Complete Stories of Eveyln, Page 45
Evelyn Waugh
“It’s been getting thicker for the last hour.”
“Will they be able to land?”
“Not a chance.”
“We’d better get these people home.”
“Yes, I’m just sending the cancellation signal now.”
Major Gordon could not bear to wait. He drove back alone but could not rest; hours later, he went out and waited in the mist at the junction of lane and road until the weary people hobbled past into the town.
Twice in the next three weeks the grim scene was repeated. On the second occasion the fires were lit, the aeroplanes were overhead and could be heard circling, recircling and at length heading west again. That evening, Major Gordon prayed: “Please God make it all right. You’ve done things like that before. Just make the mist clear. Please God help these people.” But the sound of the engines dwindled and died away, and the hopeless Jews stirred themselves and set off again on the way they had come.
That week came the first heavy fall of snow. There would be no more landing until the spring.
Major Gordon despaired of doing anything for the Jews, but powerful forces were at work on their behalf in Bari. He soon received a signal: “Expect special drop shortly relief supplies for Jews stop Explain partisan HQ these supplies only repeat only for distribution Jews.” He called on the General with this communication.
“What supplies?”
“I presume food and clothing and medicine.”
“For three months I have been asking for these things for my men. The Third Corps have no boots. In the hospital they are operating without anaesthetics. Last week we had to withdraw from two forward positions because there were no rations.”
“I know. I have signalled about it repeatedly.”
“Why is there food and clothes for the Jews and not for my men?”
“I cannot explain. All I have come to ask is whether you can guarantee distribution.”
“I will see.”
Major Gordon signalled: “Respectfully submit most injudicious discriminate in favour of Jews stop Will endeavour secure proportionate share for them of general relief supplies,” and received in answer: “Three aircraft will drop Jewish supplies point C 1130 hrs 21st stop These supplies from private source not military stop Distribute according previous signal.”
On the afternoon of the 21st the Squadron Leader came to see Major Gordon.
“What’s the idea?” he said. “I’ve just been having the hell of a schemozzle with the Air Liaison comrade about tonight’s drop. He wants the stuff put in bond or something till he gets orders from higher up. He’s a reasonable sort of chap usually. I’ve never seen him on such a high horse. Wanted everything checked in the presence of the Minister of the Interior and put under joint guard. Never heard such a lot of rot. I suppose someone at Bari has been playing at politics as usual.”
That night the air was full of parachutes and of “free-drops” whistling down like bombs. The Anti-Fascist Youth retrieved them. They were loaded on carts, taken to a barn near the General’s headquarters and formally impounded.
VI
The war in Yugoslavia took a new turn. The first stage of German withdrawal was complete; they stood now on a line across Croatia and Slovenia. Marshal Tito flew from Vis to join the Russian and Bulgarian columns in Belgrade. A process of reprisal began in the “liberated” areas. The Germans remained twenty miles to the north of Begoy, but behind nothing except snow now closed the road to Dalmatia. Major Gordon took part in many Victory Celebrations. But he did not forget the Jews; nor did their friends at Bari. In mid-December Bakic one day announced: “De Jews again,” and going out into the yard Major Gordon found it full of his former visitors, but now transformed into a kind of farcical army. All of them, men and women, wore military greatcoats, Balaclava helmets, and knitted woollen gloves. Orders had been received from Belgrade, and distribution of the stores had suddenly taken place, and here were the recipients to thank him. The spokesmen were different on this occasion. The grocer and lawyer had disappeared forever. Madame Kanyi kept away for reasons of her own; an old man made a longish speech which Bakic rendered “Dis guy say dey’s all very happy.”
For the next few days a deplorable kind of ostentation seemed to possess the Jews. A curse seemed to have been lifted. They appeared everywhere, trailing the skirts of their greatcoats in the snow, stamping their huge new boots, gesticulating with their gloved hands. Their faces shone with soap, they were full of Spam and dehydrated fruits. They were a living psalm. And then, as suddenly, they disappeared.
“What has happened to them?”
“I guess dey been moved some other place,” said Bakic.
“Why?”
“People make trouble for them.”
“Who?”
“Partisan people dat hadn’t got no coats and boots. Dey make trouble wid de Commissar so de Commissar move dem on last night.”
Major Gordon had business with the Commissar. The Anti-Fascist Theatre Group was organizing a Liberation Concert and had politely asked him to supply words and music of English anti-fascist songs, so that all the allies would be suitably represented. Major Gordon had to explain that his country had no anti-fascist songs and no patriotic songs that anyone cared to sing. The Commissar noted this further evidence of Western decadence with grim satisfaction. For once there was no need to elaborate. The Commissar understood. It was just as he had been told years before in Moscow. It had been the same thing in Spain. The Attlee Brigade would never sing.
When the business was over Major Gordon said: “I see the Jews have moved.”
Bakic was left outside nowadays, and the intellectual young man acted as interpreter. Without consulting his chief he answered: “Their house was required for the Ministry of Rural Economy. New quarters have been found for them a few miles away.”
