14

Zaleshoff was not gone long.

Therell be five thousand lire for us at Udine when we get there, he said when he got back.

But what about your sister?

Shes got some things to clear up, then shes leaving for Belgrade to keep a line on Vagas. Shell meet us there.

Youve got everything planned beautifully, havent you? I said, not without bitterness.

Naturally. Its better that way.

He paid the bill and we set out.

For a quarter of a mile or so we retraced our steps; then we struck out in a north-easterly direction.

It was a cold night and cloudy. I was wearing a thin overcoat and I had no scarf; but the pace that Zaleshoff set soon made up for those deficiencies.

To begin with we exchanged a few desultory remarks. Soon we fell silent. Our footsteps grated in unison on the flinty road. My mind seemed with my fingers to have gone numb. I felt emotionally exhausted. All that I was conscious of for a time was a dim, unreasoning resentment of Zaleshoff. He was responsible. But for him, I should be sleeping comfortably in my room at the Parigi. I thought, absurdly, of a favourite shirt I had left among my things there. I should never see that again. I tried to remember where in London I had bought it. Perhaps they wouldnt have any more shirts like that. Zaleshoffs fault. Useless to tell myself that Zaleshoff had done no more than make suggestions, that what I was paying for now was the fit of bravado, of temper which had led me that night in Zaleshoffs office to telephone Vagas. Zaleshoff was the villain of the piece.

Out of the corners of my eyes I glanced at him. I could see him in dim outline, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, plodding along beside me. I wondered if he was conscious of my dislike, of my mistrust of him. He probably was. He did not miss very much.

And then I had a sudden revulsion of feeling. It was not true to say that I disliked him; you could not dislike him. I felt suddenly that I wanted to put out my hand and touch his arm and shake it to show that I bore him no ill-will. I wondered idly, unemotionally, if, had Vagas already received my second report, or had Zaleshoff been able to transmit it to him in any other way but through me, I should have been helped in this way. Probably not. I should have been left negligently to my fate. Zaleshoff was a Soviet agent-I had come without effort to take that fact for granted-and he had his work to do, he had the business of his extraordinary government to attend to. I supposed that, strictly speaking, I, too, was a servant of that government. Oddly enough, I found that idea no worse than curious. Vagas suggestion that I was a servant of his government I had found highly-distasteful. Perhaps that was because I liked Zaleshoff and disliked Vagas, or because one had paid me and the other had merely offered to do so. Still, it was odd. After all, I had no particular feelings about either of their countries. I knew neither of them. When I thought of Germany I thought of parades, of swastika banners flapping from tall poles, of loudspeakers, of stout field marshals and goose-stepping men with steel helmets, of concentration camps. When I thought of Russia I thought of dark, stupid Romanoffs, of the Winter Palace, of Cossacks, of crowds streaming in terror, of canopied priests swinging censers, of Lenin and Stalin, of grain rippling in the breeze, of the Lubianka prison. Yes, it was odd. I found suddenly that we were slowing down. Then Zaleshoff cleared his throat and muttered that we turned right. We passed the fork in the road and increased our speed again. The moon shone for a moment through a thin patch in the drifting clouds, then disappeared again. In the darkness the silence walked with us like a ghost.

In the east the sky became pale and smoky. The trees and a line of pylons sprang out in silhouette against it like scenery against a dimly lighted cyclorama. The sky yellowed. The silhouettes changed slowly into three dimensional figures. A slight breeze sprang up.

I peered at my watch. It was half-past five. We had been walking without a break for over six hours. I had on only thin pavement shoes, and the roads had been rough. My feet were sore and swollen. My eyes were smarting and I felt weak at the knees. Zaleshoff saw me glance at my watch.

What time is it?

I told him. It was the first thing either of us had said for several hours.

What about a shot of cognac and a cigarette apiece?

I could do with both.

In the half light I could see that we were walking along a narrow road between fields lying fallow. It looked very much the same sort of country as that we had landed in from the train. We sat on a pile of flints by the side of the road. Zaleshoff produced the brandy and we drank some of it out of the bottle. We lit cigarettes.

