The Balkan Trilogy

by Olivia Manning

  No more asking for a favour;

  No more pleading for a pass …’

  He broke off at the sight of the Pringles and when Guy invited him to a drink he straightened himself up, and assumed the manners of normal life.

  ‘English are you?’ he said and, too polite to express his bewilderment at their presence in this beleaguered place, eyed them cautiously from head to foot.

  They began at once to ask him about events. He shook his head and said: ‘Funny do. They say there were millions of them.’

  ‘Really? Millions of what?’

  ‘Jerries on flippin’ motor-bikes. The Aussies picked them off so fast, there was this pile-up and they had to dynamite a road through them. And all the time Stukas and things buzzing round like flippin’ hornets. Never saw anything like it. Didn’t stand a chance. Right from the start; not a chance.’

  ‘Where are the Germans now?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Up the road somewhere.’

  ‘Not far, you think?’

  ‘Not unless someone’s stopped them.’

  Guy said: ‘They say the New Zealanders are still holding at the Aliakmon.’

  ‘When did y’hear that, then?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Ho, yesterday!’ the Corporal grunted: yesterday was not today. When Guy ordered him another drink, he looked the Pringles over again and felt forced to speak: ‘What are you two doing here, then? You’re not hanging on, are you?’

  ‘We’re hoping something will happen. The situation could be reversed?’

  ‘Don’t know about that. Can’t say.’

  ‘And you? What are going to do?’

  ‘We’re told to make for the bridge.’

  ‘Which bridge?’

  ‘Souf,’ said the Corporal. ‘Our lot’s going souf,’ then as it occurred to him that he was saying too much, he downed his drink at a gulp, picked up his cap and said: ‘Be seeing you,’ and went.

  From this information, such as it was, the Pringles surmised that the British forces intended to hold the Morea. They set off to take their news to Tandy’s table; but Ben Phipps was there before them and his agitated indignation put the Corporal right out of mind.

  ‘What do you think?’ Phipps demanded of them. ‘You’d never believe it. I’ve just come from the Legation. There’s nothing laid on. Not a thing. Not a ghost of a plan. Not a smell of a boat. We’re done for. Do you realize it? We’re done for.’

  ‘Who told you this?’ Tandy asked.

  ‘They told me themselves. I said: “What are the arrangements for evacuating the English refugees?” and they just said, they just calmly said: “There aren’t any arrangements.” The excuse is they didn’t know what was going to happen. “Well, you know now,” I said. “And people are getting anxious. No one’s making a fuss, but they want to know what’s being done for them. They can’t just sit here waiting for the Germans to come. What’s laid on?” I asked. Nothing they said: just nothing. There aren’t any ships.’

  Yakimov said, shocked: ‘Dear boy, there must be ships.’

  ‘No,’ Ben Phipps shook his head in violent denial. ‘There are no ships.’

  ‘The Yugoslavs say they’re going,’ Tandy said.

  ‘Oh, yes. The Yugoslavs are being looked after. The Poles, too. Someone’s fixed them up – don’t ask me who – but there’s nothing for the poor bloody British. I said: “Can’t you pack us in with the Jugs and Poles?” And they said: “Their boats are already overcrowded”.’

  Tandy stared at the street with a reflective blankness. Only Ben Phipps had anything to say: ‘The usual good old British cock-up, eh? Isn’t it? I said: “Don’t you realize the Germans could be here in twenty-four hours?” and what d’you think they said? They said: “It all happened so suddenly.” Suddenly! Yes, it did happen suddenly, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t obvious from the start. We ought to have kept out of this shindig. It’s not only that we’ve done no good. If we hadn’t stuck in our two-pennyworth, they might have got away with it. We send a handful of men up with a few worn-out tanks, then say: “We didn’t know.” I ask you! What did they think?’

  ‘They thought we’d get through to Berlin,’ Harriet said.

  Phipps gave a snort of bitter laughter: ‘No foresight. No preparations. No plans. And now no ships.’ Biting his thumb, he muttered through his teeth with the morose rage of one who realizes that his blackest criticism of authority was never black enough.

  There was a long silence at the end of which Guy mildly asked: ‘Meanwhile, what news, if any?’