The Commissar asked what was being said, grunted and rose. Major Gordon saluted and the interview was at an end. On the steps the young interpreter joined him.
“The question of the Jews, Major Gordon. It was necessary for them to go. Our people could not understand why they should have special treatment. We have partisan women who work all day and have no boots or overcoats. How are we to explain that these old people who are doing nothing for our cause, should have such things?”
“Perhaps by saying that they are old and have no cause. Their need is greater than a young enthusiast’s.”
“Besides, Major Gordon, they were trying to make business. They were bartering the things they had been given. My parents are Jewish and I understand these people. They want always to make some trade.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?”
“War is not a time for trade.”
“Well, anyway, I hope they have decent quarters.”
“They have what is suitable.”
VII
The gardens in winter seemed smaller than they had done in full leaf. You could see right through them from fence to fence; snow obliterated lawns and beds; the paths were only traceable by bootprints. Major Gordon daily took a handful of broken biscuits to the squirrel and fed him through the bars. One day while he was thus engaged, watching the little creature go through the motions of concealment, cautiously return, grasp the food, jump away and once more perform the mime of digging and covering, he saw Mme. Kanyi approach down the path. She was carrying a load of brushwood, stooping under it, so that she did not see him until she was quite close.
Major Gordon was particularly despondent that day for he had just received a signal for recall. The force was being re-named and reorganized. He was to report as soon as feasible to Bari. Major Gordon was confident that word had come from Belgrade that he was no longer persona grata.
He greeted Mme. Kanyi with warm pleasure. “Let me carry that.”
“No, please. It is better not.”
“I insist.”
Mme. Kanyi looked about her. No one was in sight. She let Major Gordon take the load and carry it towards her hut.
“No, my husband is needed.”
“And you don’t wear your greatcoat.”
“Not out of doors. I wear it at night in the hut. The coats and boots make everyone hate us, even those who had been kind before.”
“But partisan discipline is so firm. Surely there was no danger of violence?”
“No, that was not the trouble. It was the peasants. The partisans are frightened of the peasants. They will settle with them later, but at present they are dependent on them for food. Our people began to exchange things with the peasants. They would give needles and thread, razors, things no one can get, for turkeys and apples. No one wants money. The peasants preferred bartering with our people to taking the partisans’ bank-notes. That was what made the trouble.”
“Where have the others gone?”
She spoke a name which meant nothing to Major Gordon. “You have not heard of that place? It is twenty miles away. It is where the Germans and Ustashi made a camp. They kept the Jews and gypsies and communists and royalists there, to work on the canal. Before they left they killed what were left of the prisoners—not many. Now the partisans have found new inhabitants for it.”
They had reached the hut and Major Gordon entered to place his load in a corner near the little stove. It was the first and last time he crossed the threshold. He had a brief impression of orderly poverty and then was outside in the snow. “Listen, Mme. Kanyi,” he said. “Don’t lose heart. I am being recalled to Bari. As soon as the road is clear I shall be leaving. When I get there I promise I’ll raise Cain about this. You’ve plenty of friends there and I’ll explain the whole situation to them. We’ll get you all out, I promise.”
Major Gordon had one further transaction with Mme. Kanyi before his departure. There fell from the heavens one night a huge parcel of assorted literature—the gift of one of the more preposterous organizations which abounded in Bari. This department aimed at re-educating the Balkans by distributing Fortune, The Illustrated London News and handbooks of popular, old-fashioned agnosticism. From time to time during Major Gordon’s tour of duty bundles of this kind had arrived. He had hitherto deposited them in the empty office of the Director of Rest and Culture. On this last occasion, however, he thought of Mme. Kanyi. She had a long, lonely winter ahead of her. She might find something amusing in the pile. So he despatched it to her by one of the widows, who finding her out, left it on the step in the snow. Then within a few days the road to the coast was declared open and Major Gordon laboriously made his way to Split and so to Bari.
VIII
Bari had much besides the bones of St. Nicholas. Those who were quartered there complained but they constituted the Mont Parnasse of the Allied Armies. One met more queer old friends in its messes and clubs than anywhere else in the world at this last stage of the war, and to those on leave from the Balkans its modest amenities seemed the height of luxury. But Major Gordon, during his fortnight of “reporting to headquarters” had deeper interests than on earlier leaves. He was determined to get the Jews out of Croatia and by dint of exploring the byways of semi-official life, of visiting committees and units with noncommittal designations in obscure offices, he was in fact able to quicken interest, supply detailed information and in the end set the official machine to work which eventually resulted in a convoy of new Ford trucks making the journey from the coast to Begoy and back for the sole and specific purpose of rescuing the Jews.
By the time that they arrived in Italy Major Gordon was back in Yugoslavia for a brief appointment as liaison with a camp of escaped prisoners of war, but he got news of the move and for the first time tasted the sweet and heady cup of victory. “At least I’ve done something worthwhile in this bloody war,” he said.
When next he passed through Bari it was on his way home to England, for the military mission was being wound up and replaced by regular diplomatic and consular officials. He had not forgotten his Jews, however, and, having with difficulty located them, drove out to a camp near Lecce, in a flat country of olive and almond and white beehive huts. Here they rested, part of a collection of four or five hundred, all old and all baffled, all in army greatcoats and Balaclava helmets.