Where are we? I said.

I dont know. There was a signpost a kilometre or so back, but it was too dark to read it. How are you feeling?

Not too bad. And you?

Tired. We must have done about thirty-five kilometres or so. Its not bad for a start. There should be a village or something a little way ahead. Well push on for a bit. Then you can hide up somewhere while I go and forage for something to eat. Weve got to eat.

Yes and weve got to sleep.

Well think about that too.

We finished our cigarettes and set off again. The cognac had done me good, but my feet were worse for the rest and I felt myself developing a limp. Somewhere, not very far away, a cock was beginning to crow.

We walked on for another hour and a half. Then we came to a stretch of road bounded by a wood of young birch trees. Zaleshoff slowed down.

I think it wouldnt be a bad idea if you stopped here. I think we must be pretty close to a village now and there may not be such good cover as this farther on. Youd better take the brandy. You may get cold and, anyway, I dont want to take it with me. I may be gone some time. But dont move away and dont show yourself near the road. Therell be farm labourers about soon now. Have you got plenty of cigarettes?

Yes.

All right then. Ill see you later.

He tramped off down the road. I watched him out of sight round the bend, then threaded my way through the trees to a spot sheltered by some bushes about twenty-five yards from the road. I sat down thankfully on the ground and prepared to wait.

Zaleshoff was gone nearly two hours. The sun had risen and was glancing through the trees, but it was still cold. Soon I gave up sitting on the ground in favour of a sort of sentry-go pacing between two trees. Fifty times I looked at my watch and fifty times I found that the hands seemed not to have moved. Once, a man passed along the road whistling. My heart was in my mouth until he had passed. I resumed my pacing. After a bit I drank some more of the cognac. My stomach was empty and the spirit made me feel sick. I began to wonder if Zaleshoff had perhaps been arrested until I remembered that there was no reason why he should be. Then I made up my mind that he had regretted his offer to get me out of the country and made for the nearest railway station and a train back to Milan. That, too, was absurd. He was probably, I decided, having a good breakfast of hot, crisp rolls with a great deal of ice-cold butter and scalding coffee. I suddenly became ravenously hungry. I could almost smell the hot yeastiness of those rolls. The swine! The least he could have done would have been to get me a bite to eat. Then I began to think of Claire. I ought somehow to let her know what was happening. Pelcher, too. Perhaps I could send them telegrams. No, that would be awkward. The Italian authorities might trace the telegrams back to the sending office and thus find out where we were. I must be careful, discreet. I could send them a letter each. That would be all right. Zaleshoff could not object to that. Better perhaps, though, not to tell him. But I had not got any note-paper or envelopes. I should have to tell him. As I paced up and down my mind wandered on. But of all the many reasons I had to feel sorry for myself, the one that made the others seem trifling was the lack of those hot rolls. It was, no doubt, just as well that it was so.

I was disturbed in these reflections by the snapping of a twig. I started violently. Then Zaleshoff hailed me softly. I pushed my way through the screen of bushes that hid me and found him struggling with a number of paper parcels.

Oh there you are! he said.

You made me jump. Where have you been all this time?

Ill tell you in a minute. Help me with this stuff.

What is it?

Youll see.

He handed me two heavy parcels and we pushed our way through to the clearing behind the bushes. There he sat down with a sigh of relief. I saw that his face was drawn and tired. He looked up at me and smiled wearily.

First, he said, Ive got you some breakfast.

From his overcoat pocket he drew a large bag of buttered rolls. As I took the parcel from him I felt that they were still warm from the bakery. I tore the bag open and started to eat ravenously. Hot rolls! You couldnt help liking Zaleshoff!

From his other pocket he got out a bottle of milk. I extended the bag to him. He shook his head.

No, thanks. I ate while I was waiting for the shops to open. Thank goodness, were in the country. They opened early. Id have brought you some coffee, but it would have been cold by the time Id got it here.

