Tanner’s Twelve Swingers

Chapter 5

For three days and three nights I lived the good life in Macedonia. I gathered wood for the fire. I played with Todor and sported with Annalya. I cut myself a hardwood walking stick and took long treks over the rugged hillside. I breathed air a thousand times fresher than the black murk that hangs over New York. I drank pure spring water and fresh goat’s milk. I ate thick black bean soup and roasted lamb. I entertained fleeting thoughts of the ease with which I might go native, raising a thick and drooping Macedonian moustache, tending a brace of goats, and remaining forever with my ready-made family. In the cool, clean air of Macedonia, Riga and Manhattan seemed equally remote, equally non-essential to my personal happiness.

But one sun-brightened morning it was time. I looked at Annalya, and she looked at me, and her eyes clouded. She said, “Today?”

“Yes.”

“You must go, then? It is time?”

“It is time, little dove.”

“I am a Macedonian woman,” she said, “and will not weep.”

There was nothing to pack. I tucked my slim satchel between two of my sweaters. I picked up my walking stick. Annalya came to me, and we kissed and held each other. Todor, alone upon his mattress, was but a young Macedonian; he cried, and Annalya picked him up and brought him to me. I held him up in the air and grinned at him, and he stopped crying.

“He is a good boy,” I said. “I am proud of him.”

“He brings me joy.”

“I am grateful for the picture of him. If, from time to time, you could have other pictures drawn and sent to me-”

“It shall be done.”

When I reached the door she said, “You will return, Evan?”

“Yes. Someday.”

“Perhaps Todor shall have many brothers.”

I turned to her, and saw the radiance of her eyes and the set of her jaw and the great strength and beauty of her. And Latvia, after all, was miles and miles away over cold and distant lands. So I reentered the hut and closed the door, and we put Todor to sleep on his own little straw mattress, and it was another warm, sweet hour before I got out of there.

The map I had drawn on the floor of the hut remained brightly outlined in my mind. While I worked my way north through Yugoslavia I spent my time planning the route I would have to take. There was a simple way to do it, one that would involve crossing only two borders. I could cross from Yugoslavia to Rumania and from Rumania to the Soviet Union and then, once inside Russia, I could make my way north to Latvia. That cut down on the border hopping, but it also meant I would have to travel a great distance within the confines of the Soviet Union.

I was not especially anxious to do this. From what I understood, internal security within Russia is honed to a keener edge than in the Eastern European satellite nations. Even the police in countries like Hungary and Poland will occasionally overlook subversive activity on the grounds that it is not so much anti-Hungarian or anti-Polish as it is anti-Russian. The Russian authorities, on the other hand, cannot gift themselves with this convenient excuse, and a conspirator’s lot is proportionately more difficult there.

That was only part of it. The political crazy quilt of Eastern Europe was dotted with friends and comrades of mine, political oases in a desert of officialdom. And, while I had a smattering of such friends in Russia itself, notably my Armenian Nationalist friends in the south and a handful of Ukrainians and White Russians, they were scattered far and wide and came under rather close government scrutiny.

A final factor: I had never been to Russia. The new and unknown carries its own special terrors.

I planned my route. North through Yugoslavia to Belgrade, the capital. On into Hungary, bypassing Budapest to the east. Cutting across Czechoslovakia at the extreme eastern corner of Slovakia, and on into Poland with a stopover at either Krakow or Lublin. Then due north through Poland to Lithuania, and onward from Lithuania to Latvia, and then-

Then home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

Of course I would have to find a simpler and more direct route home. If I actually did manage to get into Latvia, I could go home via Finland. If I found it too hazardous to cross into Russia – and this certainly seemed likely – I could choose between crossing the sea from Poland to Finland or Sweden or working my way westward through Germany and France. Any of these possible courses would take a good long time, and time was one thing I had in abundance. If nothing else, I had to stay out of the States long enough for the CARM revolution to take place. It would probably fail – the vast majority of revolutions do – but if it failed, at least it would do so without my having contributed to its defeat.

Meanwhile I was in Yugoslavia, a political absurdity, the last stronghold of prewar Balkan nationalism, an ill-sorted lot of Serbs and Croats and Slovenes and Bosnians and Montenegrins and Macedonians, of Stalinists and revisionists and anarchists and monarchists and social democrats and assorted unclassifiable madmen, all nestled among jagged mountains and pea-green valleys and winding blue rivers.

I love Yugoslavia.

Once I had reached Belgrade, it was no particular problem to find Janos Papilov’s house. I had been there before on a trip that had led south through Yugoslavia, and his house was still the same, dark and unimposing on the outside, immaculate and tastefully furnished within. Janos himself met me at the door with a smile and a firm handshake. No rough embraces; Janos, Professor of Indo-European Languages at the University of Belgrade, is a man of infinite culture and sophistication. He led me to the dining room, where his wife and father-in-law were seated. There was a place already set for me.

