The Furies (32 page)

Completely spent, Elspeth could feel her eyes closing from fatigue. The old man sat in a chair on the other side of the hearth, puffing contentedly on a pipe, periodically looking at her or into the flames of the fire. An oil lamp hanging from the low rafter threw out a soft yellow glow, and the only sound were an occasional whimper from the sleeping dog and the intermittent sucking noises made as the old man drew on his pipe. As the boy put another log on the fire, sparks jumped off the embers and Elspeth arranged her damp clothes and boots in front of the hearth. Then, overcome by tiredness, she curled up on the floor, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

She woke briefly in the middle of the night to find the dog nestled against her flank. Rain was hammering on the cottage roof and the fire had gone out, but she was warm inside the goatskins and as it was still dark outside the window she fell asleep again. The next time she woke, daylight was streaming into the cottage, and the man, the boy and the dog were nowhere to be seen. However, the fire had been rekindled and when she reached out and touched her clothes she found they had almost fully dried.

She quickly dressed. Going outside, she saw that it had stopped raining, but a drop in temperature had caused ice to form on the puddles. A tinkling of bells alerted her and she found the old man and the boy tending a herd of goats at the back of the cottage. She walked across to them; and by pointing at the river and miming walking, she tried to indicate that she wished to cross back to the other side. The old man seemed to understand her, and spoke to the boy, who disappeared inside the cottage and reappeared a little while later with a small parcel. From the smell Elspeth could tell that it contained goats cheese and bread, which she was very happy to take. She gathered that Milo was going to show her the way, and so she smiled at the old man, then stretched out her free hand and touched him gently on the forearm.

‘
Hvala puno
,' she said, and the old man smiled and nodded at her Serbian attempt at “Thank you”.

Taking the dog with him, Milo led her back upstream. Across the opposite side of the river and higher up on the road, Elspeth could see the congested column of refugees as they continued to flee southwards. They passed the point where the landslide had thrown her into the river and after another mile came upon a primitive footbridge – boards of wood slung between two ropes, a third rope above as a handrail – which stretched across the water. It looked very flimsy to her, but Milo tied the dog to a nearby tree and she followed him as he stepped onto the first plank. In her still slightly damp skirt it was not easy going and Elspeth dared not look down at the torrent rushing below. However, she kept her nerve and soon was across the bridge and on the far bank of the river.

She shook Milo's hand and then watched as he walked back across the bridge, untied the dog, and, with a wave, started back the way he had come.

Elspeth scrambled up the muddy incline and finally arrived just below the surface of the road. One of the refugees walking past – a young man leading a mule piled with clothes – leant over the edge and extended a hand to her. She thanked him in Serbian as he pulled her onto the road, and he smiled at her before moving on. She brushed the mud from her skirt and then stood for a moment to catch her breath, watching the faces of the people walking past. Now she felt truly lost: on her own and inadequately dressed, in a country she barely knew, trying to get to a place she had never been to before. There were no familiar faces in the masses that were walking by, and there was nobody to help her but herself. And then she thought of what Sylvia and Vera and Gabriel would do.

‘Come on, Elspeth,' she told herself. ‘Stop moaning and get on with it.'

And she slipped back into the column of refugees.

It was a crisp and clear autumnal morning, the mist above the buildings bordering Klagenfurt Central Square having lifted some hours ago to reveal a sky that was now an iridescent blue. Gabriel sat at a table outside Café Fruehauf on the square, the sunlight flickering through the leaves of a nearby beech tree as he waited for the chief to arrive. He closed his eyes and tilted his face towards the sun, the light glimmering pinkly through the skin of his eyelids. It was wonderful to be home again, he thought, sitting outdoors, warm and comfortable in his army greatcoat, with nothing to do except relax. And as he waited for the chief to appear, his mind drifted back to the events of the past few days, and in particular to Elspeth.