Whats the name of the place? I said with my mouth full.

Reminini. Its small and a good half-hours walk from here. I He broke off suddenly. Would you like to see what Ive got in the other parcels?

I nodded, and he opened the two heavy parcels and displayed the contents. I goggled at them.

Boots?

Yes, a pair for each of us and some thick woollen socks. I noticed you had a bit of a limp this morning and when we stopped along the road I measured your foot against mine. We take the same size.

I regarded the huge, hob-nailed soles and heavy uppers with some misgiving. He interpreted my look correctly.

Weve got a whole lot of walking to do and theyll be less tiring than blisters.

I suppose so. Whats in the other parcel?

A muffler for one thing. You need one. And a hat.

But Ive got a hat.

Not like this one. Have a look.

I had a look and what I saw did not please me. It was a very cheap Italian soft hat, black, with a high crown and flat brim.

What on earth is this for?

He grinned. To make you look less conspicuous. That hat of yours is very natty but it shrieks English to high Heaven. Theres nothing like a new hat for making you look different.

I tried on the hat. To my surprise it fitted me.

He nodded. I had a look at your size in hats last night.

I felt it gingerly. I cant help feeling, I said crossly, that I shall look a damn sight more conspicuous in a low comedy affair like this than in my own hat.

Thats only because youre not used to it. Here, give it to me.

I gave it to him with pleasure. The next moment he was wringing it between his hands like a dish-cloth. He then proceeded to clean his shoes with it. Having done that he rubbed it vigorously on the ground until it was filthy. Then he shook the leaves off, punched it into shape again, dinted the top and handed it back to me.

Thats a bit more like it should be. No, dont dust it any more. Stick it on and give me your own.

I obeyed him. He surveyed me critically.

Yes, much better. Its a good thing youre dark. That unshaven chin goes swell with the hat.

I lit a cigarette and yawned. The food had made me sleepy. My eyelids felt very heavy.

Well, I said, I feel like a sleep. What about it? Shall we stay here or try to find somewhere else?

He did not answer immediately and I looked up from my cigarette. He was looking at me steadily.

Therell be no sleep for us to-day, he said slowly. Weve got to get on.

But

I didnt tell you before because I thought Id let you eat your breakfast in peace, but were in a pretty tough spot here.

My heart sank. What do you mean?

There are patrols out on all the roads.

How do you know?

I ran slap into one just outside the village. Police and a couple of Blackshirt militiamen. Were still in the Treviglio area, you see. I had to show my passport and permit, and they were suspicious. I made up a story on the spur of the moment about having started out early from Treviglio to get to a business appointment in Venice and having the car break down. It wasnt very good, but it was the best thing I could think of to explain what I was doing along this road at this time and in these clothes. They let me by but they took a note of my name and the number of my passport. They also told me where the nearest garage was. I couldnt very well go back along the road with all those parcels-that would have wanted a bit of explaining-so I had to make a detour through the fields. If they remember me and it occurs to them to check up with the garage man theyll be beating the bushes before long. And theres another thing. He pulled a folded newspaper out of his inside pocket. Take a look at this. Its this mornings.

I took the paper and scanned the front page. It was an early edition of a Milan sheet. It did not take me long to see what he wanted me to see. There, in the middle of the page were two squared-up half-tones, each about three inches deep. Both were pictures of me.

Above them were the words, A TTENTI, L. 10,000, in heavy black capitals. Below, also in bold type, was the message, slightly altered, that had been given over the radio the previous night. I examined the pictures carefully. One had obviously been taken from the prints I had supplied for my permit. It had been a flat photograph with hard, sharp lighting. The result was a reproduction that, in spite of the poor paper, was almost as clear as the original. It was easily recognisable as a picture of me. The other was less clear but it interested me very much for it had obviously been made from a photoprint of the photograph on my lost passport. I could see faintly where the black impressions of the British Foreign Office stamps had been painted out. I looked up.

