The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [191]
With a sudden vehemence the woman, Mme. Kanyi, shook off her advisers and began her story. The people outside, she explained, were the survivors of an Italian concentration camp on the island of Rab. Most were Yugoslav nationals, but some, like herself, were refugees from Central Europe. She and her husband were on their way to Australia in 1939; their papers were in order; he had a job waiting for him in Brisbane. Then they had been caught by the war.
When the King fled the Ustashi began massacring Jews. The Italians rounded them up and took them to the Adriatic. When Italy surrendered, the partisans for a few weeks held the coast. They brought the Jews to the mainland, conscribed all who seemed capable of useful work, and imprisoned the rest. Her husband had been attached to the army headquarters as electrician. Then the Germans moved in; the partisans fled, taking the Jews with them. And here they were, a hundred and eight of them, half starving in Begoy.
Major Gordon was not an imaginative man. He saw the complex historical situation in which he participated, quite simply in terms of friends and enemies and the paramount importance of the war-effort. He had nothing against Jews and nothing against communists. He wanted to defeat the Germans and go home. Here it seemed were a lot of tiresome civilians getting in the way of this object. He said cheerfully: “Well, I congratulate you.”
Mme. Kanyi looked up quickly to see if he was mocking her, found that he was not, and continued to regard him now with sad, blank wonder.
“After all,” he continued, “you’re among friends.”
“Yes,” she said, too doleful for irony, “we heard that the British and Americans were friends of the partisans. It is true, then?”
“Of course it’s true. Why do you suppose I am here?”
“It is not true that the British and Americans are coming to take over the country?”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“But it is well known that Churchill is a friend of the Jews.”
“I’m sorry, madam, but I simply do not see what the Jews have got to do with it.”
“But we are Jews. One hundred and eight of us.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do about that?”
“We want to go to Italy. We have relations there, some of us. There is an organization at Bari. My husband and I had our papers to go to Brisbane. Only get us to Italy and we shall be no more trouble. We cannot live as we are here. When winter comes we shall all die. We hear aeroplanes almost every night. Three aeroplanes could take us all. We have no luggage left.”
“My dear madam, those aeroplanes are carrying essential war equipment, they are taking out wounded and officials. I’m very sorry you are having a hard time, but so are plenty of other people in this country. It won’t last long now. We’ve got the Germans on the run. I hope by Christmas to be in Zagreb.”
“We must say nothing against the partisans?”
“Not to me. Look here, let me give you a cup of cocoa. Then I have work to do.”
He went to the window and called to Bakic for cocoa and biscuits. While it was coming the lawyer said in English: “We were better in Rab.” Then suddenly all three broke into a chatter of polyglot complaint, about their house, about their property which had been stolen, about their rations. If Churchill knew he would have them sent to Italy. Major Gordon said: “If it was not for the partisans you would now be in the hands of the Nazis,” but that word had no terror for them now. They shrugged hopelessly.
One of the widows brought in a tray of cups and a tin of biscuits. “Help yourselves,” said Major Gordon.
“How many, please, may we take?”
“Oh, two or three.”
With tense self-control each took three biscuits, watching the others to see they