  ‘We’ve admitted a strategic withdrawal along the Aliakmon Line.’

  ‘What do you think that means?’

  ‘Only that the Jerries are coming hell for leather down the coast road.’

  Tandy grunted and pulled out his splendid wallet. He put a note on the table to pay his share of the drinks and said: ‘Not much point in saving drachma now. If things fold up here, it won’t be much use anywhere else. How about coming to my hotel for a valedictory dinner?’

  ‘How about it, dear boy!’ said Yakimov, joyfully taking up the invitation. He and Tandy began at once to rise, but Alan Frewen had not arrived and the others were unwilling to go without him.

  Eager to be off, Yakimov persuaded them: ‘He’ll be at the office. We’ll pick him up on the way.’ They went to the side entrance of the Grande Bretagne and, finding it shut, walked on to the Corinthian, where the refugees were ordering their departure. Although the passengers for the Polish and Yugoslav ships – among them the gold-braided Yugoslav officers – were not due to embark until next morning, they were having their heavy luggage brought down and heaped ready at the hotel entrance. The English party, making a way through the hubbub, saw Alan Frewen sitting in a corner, alone except for the dog at his feet.

  Ben Phipps, carrying his anger over on to Alan, said: ‘Look at him, the bastard! He’s avoiding us.’ He caught hold of Guy to prevent him from approaching the lonely man, but Guy was already away, dodging between chairs and tables in his eagerness to rescue Alan from solitude.

  Alan looked discomforted when he saw the friends to whom he could offer so little hope, but assumed a confident attitude when Ben Phipps at once accused him: ‘Don’t you realize we’re stranded? Don’t you realize that nothing’s been done?’

  Alan said soothingly: ‘There’ll be something tomorrow.’

  ‘Nothing today, but something tomorrow! What, for instance? Where are they going to find it?’

  Alan checked him, speaking with the quiet of reason: ‘You know the problem as well as I do. The explosions wrecked everything in the harbour. Thousands of tons of shipping went to the bottom, so there’s a shortage of ships. You can’t blame the Legation for that. The water-front was wiped out. Dobson tells me it’s absolute desolation down there.’

  ‘Is Dobson in charge of the evacuation, supposing there is evacuation?’

  ‘No, but he’s been down to the Piraeus to look around. He’s doing his best for you all.’

  ‘A last-minute effort, I must say. This situation should have been foreseen weeks ago.’

  ‘If it had been, we’d have chartered ships; and they’d’ve gone to the bottom with the rest.’

  ‘So nothing has been done, and nothing will be done? Is that it?’

  ‘Plenty’s being done.’ Glancing at Harriet’s pale face, then back to Phipps, Alan said: ‘For God’s sake, have some sense!’

  Tandy had not stopped to listen to this discussion. As though unconcerned in it, he strolled on to the dining-room and Yakimov, who could not bear to let him out of sight, said to Alan: ‘Do come, dear boy. We’re all invited. Friend Tandy is standing treat.’

  Alan nodded and Yakimov hurried ahead. Though not the bravest of men, he still had more appetite than the rest of them, and apparently felt that while he remained in the lee of Tandy’s large, sumptuous figure, he had nothing to fear.

  They were served with some sort of stewed offal which tasted of nothing at all
. Alan gazed at his plate, then put it down in front of the dog.

  ‘Dear boy!’ Yakimov murmured in protest, but the plate had already been licked clean.

  The second course comprised a few squares of cheese and dry bread and Alan left his share for Yakimov.

  Jovially chewing cheese, Yakimov added: ‘How is the noble lord these days?’

  ‘No idea,’ Alan said. ‘He hasn’t been in for a week. The office is empty except for the Twocurrys. Mabel of course, doesn’t know what’s going on, and Gladys isn’t telling her.’

  ‘So you’re in charge? Then how about getting your Yak back on the payroll?’

  Alan’s face collapsed in its odd, pained smile: ‘I’ll see what can be done,’ he promised.

  The air-raid sirens sounded and the dining-room became silent as the diners sat tense, awaiting the raid that would reduce Athens to dust. The minutes passed and all that could be heard was the distant thud of the Piraeus guns.