“You see,” he said, “I knew that you were coming, my friend.” He smiled at my surprise. “In my country,” he said, “news travels even faster than an American agent provocateur. But be seated, Evan. There will be the whole night for conversation. May I strongly recommend the wine? It is Slovenian, the sort of dry white wine they do rather well there. You might almost mistake it for a Moselle.”

We gossiped pleasantly during dinner. A fairly important officer of the New York chapter of the Serbian Brotherhood had been involved in an amusing scandal with another brother’s wife, and Janos was hungry for details. Some of the details, and some of his comments upon them, were not entirely suited for the ears of Mrs. Papilov or her father, so our conversation was not conducted exclusively in Serbo-Croat. Janos’s wife spoke French and Russian and a little English. But Janos himself spoke all of the major European languages and a few others as well, and the conversation bounced from one tongue to another, from Rumanian to Hungarian to Greek, as we elaborated upon the strange bedfellows that politics makes.

After dinner Janos led me to his study. He was a long, lean man, with sparse gray hair and thick wire rimmed spectacles. He sat at his desk, and I sat in a comfortable leather chair, and for a few moments we chatted idly of political friends. Then the conversation ran out of momentum, and he sat back in his desk chair and regarded me thoughtfully.

“It is providential that you have come at this time,” he said finally.

“Why?”

“Because there is something you must read. Something you will find quite fascinating.”

“A book?”

“A manuscript for a book.”

“Yours?”

“No.” He smiled briefly. “I have a book coming out soon on the dialects of the Ukraine, but I would not press such a weighty tome upon you.”

“I’d be most interested-”

“You are kind to say so, and rest assured that I will send you a copy upon publication. But the manuscript I have for you is most important, believe me. Are you too tired to read it now?”

“Not at all.”

He opened the desk’s center drawer and drew out a large manila envelope. From the envelope he brought forth a sheaf of typescript. “The text is in Serbo-Croat,” he said. “But if you read as fluently as you speak, that should present no problem.”

“I read Serbo-Croat.”

“Then you’ll finish this in an hour or so if you’re a fast reader. Don’t read for detail. Merely read carefully enough to form an opinion of the merit of the work.”

I took the manuscript from him. There was no title page. I asked the author’s name.

“I will tell you when you finish.”

“And the title?”

“The work is yet untitled. Perhaps you will be more comfortable at my desk. Please sit here, I’ll leave you alone while you read. And would you care for a cup of coffee?”

“Fine.”

I sat down expecting the usual sort of Serb propaganda, perhaps a bit better than the general run if Janos was so impressed. But within the first few pages I saw that the book was a far cry from the normal class of partisan literature. It was, in fact, an astonishing document. With an impartial viewpoint almost without precedent in Balkan political literature, the author made a rational yet impassioned plea for the dissolution of the state of Yugoslavia and the establishment of wholly independent republics of Croatia, Slovenia, Serbia, Macedonia, and Montenegro.

It could have been mere polemic, but the man who wrote it had avoided this pitfall. Every charge leveled at the People’s Republic of Yugoslavia was carefully thought out and as carefully documented. Every argument for the Yugoslav federation was meticulously examined and meticulously demolished. The successes of Tito’s revisionist policies paled to the point of insignificance under the weight of the author’s charges.

And all of this was done, not from the point of view of a diehard Croat or Serb or Slovene, but with genuine scholarly detachment.

I found Janos working chess puzzles in the living room. “The book is a masterpiece,” I told him.

“I thought you would be impressed. You feel it deserves publication?”

“Of course.”

“But,” he said, “I find it unlikely that it would be published in Yugoslavia. If Djilas can earn imprisonment for his writings-”

“This author would hang.”

“Precisely.”

“The book could be published in America.”

“Ah. And then what would happen to its author?”

“The book could be published anonymously. Or under some convenient pen name.”

“Perhaps. But I have a feeling that this author’s name might carry weight.”

“Who is he?”

“You approve wholeheartedly of the book? Of its style? Of its message?”

“Yes. Without reservation.”

“You would even, perhaps, be willing to translate it into English?”

“I would be honored.”

“Ah. The author, as it happens, is a gentleman by the name of Milan Butec.”

“You don’t mean-”

“Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs of the People’s Republic of Yugoslavia. Precisely. A resistance leader during the war. An important organizer of Tito’s government after the war. A respected man, a leader, a scholar, a thinker-”

“The book must be published,” I said. “And of course you are right, it ought to be issued under Butec’s name. Someone must find a way to get the man out of Yugoslavia to safety in the West. This is imperative.”

“I agree.”