The last time he had seen her was more than a week ago, when they had run into the German patrol: thank God Luka had spotted them. He had watched the Chetniks lead Elspeth away towards the station and then lost sight of her in the smoke and darkness. He dared not think she hadn't made it safely to Krusevac, but that night had been very dangerous: Gabriel had only just managed to make it back to the First Reserve Hospital unscathed. The following morning the German 11
^th
Army had marched into Kragujevac to take formal possession of the town and Gabriel had met their medical team. They were particularly interested to hear how the typhus epidemic had been contained, but Gabriel had detected the usual German disdain towards all things Austrian. Nevertheless he had answered them as best he could and had to admire their efficiency as, by the end of that first day, a full team of German army surgeons were in place in both the First Reserve and Scottish Women's hospitals.

A day later the Austrian 3
^rd
Army medical column arrived and Gabriel was formally relieved of all medical duties and ordered to report to the Prisoner Repatriation Section – PRS – which had set up its offices in an empty warehouse near the railway station.

Inside the hanger-like space of the warehouse, a long line of recently released prisoners were waiting to be registered, and after a long wait, Gabriel had eventually been seen by a staff sergeant, who informed him that the Austrian 6
^th
had redeployed to the Italian border in southern Austria, not far from his home town of Klagenfurt. But before Gabriel could re-join the 6
^th
, he would have to be examined by one of the PRS physicians.

He had queued again in front of another desk, and after a while was seen by a fresh-faced doctor who looked as though he had only just come out of medical school. The young man was respectfully friendly as he weighed Gabriel, asked him to strip to the waist and listened carefully to his chest. But when he removed the stethoscope and told Gabriel to get dressed, there had been a serious look in his eyes.

‘I'm afraid you're not fit to return to duty at the moment,' he'd told Gabriel. ‘You've lost a good deal of weight and there are some crackles in your right lung apex. It could be nothing, but it might be TB. Have you any other symptoms – cough, night sweats, bloodstained phlegm in the morning – that sort of thing?'

Gabriel had shaken his head. ‘No. I feel quite well really, only rather tired, as you might expect.'

‘Ideally you need a chest roentogram, but the Serbs have destroyed all their X-ray equipment.' He had produced a sheet of paper, written on it in pen, dried the ink by blowing on the letter and then given it to Gabriel.

‘I've signed you off for a month,' he'd said. ‘I think you should go home to Klagenfurt and have the roentogram taken there. If it's all clear, then report to the Army Medical Board in Vienna at the end of the month: they will decide if you're fit enough to re-join your unit. And if the roentogram shows a shadow…Well, you don't need me to tell you what that means.'

Gabriel nodded, and although he tried to look concerned he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He knew he didn't have TB – he had seen enough patients to know the symptoms and signs – but a month's leave from the army was just what he needed.

He had arrived in Klagenfurt the previous morning and gone straight to the hospital to have his chest roentogram taken; it was, as he had suspected, completely normal. He'd spent the first night at his father's small apartment near the square, and then, after waking early this morning, had quietly dressed and gone out for a stroll to remind himself of the splendour of the city. After his walk he had taken a seat in the sun outside the café and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast as he waited for the chief to arrive.

He lowered his face and opened his eyes. Klagenfurt was closer to Venice than Vienna, and many of the shops, cafés and government buildings which bordered the town's central square were of a baroque Italian design, with vivid pink and yellow renaissance decoration. Gabriel studied the faces of the people waking past him in the square: conspicuous in his uniform, he attracted numerous glances, and through their smiles and nods of recognition could tell that most citizens of Klagenfurt still had a sense of pride in the Austrian soldier. However, Gabriel could also read a sadness in the eyes of these ordinary people, a gloomy despondency at the terrible losses that the Austrian army had suffered in Serbia and Russia.

And now Italy had declared war on Austria: Klagenfurt was close to the Italian border and on his walk that morning Gabriel had seen several convalescing soldiers, pale-faced, dark-eyed men with arms or legs in plaster, sitting on their own at a café table, a half-empty bottle of schnapps in front of them.

