Read Online White Eagles Over Serbia by Lawrence Durrell - Free Book Online Page B

family is in a concentration camp.” He glanced sideways and saw once more that proud dark face with its cleanly cut nose and mouth. There are people whose basic truthfulness shines out of their eyes, and looking into hers, Methuen knew that she had not changed. “My dear,” he said, “can’t you get out?” She shook her head. “But I am working for us too,” she added in a passionate whisper. “We must try and overturn this unjust system. Methuen, do they know in England?” A heavily built officer came up and stood beside Methuen to study the notices, shouldering them both aside to do so.
    â€œNo,” he whispered.
    â€œOur people admired and loved England. They cannot believe that England is helping these Communists.”
    Her eyes flashed and her hands clenched. For a moment Methuen feared she might burst out into a violent denunciation of the régime. He took her hand and pressed it. “The white eagles?” he said, and at the words an extraordinary change came over her.
    â€œYou know about us?”
    â€œA little.”
    â€œCan you help us in England? Please, tell all who care for liberty and decency. Please help our cause.” It was the old passionate Vida kindling behind the mask of a prematurely aged woman. “Tell me about yourselves,” said Methuen. “We don’t know enough about you. You distrust us.”
    â€œI know. And with cause! Did you not put our friend into power here?” She nodded towards a portrait of Tito on the foyer wall. A bell rang sourly and people began to stub out their cigarettes before drifting back into the auditorium. “I must go,” she said, “I must go.” “Wait,” he said, “I must talk to you. Can we meet?” Her eyes darkened with fear and she hesitated. “Please,” he said, “I may help you.” She thought for a moment, a prey to confused emotions. Then at last her proud little face hardened again and she said: “Tomorrow at the picture gallery in the Kalemigdan, the Turkish fort. Twelve. No greetings, please.”
    She slipped through the doors and was gone. Methuen went back to the box, a prey to conflicting emotions of triumph and uncertainty. If she were working for the OZNA she might report him and cause him trouble. On the other hand if she were really the Vida who had worked with him for two years he could be tolerably sure that she would not give him away—especially if she were really a member of the White Eaglesl Meeting her might turn out to have been a stroke of real luck.
    Throughout the rest of the performance he was restless, and unable to concentrate on the music, which pursued its listless course in the semi-darkness like a shallow but noisy river. Long before the end of the last scene he felt he had had enough and, obtaining the consent of his hosts, rose to leave; nor were Porson and Carter sorry to accompany him, for both were eager to hear if his rendezvous had been a success or not. They walked back through the ill-lit streets to the hotel where Porson’s car was parked while he gave them an account of the meeting, and of his plans for the morrow.
    â€œI must say it’s a stroke of luck,” said Carter, “if you feel you can trust her not to give you away.”
    â€œAt any rate if I am starting the day after tomorrow I shall not be in evidence here. The OZNA would have to trace me before it can have me followed. Incidentally is one followed here?”
    Porson groaned. “Of course.”
    â€œNot inside the theatre.”
    â€œNo. But there was a leather man waiting outside for us.”
    â€œI’m getting unobservant,” said Methuen.
    â€œCars are only followed if they cross a check point on the three roads outside Belgrade unattended by an OZNA car.”
    â€œI shall have to drop off in town somewhere,” said Methuen, “for the meeting tomorrow.”
    They returned to