  Alan sighed and said: ‘Just a reconnaissance buzzing around.’

  ‘What do they hope to find?’ Tandy asked.

  ‘They think we might send reinforcements. They don’t know how little we’ve got.’

  ‘Perhaps we will send something.’

  ‘We’ve nothing to send.’

  They went up to the terrace and waited for the All Clear. A waning moon edged above the house tops, casting an uneasy, shaded light that accentuated the clotted darkness of the gardens. The raid had brought the city to a standstill. No one moved in the square and there was nothing to be seen but a group of civic police standing, shadowy, among the shadows.

  Tandy was exercising himself. Marching with a military strut, he went from one end of the terrace to the other, and Yakimov trotted at his side. Tandy lit one of his Turkish cigarettes. Yakimov, though he hated Turkish cigarettes, felt bound to imitate his companion. So they walked backwards and forwards, filling the air with a rich Turkish aroma.

  Harriet, seated by the rail, watching them as they reached the end of the terrace, turned in unison and came towards her with their long coats sweeping out behind them, was reminded of other wars, remote if not distant, when aristocratic generals conferred on fronts that were not demolished in a day.

  Both men were tall but Tandy, topped by the big fur hat that in battle would be an object of terror, looked too large for life. Harriet felt sorry for Yakimov, the fragile ghost, bowed with the effort of keeping up with his monstrous companion. When they came near her, she called him to her. He paused. She lifted the edge of his coat, admiring the lining: ‘A wonderful coat,’ she said. ‘It will last a lifetime.’

  ‘Two lifetimes, dear girl, if not three. M’poor old dad wore it, you know, and the Czar gave it a bit of wear before it was passed on. I wonder, did I tell you the Czar gave it to m’poor old dad?’

  ‘I think you did.’

  ‘Magnificent coat.’ Yakimov stroked the fur then turned to Tandy, who was stopped beside him, and happy to share this admiration, said: ‘Yours is a fine coat, too, dear boy. Where did y’get it? Budapest?’

  ‘Azerbaijan,’ said Tandy. ‘Azerbaijan,’ breathed Yakimov and, putting his cigarette to his lips, he caught his breath in awe.

  Their voices had carried on the noiseless air and the police were looking up. As Yakimov drew on his cigarette, they shouted a command which no one but Alan Frewen understood. Yakimov drew again and the command was repeated.

  Alan raised himself in his chair, saying urgently: ‘They’re telling you to put out that cigarette,’ but he spoke too late.

  The police were armed. One drew his revolver and fired. Tandy ducked and Yakimov folded slowly. He said in a whisper of puzzled protest: ‘Dear boy!’ and collapsed to the ground. His face retained the expression of his words. He seemed about to speak again but, when Harriet knelt beside him, his breathing had stopped. She pulled his coat open and put her hand on his heart: ‘I think he’s dead,’ she said.

  As she spoke, Guy, who had been watching, dazed by what had happened, was suddenly possessed by rage and went to the rail and shouted down: ‘You murderous swine! Do you know what you’ve done? Do you care? You bloody-minded maniacs!’

  The police stared up, blank-faced, understanding him no more than Yakimov had understood them.

  The shot had brought people to the terrace, among them the hotel manager. Harassed by all the bustle inside the hotel, he had neither time nor sympathy for what had happened outside. He looked at the body and ordered those around it: ‘Take him away,’ but as no one could leave during a raid, he turned in exasperation and went in again.

  Harriet pulled Yakimov’s coat about his body and a waiter covered his face with a napkin. When she stood up, she felt dizzy. Spent by the accumulation of events, she collapsed into a chair. Midnight chimed on some distant clock.

  Ben Phipps asked Alan where Yakimov lived. No one knew, but Alan thought it was one of the small hotels in Omonia Square. He said with the practicality of shock: ‘No point in taking him there; no point in taking him anywhere. If they’ll let us, the thing would be to leave him here. He’ll have to be buried first thing tomorrow. We may all be gone in twenty-four hours. Where’s Tandy? Tandy lives in the hotel: he’s the one to talk to the manager.’

  But Tandy, unnoticed by any of them, had gone to bed.