“I can’t see the point of their being here,” said the Commandant. “We feed them and doctor them and house them. That’s all we can do. No one wants them. The Zionists are only interested in the young. I suppose they’ll just sit here till they die.”
“Are they happy?”
“They complain the hell of a lot but then they’ve got quite a lot to complain about. It’s a lousy place to be stuck in.”
“I’m particularly interested in a pair called Kanyi.”
The Commandant looked down his list. “No trace of them here.”
“Good. That probably means they got off to Australia all right.”
“Not from here, old man. I’ve been here all along. No one has ever left.”
“Could you make sure? Anyone in the Begoy draft would know about them.”
The Commandant sent his interpreter to inquire while he took Major Gordon into the shed he called his mess, and gave him a drink. Presently the man returned. “All correct, sir. The Kanyis never left Begoy. They got into some kind of trouble there and were jugged.”
“May I go with the interpreter and ask about it?”
“By all means, old man. But aren’t you making rather heavy weather of it? What do two more or less matter?”
Major Gordon went into the compound with the interpreter. Some of the Jews recognized him and crowded round with complaints and petitions. All he could learn about the Kanyis was that they had been taken off the truck by the partisan police just as it was about to start.
He had one more day in Bari before his flight home. He spent it revisiting the offices where he had begun his work of liberation. But this time he received little sympathy. “We don’t really want to bother the Jugs any more. They really cooperated very well about the whole business. Besides the war’s over now in that part. There’s no particular point in moving people out. We’re busy at the moment moving people in.” This man was in fact at that moment busy despatching royalist officers to certain execution.
The Jewish office showed no interest when they understood that he had not come to sell them illicit arms. “We must first set up the State,” they said. “Then it will be a refuge for all. First things first.”
So Major Gordon returned to England unsatisfied and he might never have heard any more of the matter, had he not a cousin in the newly reopened Ministry at Belgrade. Months later he heard from him: “I’ve been to a lot of trouble and made myself quite unpopular in getting information about the couple you’re interested in. The Jugs are very close but at last I got matey with the head of the police who wants us to return some refugees we’ve got in our zone in Austria. He dug out the file for me. Both were condemned by a Peoples’ Court and executed. The man had committed sabotage on the electric light plant. The woman had been a spy for a “foreign power.” Apparently she was the mistress of a foreign agent who frequented her house while the husband was busy destroying the dynamo. A lot of foreign propaganda publications were found in her house and produced as evidence. What very unsavoury friends you seem to have.”
It so happened that this letter arrived on the day when the Allies were celebrating the end of the war in Asia. Major Gordon was back with his regiment. He did not feel inclined to go out that evening and join in the rejoicing. The mess was empty save for the misanthropic second-in-command and the chaplain (although of Highland origin the regiment was full of Glasgow Irish and had a Benedictine monk attached to them).
The second-in-command spoke as he had spoken most evenings since the General Election. . . . “I don’t know what they mean by ‘Victory.’ We start the bloody war for Poland. Well that’s ceased to exist. We fight it in Burma and Egypt—and you can bet your boots we shall give them up in a few months to the very fellows who’ve been against us. We s
pent millions knocking Germany down and now we shall spend millions building it up again. . . .”
“Don’t you think, perhaps, people feel better than they did in 1938?” said the chaplain.
“No,” said the second-in-command.
“They haven’t got rid of that unhealthy sense of guilt they had?”
“No,” said Major Gordon. “I never had it before. Now I have.”
And he told the story of the Kanyis. “Those are the real horrors of war—not just people having their legs blown off,” he concluded. “How do you explain that, padre?”
There was no immediate answer until the second-in-command said: “You did all you could. A darn sight more than most people would have done.”
“That’s your answer,” said the chaplain. “You mustn’t judge actions by their apparent success. Everything you did was good in itself.”
“A fat lot of good it did the Kanyis.”
“No. But don’t you think it just possible that they did you good? No suffering need ever be wasted. It is just as much part of Charity to receive cheerfully as to give.”
“Well, if you’re going to start preaching a sermon, padre,” said the second-in-command, “I’m off to bed.”
“I’d like you to tell me a bit more about that,” said Major Gordon.
LOVE AMONG THE RUINS
A ROMANCE OF THE NEAR FUTURE
I
Despite their promises at the last Election, the politicians had not yet changed the climate. The State Meteorological Institute had so far produced only an unseasonable fall of snow and two little thunderbolts no larger than apricots. The weather varied from day to day and from county to county as it had done of old, most anomalously.
This was a rich, old-fashioned Tennysonian night.
Strains of a string quartet floated out from the drawing-room windows and were lost amid the splash and murmur of the gardens. In the basin the folded lilies had left a brooding sweetness over the water. No gold fin winked in the porphyry font and any peacock which seemed to be milkily drooping in the moon-shadows was indeed a ghost, for the whole flock of them had been found mysteriously and rudely slaughtered a day or two ago in the first disturbing flush of this sudden summer.