Because the 6
^th
Army were transferring the more seriously wounded back to Klagenfurt, Gabriel had been thrilled to learn that Chief Fischer was temporarily based in the town. As he gazed distractedly at the people strolling by, Gabriel suddenly noticed a tall, grey-bearded man in uniform walking briskly across the square towards the café entrance. It had been a while since he last saw him, but the upright profile was unmistakable. Gabriel stood up and waved, and the chief suddenly changed direction. Even at this distance, Gabriel could see the smile that creased his mentor's face.

‘My dear boy,' the chief said as he arrived at Gabriel's table. ‘I'm so pleased to see you again.'

‘It's good to see you, too,' Gabriel replied, grinning at the chief's enthusiastic double-handed handshake. ‘I can't believe it's more than a year since we last met.'

‘Well, you're alive, Gabriel, that's the most important thing.' The chief sat opposite him. ‘You've lost quite a bit of weight, I see. Nothing serious I hope?'

‘They thought it might be TB. But the roentogram is all clear.'

‘Good. So you just need a bit of feeding up – that it?'

‘Yes. A year as a prisoner does wonders for one's figure.'

The chief laughed. ‘Well, let's see if we can't do something about that.' He snapped his fingers at a waiter loitering in the heat of the café entrance. ‘Two coffees, please,' he said when the waiter arrived, ‘and a large portion of strudel with extra cream.'

For the next hour, the two men sat in the weak November sun and Gabriel listened to the chief describe how the battered remnants of the 6
^th
Army had been transferred to the mountains on the Italian border. He heard the hellish tale of mountain fighting: hand-to-hand combat on ice-covered rock, no trees or bushes for cover, no trenches for protection. However, the Austrians were fighting a purely defensive battle, the chief said, and so far had been able to hold their positions. And in return Gabriel described his experience as a prisoner and the difficulties he had faced during the typhus epidemic. He told the chief all about the good works of the Scottish women, and of Harry Plotz and his vaccine.

But just as he was about to tell the chief about Elspeth, a stranger – an older-looking man who had been walking past their table – suddenly stopped, turned around, and began to stare at Gabriel. At first Gabriel thought it was the typical civilian veneration for anyone in a soldier's uniform. But the stranger's eyes flicked between Gabriel and the chief, almost as if he recognised them both. Indeed the man looked vaguely familiar to Gabriel: dressed in typical hill-walking clothes – boots, gaiters, leather cap and eagle's feather – and carrying a knapsack and an antler-handled walking stick. There was something about him – an air, a manner – which stirred a memory in Gabriel's mind. Then the man lifted a hand to remove his leather cap.

‘Good Lord,' Gabriel exclaimed and sat up in his chair, his jaw sagging in astonishment.

The chief swivelled to follow Gabriel's open-mouthed gaze as the stranger stepped forward and smiled hesitantly, his cap held before him. The chief's eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment Gabriel wondered if he had seen a flicker of contempt in his mentor's eyes. But if there was, it had quickly vanished by the time the chief stood to greet the man.

‘Governor Potiorek,' the chief said, extending a hand. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.'

To Gabriel the moment was surreal: the last time he'd seen Potiorek had been more than a year ago, when Potiorek had been in full uniform, standing in front of a roomful of officers, ordering them to invade Serbia. But the figure standing in front of Gabriel now was almost unrecognisable as the man who had once governed the whole of Bosnia and had started this great European war. Without his uniform, Potiorek could so easily have been mistaken for any other ordinary citizen returning from a morning walk in the mountains. Except for the look in those eyes, two cold black pebbles unwaveringly fixed on the chief's face, which were just as Gabriel remembered.

‘Chief Fischer,' Potiorek replied as he stepped forward. ‘It is good to see you again.'

‘And it is good to see you, too, Governor,' the chief replied.

‘Ah, but I am no longer a governor,' Potiorek said with a rueful smile. ‘I'm just an ordinary Austrian civilian now, although even in retirement I am still entitled to use my former rank.'