“And if this is done, I would be honored to translate the work.”

Janos Papilov sighed. “You will do more than that, Evan,” he said. “Do you not recall that I said your visit was providentially timed? Early today I received word that you were en route to Belgrade. Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, but I took it for granted that you would visit me upon your arrival. And so I immediately got word to Mr. Butec, whose manuscript has been in that drawer of my desk for over a month. He came to my house this afternoon; he has been waiting in an upstairs room since your arrival.”

“May I meet him?”

Another sigh. “You may do much more than meet him, Evan. It will be your task to take Mr. Butec and his most valuable manuscript to America.”

For a few moments I said nothing. Extreme shock often has that effect upon me. Then I said, “Janos, you honor me. But what you ask is impossible. I’m not on my way home now. I have to go north, I have to travel through Hungary and Czechoslovakia and Poland -”

“Mr. Butec will travel with you.”

“Janos, I have to enter Russia!”

“That is very dangerous. But it would be still more dangerous for Mr. Butec to remain in this country. He has been cautious not to make his view publicly known. He has been most discreet. Still, word of his writings has somehow leaked to the government. Three days ago he was placed under unofficial house arrest. This afternoon he left his house by climbing down the drainpipe and running through backyards like a petty burglar. He must leave Yugoslavia at once.”

“Then let him leave by himself. Or let someone else take him.”

“It is impossible, Evan.”

“But-”

“Milan Butec has no experience in these matters. He could not go alone. Nor is there anyone whom we trust, anyone with the ability to escort Mr. Butec. But you, Evan, you slip in and out of countries with ease. Are you permitted in Yugoslavia? You are not. Yet how often have you come in and out of this country illegally?”

“But I travel light,” I protested. “I didn’t even bring a suitcase this time, just a flat portfolio that I can slip inside my jacket. I’d be hampered if I had to take the manuscript with me, let alone its author. And I’m not going west, Janos. I’m going north and east.”

“They will not expect that,” he said, undaunted.

“Of course they won’t. They’ll expect him to do the sensible thing and sneak out through Austria or Greece.”

“Exactly. And those are the frontiers they will guard, while you-”

“I can’t do it, Janos.”

“You must. Would you want this book suppressed? Would you want the author hanged?”

“Janos…”

We went around and around, Janos and I. I thought of countless alternatives and he explained at length why each one was unthinkable, why no one else could possibly take Butec to freedom, why Butec could not possibly go himself. We went around and around, and so did my head. The whole mission to rescue Sofija for Karlis had been impossible to begin with, but if I traveled light, I had the chance, say, of a snowball in hell. With Butec and his book in tow, even that much chance was denied me. He would be wanting to sleep all the time. He wouldn’t know the languages. He would get in the way, he would do something wrong.

Damn…

“You will come with me, Evan,” Janos said at last. “We will meet Mr. Butec.”

“Janos-”

“Come!”

Mr. Butec, Mr. Milan Butec, Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs for the People’s Republic of Yugoslavia, was a short and stout man with a neatly trimmed goatee, huge bushy eyebrows, and a hairless head. My heart sank when I saw him; he would be about as inconspicuous as a Negro in the D.A.R.

“This is Evan Michael Tanner,” Janos said. “This is the young man, Milan, who has agreed to lead you to freedom and to give the world the gift of your most precious book.”

This was a lie; I had agreed to nothing. But Butec – and what a fine book he had written, what a masterful book – scurried over to pump my hand. He tried to express his gratitude in English. His accent was thicker than Macedonian bean soup.

“It will be difficult,” I heard myself say.

“I am prepared for difficulty.”

“And dangerous.”

“I am prepared for dangerous.”

Prepared for dangerous? I swung us back to Serbo-Croat. “And you would have to disguise yourself, Mr. Butec.” I studied him, trying to think of a way to make him look a little less obviously himself. “A wig of some sort, I should think. And you would have to shave your beard. Perhaps the eyebrows as well, and then we would paint in less obtrusive eyebrows.”

“This shall be done as you say.”

He stroked his beard as he said this, and I knew he was vain about it. I only wished he was vain enough to offer an objection and leave me with a way out, but evidently his vanity placed second to his desire to see the last of Yugoslavia.

I said, with the heavy heart of one who goes on playing even after he knows he has lost, “It will be a hard trip, Mr. Butec. We will have to be on the move constantly. There won’t be much time for sleep and-”

Butec managed a smile. “Do not worry,” he said. And, drawing himself up to what there was of his full height: “Put your mind at ease in that department, Mr. Tanner. I can put up with such hardship. I have trained myself to make do with almost no sleep at all.”

Well, I thought, that was a help.

“There are times,” he added, “when I get by with as little as six hours sleep a night.”

“That’s marvelous,” I said.