Judgment on Deltchev (10 page)

‘Then I shall go on living behind our wall,’ she said. ‘Did you not notice our wall?’

‘It’s very fine.’

‘You will see such walls round most of our old houses. In Bulgaria and in Greece, in Yugoslavia, in all the countries of Europe which have lived under Turkish rule it is
the same. To put a wall round your house then was not only to put up a barrier against the casual violence of foreign soldiers, it was in a way to deny their existence. Then our people lived behind their walls in small worlds of illusion that did not include an Ottoman Empire. Sometimes, as if to make the illusion more complete, they painted the walls with scenes of national life; but only on the inside, for that was where life was lived. Now that we are again inside our walls, the habits of our parents and our childhood return quietly like long lost pets. I surprise them in myself. This room for instance. Since Yordan’s arrest it has been the only room on this floor of the house that has had the shutters open in the daytime. My feelings tell me it is better so. But why? No reason except that from all the other windows on this floor one can see the street.’

‘Isn’t it dangerous to deny the street?’

‘For my children, yes. For me, no, for I shall not try to impose my private world upon the real. My son Philip is a student in Geneva. He will be a lawyer like his father. Already he promises to be brilliant, and Switzerland is a better place for study than here. I hope to make it possible for Katerina to join him there.’ She paused. ‘Yes, by all means come again, Herr Foster. When you wish.’ She pressed a bell-push. ‘Rana will unbolt the doors and show you out. I will tell her also to admit you if you come again.’

‘Thank you.’

We shook hands and said goodnight. As I went to the door I heard the old woman’s sandals flapping along the passage outside.

‘Herr Foster.’

‘Yes, madame?’

‘It might be misleading to pay too much attention to Petlarov’s views.’

‘I will remember what you say. Good night.’

‘Good night.’

The door opened and a shaft of electric light from the passage struck across the darkened room. I glanced back; I wanted to see her face again in the light; but she had turned away.

I went past the old woman into the passage and waited while she was given her instructions. Then she shut the door of the room and led the way downstairs.

The girl was standing in the hall. She was waiting for me. She had changed into a blouse and skirt.

‘Herr Foster, may I speak to you a moment?’

‘Of course.’ I stopped.

She said something to the old woman, who shrugged and went away.

‘I will show you out myself,’ the girl said, ‘but I wanted to speak to you first. I wanted to apologize to you for my behaviour.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘It was unforgivable.’

She looked so solemn that I smiled.

Her pale cheeks coloured slightly. ‘I have something to ask of you, Herr Foster.’

‘Yes, Fräulein?’

She dropped her voice. ‘Tell me, please. Were you searched by the guards when you came in?’

‘No. One of them pushed me in the back with his rifle and they looked at my press permit, but that’s all.’

‘A foreign-press permit. Ah, yes.’ Her eyes became
intent. ‘Herr Foster, I have a favour to ask of you.’ She paused, watching to see how I took it.

‘What is it you want me to do?’

‘To deliver a letter for me.’

‘What letter?’

She took a letter from her blouse pocket.

‘Can’t you post it?’

‘I am not permitted. Besides—’ She hesitated.

‘You just want me to post it for you?’

‘To deliver it, Herr Foster.’

‘Why can’t I post it?’

‘There is internal censorship.’

‘Where is it to be delivered?’

‘Inside the city, Herr Foster,’ she said eagerly. ‘Near the station.’

‘Who is it to?’

She hesitated again. ‘A young man,’ she said.

‘Supposing I’m caught with it?’

‘You will not be, Herr Foster. Rana said that when she opened the door the guards were friendly to you. Please, Herr Foster.’

I thought for a moment of the guards and of their friendliness. The muscles in my shoulder had stiffened slightly.

‘All right, Fräulein. A pleasure.’

‘Thank you, Herr Foster.’

I took the letter and glanced at the envelope. The address was in block letters and quite clear. I put it in my pocket.

Her smile was replaced suddenly by a look of anxiety. ‘When will you deliver it?’

‘Tomorrow sometime. When I can.’

