The Fourth Estate Read online

  One evening, after he had returned from hunting with Rudi, Lubji told his host that it would not be long before he had to leave. “I must find a port, and get as far away from the Germans as possible,” he explained. Rudi nodded as they sat round the fire, sharing a rabbit. Neither of them saw the look of sadness that came into Mari’s eyes.

  When Lubji returned to the caravan that night, he found Mari waiting for him. He climbed up to join her and tried to explain that as his wound had nearly healed, he no longer required her help to undress. She smiled and began to remove his shirt gently from his shoulder, taking off the bandages and cleaning the wound. She looked in her canvas bag, frowned, hesitated for a moment, and started to tear her dress, using the material to rebandage his shoulder.

  Lubji just stared at Mari’s long brown legs as she slowly ran her fingers down his chest to the top of his trousers. She smiled at him and began to undo the buttons. He placed a cold hand on her thigh, and turned scarlet as she lifted up her dress to reveal that she was wearing nothing underneath.

  Mari waited expectantly for him to move his hand, but he continued to stare. She leaned forward and pulled off his pants, then climbed across him and lowered herself gently onto him. He remained as still as he had when felled by the bullet, until she began to move slowly up and down, her head tossed back. She took his other hand and placed it inside the top of her dress, shuddering when he first touched her warm breast. He just left it there, still not moving, even though her rhythm became faster and faster. Just when he wanted to shout out, he quickly pulled her down, kissing her roughly on the lips. A few seconds later he lay back exhausted, wondering if he had hurt her, until he opened his eyes and saw the expression on her face. She sank on his shoulder, rolled onto one side and fell into a deep sleep.

  He lay awake, thinking that he might have died without ever having experienced such pleasure. A few hours passed before he woke her. This time he didn’t remain motionless, his hands continually discovering different parts of her body, and he found that he enjoyed the experience even more the second time. Then they both slept.

  When the caravans moved on the next day, Rudi told Lubji that during the night they had crossed yet another border, and were now in Yugoslavia.

  “And what is the name of those hills covered in snow?” asked Lubji.

  “From this distance they may look like hills,” said Rudi, “but they are the treacherous Dinaric Mountains. My caravans cannot hope to make it across them to the coast.” For some time he didn’t speak, then he added, “But a determined man just might.”

  They traveled on for three more days, resting only for a few hours each night, avoiding towns and villages, until they finally came to the foot of the mountains.

  That night, Lubji lay awake as Mari slept on his shoulder. He began to think about his new life and the happiness he had experienced during the past few weeks, wondering if he really wanted to leave the little band and be on his own again. But he decided that if he were ever to escape the wrath of the Germans, he must somehow reach the other side of those mountains and find a boat to take him as far away as possible. The next morning he dressed long before Mari woke. After breakfast he walked around the camp, shaking hands and bidding farewell to every one of his compatriots, ending with Rudi.

  Mari waited until he returned to her caravan. He leaned forward, took her in his arms and kissed her for the last time. She clung to him long after his arms had fallen to his side. After she had finally released him, she passed over a large bundle of food. He smiled and then walked quickly away from the camp toward the foot of the mountains. Although he could hear her following for the first few paces, he never once looked back.

  Lubji traveled on and on up into the mountains until it was too dark to see even a pace in front of him. He selected a large rock to shelter him from the worst of the bitter wind, but even huddled up he still nearly froze. He spent a sleepless night eating Mari’s food and thinking about the warmth of her body.

  As soon as the sun came up he was on the move again, rarely stopping for more than a few moments. At nightfall he wondered if the harsh, cold wind would freeze him to death while he was asleep. But he woke each morning with the sun shining in his eyes.

  By the end of the third day he had no food left, and could see nothing but mountains in every direction he looked. He began to wonder why he had ever left Rudi and his little gypsy band.

  On the fourth morning he could barely put one foot in front of the other: perhaps starvation would achieve what the Germans had failed to do. By the evening of the fifth day he was just wandering aimlessly forward, almost indifferent to his fate, when he thought he saw smoke rising in the distance. But he had to freeze for another night before flickering lights confirmed the testimony of his eyes. For there in front of him lay a village and, beyond that, his first sight of the sea.

  Coming down the mountains might have been quicker than climbing them, but it was no less treacherous. He fell several times, and failed to reach the flat, green plains before sunset, by which time the moon was darting in and out between the clouds, fitfully lighting his slow progress.

  Most of the lamps in the little houses had already been blown out by the time he reached the edge of the village, but he hobbled on, hoping he would find someone who was still awake. When he reached the first house, which looked as if it was part of a small farm, he considered knocking on the door, but as there were no lights to be seen he decided against it. He was waiting for the moon to reappear from behind a cloud when his eyes made out a barn on the far side of the yard. He slowly made his way toward the ramshackle building. Stray chickens squawked as they jumped out of his path, and he nearly walked into a black cow which had no intention of moving for the stranger. The door of the barn was half open. He crept inside, collapsed onto the straw and fell into a deep sleep.

  When Lubji woke the next morning he found he couldn’t move his neck; it was pinned firmly to the ground. He thought for a moment that he must be back in jail, until he opened his eyes and stared up at a massive figure towering above him. The man was attached to a long pitchfork, which turned out to be the reason why he couldn’t move.

  The farmer shouted some words in yet another language. Lubji was only relieved that it wasn’t German. He raised his eyes to heaven and thanked his tutors for the breadth of his education. Lubji told the man on the end of the pitchfork that he had come over the mountains after escaping from the Germans. The farmer looked incredulous, until he had examined the bullet scar on Lubji’s shoulder. His father had owned the farm before him, and he had never told him of anyone crossing those mountains.

  He led Lubji back to the farmhouse, keeping the pitchfork firmly in his hand. Over a breakfast of bacon and eggs, and thick slabs of bread supplied by the farmer’s wife, Lubji told them, more with hand gestures than words, what he had been through during the past few months. The farmer’s wife looked sympathetic and kept filling his empty plate. The farmer said little, and still looked doubtful.

  When Lubji came to the end of his tale, the farmer warned him that despite the brave words of Tito, the partisan leader, he didn’t think it would be long before the Germans would invade Yugoslavia. Lubji began to wonder if any country on earth was safe from the ambitions of the Führer. Perhaps he would have to spend the rest of his life just running away from him.

  “I must get to the coast,” he said. “Then if I could get on a boat and cross the ocean…”

  “It doesn’t matter where you go,” said the farmer, “as long as it’s as far away from this war as possible.” He dug his teeth into an apple. “If they ever catch up with you again, they won’t let you escape a second time. Find yourself a ship—any ship. Go to America, Mexico, the West Indies, even Africa,” said the farmer.

  “How do I reach the nearest port?”

  “Dubrovnik is two hundred kilometers south-east of us,” said the farmer, lighting up a pipe. “There you will find many ships only too happy to sail away from this war.”