  ‘Trust him,’ Ben said bitterly. ‘Not much bed for the rest of us. It’ll take all night to sort things out. When’s this damned raid going to end?’

  The manager, his fury forgotten, returned with the police. They talked to Alan, making gestures of compunction and inculpability, and explained that the man who fired had intended only to frighten his victim. Yakimov’s death had been an error. The fact that he was an Englishman made the incident particularly regrettable, but he had disobeyed an order twice repeated; and in these times there were so many deaths!

  They looked at the body. They wanted to see Yakimov’s carte d’identité, his permis de séjour, his permis de travailler, and his passport. When all the papers had been found in different pockets of Yakimov’s clothing, his long, narrow corpse was rewrapped in its greatcoat as in a shroud, and the napkin rearranged over his face.

  One of the police handed back Yakimov’s passport and gave a salute and a little bow. The English would be troubled no further. The victim was free to go to his grave.

  The manager agreed to let the body rest for the night in one of the hotel bathrooms. The four friends followed as it was carried away from the terrace and placed on a bathroom floor. As the door was locked upon it, the all clear sounded. The manager, offering his commiserations, shook hands all round and the English party left the hotel. Alan, hourly expecting an evacuation order, had decided to spend the night in his office. Ben Phipps, on his way to Psychico, dropped the Pringles off at the Academy.

  A message was waiting for Guy on the pad in the hall. He was to ring Lord Pinkrose at Phaleron no matter how late his return. Harriet stood beside him as he dialled the number. The Phaleron receiver was removed at once and Pinkrose asked in an agitated scream: ‘Is that you, Pringle? The Germans are less than six hours from Athens. They’ll be here by morning. If you’re wise, you’ll go at once.’

  ‘But how can we go?’ Guy asked. ‘There are no ships.’

  ‘Get down to the Piraeus. Board anything you can see. Make them take you.’

  ‘We’ve been ordered to stand by …’ Guy protested, but Pinkrose was not listening. His receiver was replaced.

  ‘Is that what he intends doing himself?’ Harriet asked. ‘Do you think he’s going to the Piraeus to get on to any ship he can see?’

  ‘God knows. Let’s pack our things and think about it.’

  The upper corridor was in darkness. No light was showing under any of the bedroom doors. They met no one whom they could ask for guidance. The silence was such, the building might, for all they knew, have emptied in their absence.

  As they got their belongings together, Harriet asked: ‘Why do you think he warned us like that?’
>
  ‘I suppose he feels some responsibility for us. He’s still my boss, you know.’

  ‘I wish he hadn’t bothered.’

  Their indecision was painful. Guy hung over his books, sorting out those that could be left behind and collected one day, when the war was over. Harriet threw her things pell-mell into a suitcase, then fell on to her bed and, lying there, eyes closed, felt herself sinking down into the darkness of the earth.

  ‘Well, what do we do now?’ Guy asked.

  Rousing herself, she saw him standing in the middle of the wide, bare floor, his shirt-collar open, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. He was holding a book she knew well; the book that six months before he had picked out of the wreckage of their Bucharest flat. He was trying to look undaunted by events, but the droop of his face told her that he was as tired as she was and had no more answer than she to the problems that beset them. He presented an unruffled front to life, but she saw he was as much at sea as she was.

  They had learnt each others’ faults and weaknesses: they had passed both illusion and disillusion. It was no use asking for more than anyone could give.

  War had forced their understanding. Though it was, as Guy said, a pre-war marriage, it had been a marriage in war, and the war had not ended yet. For all they knew it would not end in their lifetime. Meanwhile, they were still alive and still together; and they must face their commitments. She had chosen to make her life with Guy and would stand by her choice. The important thing, she thought, was that in a final contingency, they should not fail each other.

  She asked: ‘What do you want to do?’ He sighed. She held out her arms to him and he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, saying: ‘Do you want to go down to the Piraeus now? Do you want to force your way on to some boat that is not meant for us? There are hundreds of English people here, some with children – they have as much right to go as we have. If everyone scrambled down to the docks and fought their way on to boats reserved for Yugoslavs and Poles, there’d be chaos. We don’t want to make things worse for others. I feel we should take our chance with the rest. I don’t believe they’ll abandon us.’