She would have liked to ask me to deliver it that night, but I was not going to do that. I made as if to go.

‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘I will show you out now if you wish.’

She had a small hand-lamp. We went out and across the dark courtyard to the door in the wall. She undid the bolts.

‘Good night, Herr Foster,’ she whispered, and then, standing behind the door so that she could not be seen from outside, she opened it.

The beam of a powerful flash shone in my face, blinding me. I stepped through the wall, and the door closed behind my back. I stood still.

‘Papieren,’
said a remembered voice.

I got out my wallet and opened it with the press permit showing. The Private was holding the flashlight. The Corporal came into the beam of it. He glanced at the permit without touching it and then, smiling at me grimly, he nodded and with his thumb motioned me on my way. He said something and the Private laughed. They were pleased that I had so quickly learned my lesson.

It was only as I walked away up the street and the beating of my heart began to return to normal that I realized that, for a moment or two, while the light had been shining on my face and while I had wondered if they might be going to search me after all, I had been very frightened. I fingered the pocket with the letter. It crackled faintly. I smiled to myself. I was childishly pleased. I did not know that I had just performed one of the most foolish actions of my life.

As usual now, I had breakfast with Pashik. ‘Last night, Mr Foster,’ he said, ‘I telephoned your hotel.’

‘I was out.’

‘Yes. It does not matter.’ In his brown eyes was the faint hostility of the lover determined not to be possessive. ‘It was to tell you that Monsieur Brankovitch, the Minister of Propaganda, has called a foreign-press conference for this evening. We, of course, have been invited.’

‘Oh?’ What Petlarov had said about the tactics of the Propaganda Ministry came into my mind.

‘Monsieur Brankovitch will speak and also answer questions,’ said Pashik solemnly. ‘It will be very interesting. The food and drink will be excellent.’

‘And there will be a collection taken for the poor of the Parish.’

‘I beg pardon.’

‘Nothing. A bad joke.’

‘The conference will be in the state rooms of the Ministry at six o’clock.’

‘Good.’

He dabbed his bread in his coffee. ‘Have you seen Petlarov again, Mr Foster?’

‘Yes. I thought you’d rather not know about it.’ For a moment I wondered if I should also tell him that I had been to see Madame Deltchev, and then decided not to.

‘As long as there is no indiscretion, Mr Foster.’

‘He comes privately to my hotel room. The reception clerk does not know him.’

He sighed unhappily. ‘No doubt he will be discreet for his own sake. Is he still of interest to you?’

‘Yes. He is an intelligent man, don’t you think?’

‘If he had used his intelligence, Mr Foster, I should be more sympathetic towards him.’

‘You mean if he had played ball with the regime?’

‘Of course. That is the realistic attitude.’

We went off to the trial.

That day, the third, six witnesses were heard. All of them had been members of the Committee of National Unity, and all, except one, were members of the People’s Party. The exception was a man named Lipka, and he was a member of the anti-Deltchev section of the Agrarian Socialists.

For the most part, the evidence consisted of repetitions of the assertions made by Vukashin the day before. A mass of documents, including the minutes of the Committee meetings for the critical period, was produced, and there was a great deal of pseudo-legal fuss about which documents could and which could not be admitted as exhibits. The minutes were naturally well to the fore. As minutes they were quite often worse than useless, but as ammunition for the Prosecutor they were just the thing. I remember one typical item: ‘After some discussion the Committee agreed that Y. Deltchev should meet again with the Anglo-American representatives and urge them to delay the final decision on the proposals previously made.’ The prosecutor’s witnesses declared that the ‘discussion’ in question had been an effort by Deltchev and his
henchmen to stampede the Committee into accepting a set of Anglo-American proposals it had not even seen and that the Committee’s decision had made Deltchev ‘grind his teeth with rage’. The judges had a word or two to say and even the defendant’s counsel, Stanoiev, felt it safe to join in this sort of argument. At one point, indeed, there was a fair simulation of a legal battle between the two advocates – a battle between two clowns with rubber swords – and, in the approved fashion, high words were exchanged.

