a mouth-organ which Sasha accepted with more excitement than he had shown over the room. ‘But this is spiffing,’ he said, gazing delightedly at the mouth-organ. ‘Really spiffing,’ and he took it at once to his room.

  He kept the room tidy and made his own bed. He had pinned his drawings to the walls. The books he had borrowed from the sitting-room stood in a row on the bedside table. His possessions – a brush and comb, some pencils, paper and water-paints – were neatly set out before them. Whatever disorder might prevail in the outside world, he lived in order and was happy.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he began to pick out a tune he had heard on the radio and which seemed to Harriet painfully applicable to their case:

  ‘Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run,

  Don’t give the farmer his fun, fun, fun …’

  When they were alone Guy said to Harriet: ‘I’ve been speaking to David. He thinks Foxy Leverett might help us about Sasha.’

  ‘What could Foxy Leverett do?’

  ‘Apparently he’s an adept at smuggling people over frontiers. But the whole problem may be settled in a different way. Supposing, things being as they are, the Soviets decided to invade? They could get here before the Germans.’

  ‘You think the Russians would protect the son of a banker who worked for Germany and piled up a fortune in Switzerland?
’

  ‘No, but he’d be no worse off than anyone else. He could lose himself in a crowd.’

  Harriet was beginning to fear that the hope of losing himself in the crowd was the most they could offer Sasha.

  Next morning, Bella, telephoning as was her habit, asked: ‘I suppose you didn’t listen last night to the German Propaganda broadcast?’

  ‘We never listen to German broadcasts.’

  ‘Neither do we.’ Bella paused, evidently edging her way, with tact and consciousness of tact, into revelation unwelcome to Harriet. ‘I don’t want to worry you,’ she said. ‘But …’

  Harriet asked, on edge: ‘What is it?’

  ‘I feel I must tell you. I was rung up last night by a friend, Doamna Pavlovici – the Pavlovicis listen sometimes, just to get some real news.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Germans read out a list of Englishmen in Bucharest who they think are up to something. It was a warning. In fact, they said: “These men will be answerable to the Gestapo.”’

  ‘Did you know any of them?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did. There was Foxy Leverett and David Boyd – but they’re all right. They must have diplomatic protection.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Inchcape and Clarence Lawson.’

  ‘And Guy?’

  ‘Doamna Pavlovici said she heard the name Guy Pringle – that’s why she rang me. But she’s a bit of a feather-brain. She could have made a mistake.’

  Harriet, her throat constricted, did not try to reply. Bella, conscious of having shocked her listener into silence, hurried on to say: ‘I couldn’t keep you in ignorance. You were sure to hear, anyway. I thought you could have a word with Guy. He’s a bit foolhardy, you know. He goes to that Doi Trandifiri – a dangerous place, full of reds and artists. It’ll be raided very soon, you’ll see. And that summer school with all those Jews! I don’t need to tell you …’

  ‘There aren’t many students left, now.’

  ‘No, I imagine not.’ Bella spoke as though the fact were grimly significant. There was a pause in which Harriet felt too depleted to speak. It was broken by Bella who said she had bought Nikko’s release again and they had decided to spend the last weeks of summer in Sinai: ‘We’re sick of “Capitanul” and all the rest of it. We need a break. So I’ll say “Goodbye”, my dear, just in case you’re not here when we get back.’

  As soon as Bella had put down her receiver, Harriet telephoned Inchcape at his office. It was part of his work to listen to the German broadcasts and he had, he admitted, heard his name, and the names of Guy and Clarence, mentioned the previous night.

  ‘Among a lot of others,’ he said. ‘They gave a list of the engineers who were kept on in key positions on the oil fields. Yes, they did say something about the Gestapo. A lot of empty threats. Anyway, the Gestapo isn’t here and I doubt if it ever will be.’

  ‘But the Guardists are,’ said Harriet. ‘And they’d be only too glad to do the Gestapo’s work for it. Surely the summer school could be closed now! There aren’t half a dozen students left. Guy is there every day. Almost alone. An obvious target. And it’s all for nothing.’

  ‘Not for nothing. The school’s a good thing. It’s showing the flag. It’s cocking a snook. If we closed down, it’d please them no end. They’re trying to scare us. It’s the old war of nerves, but I’m not playing their game. They want us to take to our heels – so that’s exactly what we won’t do.’

  Checked by this bravado, Harriet still held to the telephone, seeking in her mind some plea that would move Inchcape to reason, but Inchcape was not waiting for it. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘I’ve other things to worry about. I’ve just heard Pinkrose will be landing on top of us any day now.’ He spoke as though the professor’s arrival was an intolerable impertinence.

  ‘But aren’t you expecting him?’ Harriet asked.

  Inchcape gave an exasperated laugh. ‘To tell you the truth, what with one thing and another, I’d forgotten about the old buffer.’

  ‘He couldn’t be coming at a worse time,’ Harriet said, intending sympathy, but Inchcape would have none of it.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘These internecine squabbles need not concern us. You’re getting jittery, my child. Would King Michael bring his mother here if there were cause for alarm?’