Well, said Zaleshoff; now you know why I didnt want the ticket collector to see your face yesterday. The other papers have got those pictures too.

Yes, I see. I paused. Again I felt fear gripping at my stomach. What the devil are we to do? If theyre patrolling the roads and everybodys got these pictures, theres nothing we can do. You know, I think

He interrupted me.

Sure, I know! You think the best thing you can do is to give yourself up. Dont, for Heavens sake, lets waste our strength talking all that over again. He got out the map. Were not done yet. All the roads are patrolled but they cant patrol the fields as well. Now Reminini isnt marked on this map-its too small-but according to my reckoning its just about here-he jabbed the paper with his finger-and that means that were only about thirty kilometres south of the railway line from Bergamo to Brescia. If youll look at the map youll see that all the major roads run almost due north in this area. In other words, if we go north crosscountry we ought to be able to reach the railway to-day without much risk of running into a patrol.

But in daylight

I told you. The only roads well have to worry about are those we cross and theyll be secondary roads. As for the rest, all weve got to do is keep our eyes open.

I pounced bitterly on the last phrase. Dammit, Zaleshoff, I can hardly keep my eyes open now. Im all in. And so are you by the look of it. We shall never do it. Its no use your sticking your jaw out like that. It just isnt reasonable to think that we can do it. Anyway, supposing we do get to the railway; what then?

We can jump a goods train thatll take us to Udine.

Supposing there isnt one?

There will be. Its the main goods line from Turin. We may have to hide out until its dark, thats all. And as for feeling tired, youll find that if you sprint a bit the tirednessll wear off.

Sprint! I could hardly believe my ears.

Yes, sprint. Come on, change your shoes for the boots and lets get going. Its not healthy here.

I had not the strength to argue any more. I took off my shoes, pulled the coarse woollen socks over my own and then put on the boots. They were very stiff and felt like diving-boots look. My hat and shoes and the bottle and wrappings we buried under the leaves.

We walked through the trees to the fields on the opposite side of the wood to the road: then Zaleshoff produced a small toy compass he had bought in the village. After some trouble with the compass needle which, until we found that the glass was touching it, seemed willing to indicate north in any direction, we marked as our objective a group of trees on the brow of a slope about a kilometre away and set off.

For a minute or two we walked. Then, suddenly, Zaleshoff broke into a sharp trot.

Race you to the end of the path, he called back to me.

I detest at the best of times people wanting to race me to the ends of paths. I flung an emphatic negative after him, but he seemed not to hear. Feeling murderous, I picked up my heels and pounded after him. At length we slowed down, panting, to a walk.

Feeling better?

I had to admit that I was. The morning breeze had cleared away the remnants of the clouds. There was a suggestion of haze in the middle distance that presaged heat. We could hear a tractor working somewhere nearby, but we saw nothing on legs but cows. For a time we stepped out briskly. Then, as the sun became hotter, I felt my exhaustion returning.

What about a rest? I said after a while.

He shook his head. Wed better keep going. Do you want some cognac?

No, thanks.

We plodded on. It was open farming country with few trees and no shade. Swarms of flies, awakened by the heat, began to worry us. By midday I was feeling horribly thirsty and had a bad headache. For most of the time we seemed to be miles away from any sort of habitation. According to Zaleshoff we should have been near a secondary road running from east to west, but there was no sign of it ahead. The new boots had drawn my feet and become intolerably heavy. My legs began to feel shaky. The situation was not improved by our having to waste twenty minutes cowering in a dry ditch out of sight of a labourer who stopped to eat his lunch by the side of a cart track we had to cross. When at last we were able to push on, my feet and ankles had swollen. Our pace became slower. I found myself straggling behind Zaleshoff.

He waited for me to catch up with him.

If I dont have a drink of water soon, I declared, I shall pass out. As for these damn flies

He nodded. I guess I feel that way too. But we should make the road almost any time now. Can you keep going a bit longer?

I suppose so.