It was a moment before the chief understood. ‘Oh. Of course, Herr General.'

‘Thank you. I would prefer that. I'm not unhappy to be out of the limelight. My days of service to the emperor are over.'

The chief motioned towards Gabriel. ‘You do remember Captain Bayer, Herr General?'

Potiorek made a quarter turn towards him. ‘Of course.' He bowed his head. ‘How could I forget? I recognised you as I walked by just now, Captain.'

‘Herr General.' Gabriel gave a brief formal nod of his head, and then noticed that Potiorek was looking at him oddly, as if he had something to say.

‘Actually, Captain, I'm pleased to have met you again.' Potiorek blinked, then sighed. ‘You see, I have never properly thanked you for what you tried to do for the Archduke that terrible day. He was mortally wounded, but you did your best. For that I must thank you.'

Gabriel was stunned that the conversation had so quickly turned to the topic of that awful day; he opened his mouth to respond but could not find any words. It was the chief who finally broke the awkward silence. ‘Please, won't you join us for a drink?'

Potiorek hesitated and then glanced around him. There was only one other outside table occupied at the café, and an older couple sitting at it were staring at Potiorek with undisguised curiosity. ‘Forgive me, good doctor, but I'd rather not,' Potiorek replied. ‘I lead a quiet life now and I don't like to be seen in public. I normally avoid the city centre; I only pass through here on my morning walk in the mountains—'

‘Please, General,' the chief said, ‘we would consider it a great honour if you would join us, even for one drink.'

‘No,' Potiorek said, looking uncomfortable at the chief's persistence. ‘Thank you for the invitation, but—'

‘Please, Herr General,' Gabriel said, finally finding his voice. ‘I would also like you to sit and share a drink with us.'

‘I'm sorry, Captain.' Potiorek began to back away.

‘It would help me if you could stay and talk for a while,' Gabriel said. ‘You see, I was captured at the Battle of Kolubra last December.'

Potiorek suddenly stopped. ‘Oh. I see.' He straightened his shoulders. ‘You were taken prisoner?'

‘Yes.'

‘And released when the Germans broke through last month?'

‘Yes.' Gabriel stared into Potiorek's eyes ‘I would very much like to understand what happened.'

Potiorek looked thoughtful and then nodded his head. ‘Very well, Captain. I'll stay for one drink.' He glanced at the couple sitting nearby, still watching the trio with interest. ‘But we're in the shade now' – he motioned towards the entrance to the café – ‘so perhaps we should go inside?'

The chief nodded and led Potiorek towards the door. A blast of steamy warmth greeted Gabriel as he followed them into the café, which was full of people eating lunch. Almost immediately, Gabriel was aware of a lull in conversations as customers looked up from their tables to take in the newcomers. From the furtive glances and whispering-behind-hands, Gabriel quickly gleaned that Potiorek was a well-known figure in Klagenfurt, but not a well-liked one.

Ignoring the almost-palpable antipathy in the room, the chief confidently led them towards a small table near the back. While Gabriel and Potiorek removed their coats, the chief snapped his fingers at a waiter standing by the bar and ordered a bottle of Zweigelt red and three glasses. As the waiter went to fetch the wine, Gabriel saw that most of the other customers in the café were still staring at the trio and finally understood Potiorek's reluctance to stay.

‘So, Herr General: why have you moved to Klagenfurt?' the chief asked as he settled himself into a chair.

‘When I relinquished the Governorship of Bosnia,' Potiorek replied, ‘I lost my grace-and-favour apartment in the Konak. And then I resigned from the army…' he paused, as if the memory gave him pain. ‘Anyway, I decided to move back to Austria. Vienna is too public a place for me, but my brother has a house on the outskirts of Klagenfurt, so I came here. We are just two old men, two old bachelors living a simple life. I read, write a bit, take a walk most days in the mountains or by the lakes. I chop wood, attend to the garden. The house is comfortable and has everything we need. The only item I took with me from the Konak is the chaise longue from my bedroom.'