Free White Eagles Over Serbia by Lawrence Durrell Page B

shoulders stood beside him as he gazed out over the soft purple plain which stretched away towards Hungary. “Is is not lovely?” she said. Anyone who saw them might imagine they were husband and wife, pausing for a rest and for the first time he saw a smile of unshadowed content on her face. The old Vida was coming alive.
    â€œWhy are you working for them?” said Methuen at last when the first of her few questions had been asked and answered. “Ah,” she said, “the only choice left was to become the mistress of someone. My ration card was taken away because I refused. One has to eat. But luckily, luckily … I found I could be of use.” She lowered her voice to a whisper again and said: “They are afraid of us, Methuen. They know we are getting strong. They know that everyone is on our side and that the country would rise to-morrow if it could hear the voice of a leader.”
    â€œTell me about the broadcasts,” said Methuen, drawing a bow at a venture, and was delighted to see the look of surprised recognition in her eyes. “Ah! you know about those,” she said.
    â€œA certain amount. Sophia Marie must be a White Eagle too.”
    â€œHow do you find out things that even the OZNA does not know?”
    â€œHow is the message passed?”
    â€œSome are repeated.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThe message starts at the tenth line.”
    Methuen could have kicked himself with annoyance. He should really have thought of something as simple as that. With a sudden impulse he took out of his pocket the little collection of folk-songs which Anson had carried with him on his journey. He hunted out the passage marked in pencil and was delighted to find that it started at the tenth line of the poem.
    â€œWhat is that?” said Vida. “Is something wrong?”
    â€œI’m an ass,” said Methuen, “I should have known.”
    â€œI should not tell you this,” she said, squeezing his arm through the sleeve of his mackintosh. “I am sworn to secrecy. The eagles would kill me. I told you that they hate England now, nearly as much as they hate Tito. They do not understand you like I do. Methuen, help us.”
    â€œHow?” he said helplessly. “Just how?”
    She turned her dark magnificent eyes on him and said: “At this very moment our movement needs help. We need access to the highest quarters in England. Can you reach perhaps the Prime Minister with a message if you wish?”
    â€œI doubt it.”
    â€œIt is important for England too. Something very big is happening in the mountains of south Serbia. We have the means in our hands to overturn the Tito régime. Surely England would be interested in that? I remember when I worked for you you could always reach the Secretary of State’s office. Our people are savage, they don’t trust England. They think that if you knew what we had discovered you would help Tito to suppress our movement. Oh, Methuen, do you see?”
    â€œWhat is it?” Tears came into her eyes and she shook her head. “I cannot tell you without authority. I must not. I dare not.”
    There came the tramp of feet on the turret stairs and she broke off. A large family party, surrounded by children, rambled up to the terrace with much puffing and blowing, and admired the view with considerable expenditure of oaths and grunts. Gravely the father pointed out the sights to his children: “There is Smederavo—or should be if you could see it,” and “There is Zemun—only it is hidden in smoke.…” Methuen could feel the girl trembling, and glancing at her out of the corner of his eye he saw that she was crying noiselessly. She recovered herself and blew her nose. The Serbian family rambled off and silence fell once more.
    â€œI’m going to-morrow,” he said.
    â€œTo London?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow I wish I could come with you. But I feel I