But it was two oclock before we reached the road. It might have been an oasis in a desert instead of a dry strip of dusty flints. Zaleshoff uttered a husky exclamation of satisfaction.

I knew we werent far away. Now you get among those bushes and lie low while I see what I can find in the shape of a drink. Dont move away.

The exhortation was unnecessary. Nothing but the direst necessity could have induced me to move. Through the pumping of the blood in my head I heard Zaleshoffs footsteps crunch slowly away into the distance.

Looking back now on those days with Zaleshoff one thing makes me marvel above all else-my complete and unquestioning belief in Zaleshoffs superior powers of endurance. It was always Zaleshoff who coaxed me into making a further effort when no further effort seemed possible. It was always Zaleshoff who, when we were both at the end of our strength, would walk another kilometre or more to get food and drink for us both. That it was safer for Zaleshoff to do so was beside the point; and, in any case, it soon became as dangerous for Zaleshoff as it would have been for me. My acceptance of the situation was based on the tacit assumption that Zaleshoff would naturally be in better shape than me. It is only now that I realise that Zaleshoffs was not physical superiority, but moral. I remember now, with a pang of mingled conscience and affection, the grey look of his face when he was tired, his habit of drawing the back of his hand across his eyes and one little incident that happened later. He had stopped suddenly to lean against a tree. With weary irritation I had asked him what the matter was. His eyes were shut. I remember now seeing the muscles of his face tighten suddenly. Then he looked angry and said that he had a stone down the inside of one of his boots. That had been all. He had pretended to extricate the stone and we had walked on. No, you could not dislike Zaleshoff.

I was nearly asleep when he got back. He shook me. I looked up and saw his face near mine. The sweat was trickling down in rivers through the dust and grime on his unshaven cheeks.

Something to drink and eat, he said.

He had bought some bread and sausage and a bottle of water mixed with a little wine from a woman in a cottage about a quarter of a mile away. Her husband had been at work in the fields. He had seen nobody else but the driver of a passing lorry.

Id have preferred plain water myself, he added; but she said it was safer with a little wine in it. I didnt argue the toss about it. We dont want to add stomach trouble to the rest of it.

I was feeling too tired to eat much. When we had finished, we put what was left in our pockets, together with the now half-empty bottle, smoked one cigarette each and set off again.

The afternoon was worse, if anything, than the morning. It was the first really hot day I had known in Italy. We marched with our overcoats and jackets slung over our shoulders. The flies pestered us almost beyond endurance. Twice we had to make wide semicircular detours over rough ground to avoid being seen by labourers. We crossed another secondary road. Towards four oclock Zaleshoff called a halt.

If we go on like this, he panted, we shall kill ourselves. We cant be so very far from the railway now. For Gods sake lets have a drink and wait for the sun to cool off a bit.

For an hour we rested in the shade of a tree, talking inanities to prevent ourselves going to sleep. When we got to our feet again the sun had started to dip down towards the trees on the western horizon. The flies seemed less attentive. Zaleshoff suggested singing as we went to keep a good marching rhythm. At first I was inclined to regard the proposal as a piece of very shallow heartiness, but to my surprise I found that the dingy humming that we managed to produce cheered me considerably. My legs seemed to be moving automatically as though they did not belong to me. All I could feel of them was the aching thigh muscles and the burning soles of my feet. We began to descend a long gentle gradient.

It was about half-past six that we heard the train whistle.

Zaleshoff gasped out an exclamation. You heard it, Marlow? You heard it?

It sounded a darn long way away.

Electric train whistles always do. Another couple of kilometres and well have done it.

Twenty minutes later we crossed our third road. It was a little wider than the others and we had to wait for a private car and a van to pass before we broke cover and crossed.

The way now was more difficult. Before, we had been traversing open country partly under cultivation, with only an occasional hedge or low stone wall to mark property boundaries. Towards the railway the properties were smaller and sometimes fenced with wire. We passed at no great distance a fair-sized factory with two tall metal chimneys. Then, as we breasted a low slope, Zaleshoff pointed to what looked like a thin strip of grey cloud right down on the horizon ahead of us and said that it was the hills above Bergamo. Not long after we saw the railway line.

