When offered this, Pinkrose eyed the bottle for some moments, one brow raised, before he said: ‘Perhaps I will try a half-glass.’ He sipped at it and finding it better than he had expected, expressed satisfaction by moving his bottom about on his seat. He allowed his glass to be refilled and said: ‘I cannot think why Professor Inchcape has put me into that hotel.’
Harriet was surprised. ‘The Athénée Palace used to be practically an English hotel,’ she said. ‘We see it as a refuge, and the English journalists who live there almost never leave it.’
‘It’s teeming with Germans,’ Pinkrose complained.
‘The other hotel, the Minerva, is much worse. It’s full of German diplomats. The officers of the Military Mission are only at the Athénée Palace because the Minerva had no room for them.’
‘Indeed!’ Having made this attempt at conversation, Pinkrose retired into silence but his eyes were taking in every detail of his surroundings. Seeing them turn from the shabby upholstery to the shabby rugs, Harriet said: ‘We took this flat furnished. Things have received a lot of wear from different tenants.’
As she spoke, he dropped his glance and his cheeks grew pink. Startled out of ill-humour, he said, pleasantly enough: ‘I take it the books are yours?’
She explained that the books, mostly second-hand, had been collected by Guy and brought to Rumania in sacks. He nodded his interest. Although he did not look at Harriet, he kept his attention pointedly in her direction and when Guy broke in on the talk, he looked aside in a discouraging way.
Guy had several volumes of poems by poets he had known when a student. He began taking these down to show Pinkrose signatures and inscriptions, but Pinkrose was not impressed. ‘These young men have a lot to learn,’ he said.
Guy leapt at once to the defence of the poets of his generation and while he talked, he refilled Pinkrose’s glass. Too preoccupied and short-sighted to see when it was full, he went on pouring until the madeira ran from the table and dripped on to Pinkrose who tutted in exasperation. Full of apologies, Guy began to rub Pinkrose’s trousers and Pinkrose, tutting again, moved his legs away.
Harriet called in Despina who, liking nothing better than to get into the room when visitors were present, spent so long mopping up round Pinkrose’s feet that he said on a high note of irritation: ‘If we do not sup soon, we shall be late for the concert.’
Supper, which he ate resignedly, was a hurried meal.
As they entered the main door of the Opera House, the Pringles were surprised by the opulence of the persons entering with them. Everyone was in evening dress, the men wearing orders, the women décolleté and lavishly bejewelled. Harriet began to feel something was wrong. This was not a usual Rumanian audience. The people were too large, too important-looking and they were all talking German. The vestibule was banked with flowers.
Pinkrose let out his breath in appreciation of so much splendour. ‘These days,’ he said, ‘we see nothing like this at home.’
Harriet noticed that everyone who glanced once at the English party, glanced a second time in apparent disbelief. She said to Guy: ‘Do you think we’re improperly dressed?’ He ridiculed the idea and it did seem that it was they themselves, not their clothing, that gave rise to astonishment.
While they made their way to their seats, there were whisperings and a turning of heads, brought to a stop at last by the entry of the orchestra. When the musicians reached their places, they remained standing and the leader looked at the main box which jutted out at stage level. The audience, losing interest in the Pringles, also watched the box.
Harriet said to Pinkrose: ‘I think the King is coming.’ Pinkrose gave a gratified shuffle in his seat.
The door opened at the back of the box and a glimmer of shirt-front could be seen. The audience began to applaud. There entered a train of people comporting themselves with the studied graciousness of royalty, led by a large man who came to the rail and stood there. The Pringles recognised the heavy, sombre, unmistakable figure of Dr Fabricius. The applause became clamorous. A woman in cloth of gold, his wife perhaps, made queenly movements with one hand. Fabricius bowed.
‘Surely that’s not the young King?’ said Pinkrose.
Guy told him it was the German minister. Pinkrose’s mouth fell open in disappointment but he nodded, prepared now to accept anything.
While the Legation party was entering, the box opposite had been filled by officers of the Military Mission who were escorting several resplendent women. Harriet, unable to keep from smiling, whispered to Pinkrose: ‘There are some of the princesses you hoped to meet.’
The conductor raised his baton. The audience rose. Expecting the Rumanian national anthem, the Pringles and Pinkrose did the same. Some moments passed before the Pringles realised they were standing for Deutschland über Alles. When he did so, Guy plumped back into his seat and Harriet, more slowly, followed. Pinkrose, looking embarrassed by their behaviour, remained at attention. The anthem finished, there was a pause: then came the Horst Wessel.
Perplexed, Guy began, for the first time, to examine his programme. He looked across at Harriet and hissed: ‘Gieseking.’
She realised what had happened. Guy, eager and short-sighted, had bought the tickets without consulting the boards outside the theatre. This was a German propaganda concert.
When Pinkrose sat down, Harriet began to explain the mistake, but he had guessed it for himself and silenced her with a movement. ‘As we are here,’ he said, ‘let us enjoy the music.’
The pianist had taken his seat and Beethoven’s Fifth Pianoforte Concerto began.
Harriet, thankful for Pinkrose’s attitude, felt as he did, but Guy was looking wretchedly unhappy. He sat through the first movement with folded arms and sunken chin, and as soon as it ended, he stood up.
Pinkrose stared at him in acute irritation. He whispered: ‘It’s no good. I’m going.’
Harriet, who had been entranced by the performance, said: ‘Do stay,’ but he pushed past her. She felt she must go with him and as she rose, Pinkrose said in alarm: ‘I don’t want to be left here alone.’
The pianist sat motionless, waiting for the interruption to end. As much amused as annoyed, the audience watched while the three English interlopers got out as quickly as they could.
In the vestibule, Guy, his face damp with sweat, apologised for having led them into the predicament and for having led them out of it. He explained: ‘I couldn’t stand it. I kept thinking of the concentration camps.’
Too angry to speak, Pinkrose turned and strutted out of the Opera House. The Pringles went after him but he managed to keep just ahead of them all the way back to the hotel.
As he was halted by the revolving door, Guy tried to apologise again but Pinkrose held up his hand. He had suffered enough. He wanted to hear no more.
PART FOUR
The Raid
22
The train rising into the mountains carried, trapped within it, the heavy air of the city. During the week the heat had renewed itself. Bucharest was suffering the last dragging days of summer.
At Ploesti, where there was a long stop, life was at a standstill. Syrupy sunlight poured over the denuded earth and gleamed on the metal of refineries and storage bins. Oil-trains stood in the sidings, each tank bearing the name of its destination: Frankfurt, Stuttgart, Dresden, München, Hamburg, Berlin.