The only effective witness was Lipka. He was one of those angry, embittered men who bear the news of their defeat in their faces; prepared always for hostility, they succeed in provoking no more than weary impatience. A talentless but ambitious man, he had been an Agrarian Socialist deputy for many years without achieving office, and his membership on the Committee had seemed to him the long-awaited recognition of his worth and the beginning of his period of fulfilment. In fact, his value to the unconstitutional Committee had resided simply in his status as an elected deputy, and when posts in the Provisional Government were being allotted he had been passed over without a thought. From that moment he had nursed an almost pathological hatred of Deltchev. At one time that hatred had been something over which people smiled and shrugged. Now, at last, the People’s Party had turned it to account. His mode of attack was stupid but damaging.

Most of those whose work is directly related to the moods and behaviour of the public are inclined to refer to it on occasion in disparaging, even insulting terms. But, while a gibe at popular stupidity from a harassed bus conductor may be amusing, the same gibe from the mouth
of a leading politician has, for many, an uglier sound. What Lipka did was to quote Deltchev’s private comments on various matters and contrast them with public utterances made by him at the same time.

‘Papa’ Deltchev had made a speech officially regretting an incident in which some peasants, misunderstanding or ignoring a Red Army order to keep out of a certain area, had been shot down by Russian sentries. In private he had said, ‘It might not be a bad thing if a few more of the damn fools were shot.’ After a speech congratulating the farmers on their public-spirited efforts to send more food to the towns ‘Papa’ Deltchev had said privately, ‘Thank God, they’ve had sense enough at last to find the black market.’ On his own proposals for dealing with the fuel shortage ‘Papa’ Deltchev had remarked, ‘And if they’re still cold we can always print a few more copies of the regulations for them to burn.’

There were altogether about a dozen examples given of the prisoner’s ‘contemptuous disregard of the welfare of the people whose interests he pretended to have at heart’. No doubt there were, as Lipka claimed, many others that could have been quoted. The muttered asides of an overworked Minister of State grappling with administrative chaos are unlikely to be distinguished for their sweetness or reason, and if he is an impatient man with crude notions of humour, they may be better forgotten. Certainly they cannot fairly be used as evidence of his true mind and intentions.

In his only interruption of the day Deltchev made this point himself. He said, ‘The doctor called out in the middle of a cold night may privately curse all mankind, but that curse does not prevent his doing his best for the patient.’

This remark was immediately excluded from the record as irrelevant. It had its effect in court, but I was beginning to see that it was not in the court that Deltchev was being tried.

Petlarov’s comments were not reassuring.

‘After sitting for three days in that courtroom,’ he said, ‘you may realize that not one single piece of evidence that could be called evidence in a civilized court of law has been offered in support of the charges and that the only piece of sense uttered has been supplied by the prisoner in his own defence. And yet already much damage has been done. The grocer I now visit again – thanks to you, my friend – is an intelligent man and a supporter of Deltchev. He detests the People’s Party and suspects what he reads in the controlled press. Yet the trial is important to him, and as he cannot attend in person, he must read the official reports in the newspapers. He reads with great suspicion, of course, and he discounts much of what he reads. But where is his standard of measurement? How can he discriminate? He reads that Minister Vukashin’s evidence proves conclusively certain accusations against Deltchev. Can he ask by what rules of evidence Vukashin’s statements are held to constitute a proof of anything except their own dishonesty? Of course not. He is a cautious man and hard to convince, but when I asked him today what he thinks, he is uneasy and does not like to meet my eye. “Evidently,” he says to me, “there was much evil that we did not know about. Even if these pigs must find it out, it is best that we know. We are in a mess all right.” And you know, Herr Foster, for the Vukashins and the Brankovitches, that is success. The disillusioned do not fight.’

‘I thought that it was the possible truth of some of the allegations that was worrying you.’

‘The foreign press is not so easily disturbed by official bulletins, as my grocer. What did Madame have to say about the Brotherhood?’

‘She said quite confidently that the charges were absurd.’

‘Did you believe her?’

‘I believe she sincerely thinks they are absurd.’