  Inchcape rang off before she could reply. She went to her room to dress. The heat was abating and it was possible now to wear something heavier than silk or cotton. For the first time since early spring, she put on a blue linen suit she had brought from England.

  Sasha, when he saw her in it, put a hand on her sleeve, smiling, his eyes warm with an adoration he was too artless to conceal. He said: ‘My mother had a suit like this.’

  Although it was still early, Harriet walked to the University, needing to assure herself that the broadcast had not, so far, provoked trouble.

  The door stood open. The porter, as usual, was nowhere to be seen. Anyone could enter. She felt furious with the man who, were he at his post, could at least give warning of attack.

  She sat on the porter’s bench and stared out through the peaked doorway at the glittering street. The gipsies, selling the only thing plentiful in Bucharest now, were in their usual high spirits. Their danger was as great as that of the Jews, but they knew nothing about it.

  She could hear Guy’s voice coming through an open door halfway down the passage. She could also hear, from somewhere distant in the street, the sound of ‘Capitanul’. She had become so used to it, she would scarcely have noticed it had she not been listening for it. The Guardists were approaching the University. If any of them turned in here, she decided, she would rush to the door and shut and bolt it. She wondered if the Legation would let her have a revolver. She was becoming obsessed with the need to get Guy and Sasha through this situation unharmed. Sitting there, hypnotised by her own inactivity, she began to think of them as enclosed in a protective emanation that came of her will to save them.

  She wondered how many students were in the room with Guy. She had always been somewhat irritated by the students and their claim on him. He imagined his energy was inexhaustible, but she felt that given the opportunity, they would drain him dry: and now it was for their sake that he was here at risk.

  She rose and made her way silently down the passage to the lecture room. ‘Capitanul’ was still wavering about in the distance. Not a great many were singing. She imagined a small posse out on some sinister mission.

  The door of Guy’s classroom had been propped open to create a draught.

  Harriet, pressing against the wall, could see unseen through the opening. There were three students – two girls and a youth, sitting together in the front desk, their faces raised in strained attention.

  Harriet moved to see Guy. Her foot slipped on the linoleum, making no more noise than a mouse. At once a frisson went through the room. The three heads turned. Guy’s voice slowed. He did not pause, but he glanced at the door. Harriet remained motionless, scarcely breathing. The lecture went on.

  She tiptoed back to the bench and sat down again, satisfied, having discovered that beneath his apparent unconcern he was as alert as she was to the dangers about them.

  20

  That day, a Friday, was the last on which the summer school opened. The following afternoon, Inchcape called on Guy to tell him that the new Minister of Information had ordered the school and the British Propaganda Bureau to close immediately.

  He said: ‘Had to agree about the school – no choice, no choice at all – but the Bureau is part of the Legation. I’ve just been to see H.E. I said: “While the Legation remains here, we’ve a right to our Bureau.” I must say the old boy was pleasant enough. Indeed, he was pathetic. He seems dazed by the way things are shaping. “All right, Inchcape,” he said. “All right. If you want to keep your little shop open I’ll see what can be done, but the school must close.”’

  ‘Why?’ Guy asked.

  Inchcape shrugged. ‘The Minister said if
the closure were not effected as from today, we would all be ordered out. No reprieve.’

  Guy was not satisfied. He said: ‘If they’ve relented about the Bureau, they’re just as likely to relent about the school.’

  ‘No. Something’s going on here. There’s a rumour that a German Military Mission is on its way. The Guardist minister was adamant. They feel – not unnaturally, I suppose – that a British school is an anomaly in their midst.’ Inchcape’s tone was rather smug but held a hint of defiance, so it occurred to Harriet that he had probably bartered the school for the Bureau: ‘Let me keep one open and you can close the other.’ Whatever the sacrifice, Inchcape must maintain an official position.

  For her part, however, she was only too thankful to see the school end. She said: ‘So there’s nothing to keep us here. We could take a holiday. We could go to Greece.’

  Guy, looking gloomy, said without enthusiasm: ‘We might get to Predeal, but no farther. I have to prepare for the new term …’

  ‘But if the English Department is closed …’

  ‘Nothing has been said about the Department closing,’ said Inchcape. ‘All they demanded, was the closure of the summer school.’

  ‘But surely they must mean the English Department, too. Yesterday, Guy had only three students. You can’t open a department without students.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be swarming back when the term starts. They’ll feel there’s safety in numbers. We’ll weather another winter here.’

  Making no attempt to argue on a point that would soon settle itself, Harriet said: ‘When can we go to Predeal?’

  Before Guy could reply, Inchcape broke in: ‘Not next week. Our distinguished visitor arrives next week. This is an opportunity to make arrangements. I shall meet him at Baneasa, of course, but I’ll expect my staff to be in attendance. Then we’ll have to give a party; a reception. We can do nothing about that until we know the day of his arrival.’