It emerged from a cutting about a quarter of a mile away below us. For some reason, the sight of it depressed me. We had arrived; but the worst lay ahead of us. The curving rails looked extraordinarily inhospitable.

Well, what now? I said helplessly.

Now, we wait until its dark.

We found a hollow screened by grass and piles of brown stones near the cutting and finished the remains of the food we had with us. We washed it down with some cognac. My eyes burned and stung and were half-closed, but I felt suddenly very wide awake.

Wed better put our coats and scarves on, said Zaleshoff: itll be cold soon.

We lay there in silence watching the sun grow and redden as it sank into the streaky blue-black clouds that seemed waiting to receive it. The light faded. When it was nearly dark we left our hiding-place, moved down near to the line and began to walk in a direction parallel to it away from the cutting. By the time we saw the lights of a station it was quite dark.

We approached the station slowly. It was very small. In common with most small Italian country stations there were no platforms, only the white stuccoed station buildings, the neat wood fences, and the clipped hedges. Beyond it was a level crossing and a signal cabin. An electric floodlight suspended from a tall concrete standard cast a circular pool of light in front of the station house. Standing talking in the light were two men. One was a station official. The other was a Fascist militiaman with a rifle slung across his back.

Whats the one with the rifle doing there? I whispered stupidly.

What do you think? retorted Zaleshoff. The sidings over the other side. Well go back and cross the line a bit lower down.

We groped our way back along the wire fence that bounded the track, then dived under it and scuttled across the rails. On the far side we remained on the track side of the fence and began slowly to work our way back towards the station.

The track level was only about a couple of feet above that of the surrounding land and we had practically to crawl along on our hands and knees to keep under cover. Then the fence curved away to the left and I saw ahead the bulky outlines of tarpaulined goods trucks. A moment or two later we were able to stand upright with the trucks between us and the station house.

There were about twenty trucks in the siding and all appeared to be loaded. We walked alongside them until we reached the buffers at the end. Then Zaleshoff stopped.

This looks like us, he whispered. All loaded and ready to go. Probably parked here last night. Come on.

He led the way back a little, then stopped again.

Lend me your matches, he muttered.

I passed them to him in silence. He struck one and, shielding the flame with cupped hands, held it up against the side of the truck beside which we were standing. Then I saw that there was a metal frame there and that in the metal frame was a card. There was a lot of writing on the card, but as Zaleshoff blew out the match almost immediately I saw only one thing:

TORINO A VENEZIA DIRETTORE PROV. MAR.

Director of naval supplies, Venice, murmured Zaleshoff. It wont get us to Udine because itll be side-tracked again before then, but itll get us on our way.

He reached up to one of the ropes securing the tarpaulin and untied it. Then he grasped an iron staple, clambered up the toe-holes in the side of the truck and turned back the free corner of the tarpaulin. I followed him. A moment later I slid under the tarpaulin. My boots struck something hard and slippery.

What on earth is it? I whispered.

I heard him chuckle in the blackness. An egg box. Get down on your knees and feel. Its something you ought to know something about, I guess.

I got down on my knees. Then I understood why he had chuckled. The truck was loaded with big naval gun shells held upright by a sort of framework of wood. I could feel their cold, smooth surfaces each tapering to the ring bolts that had been screwed in for lifting purposes where the fuse would one day go. There was a smell of grease and machine oil.

As I wedged myself along the framework between two of the rows I heard Zaleshoff pulling the tarpaulin back into place.

Now you can have your nap, he said.

I closed my eyes.

It seemed to me no more than a few minutes after that the jolt of the truck half woke me. Actually I must have been asleep some time. As the truck began to rumble on its way I drifted off once more into sleep.

The next thing I remember is a strong light shining in my eyes blinding me, of fingers gripping my arm hard and shaking me, and of a voice bawling at me in Italian.