steamer, black-hulled, flying the swastika and moving slowly upstream. A Roumanian tug towing three barges with long, circular steel tanks bolted to their decks. Was this Ploesti oil, making its way up to Germany? He decided to believe it was. On the tug, a line ran from the roof of the pilothouse to a pole on the stern, holding shirts and underpants that flapped in the river wind.
There were fishermen in rowboats off the town of Smederevo. On the shore behind them, a ruined fortress, black and monstrous. Bigger than most, but otherwise the same; burnt stone, weeds in the fighting ports, they guarded every river in Europe and, if you spoke the language, somebody at the local cafe would tell you the name of the king. There was a dog sleeping at the end of a stone jetty, just past the entry of the river Morava, that woke up and watched Serebin as he went past. Then a motor launch caught up with them, flying the Yugoslav flag, and matched its speed to theirs as Zolti and the helmsman held a shouted conversation. They waved good-bye and the launch sped up, disappearing from view around a bend in the river.
Erma came walking back to the stern. “They told us that they’re checking cargo at Bazias,” she said. “The Roumanian border post.”
“How do they know?”
“They have a radio-heard it from friends.”
Serebin wondered what it meant. “Our papers are good,” he said. “A commercial shipment to Giurgiu.”
Erma nodded.
“We’ll just do the normal thing,” Serebin said.
After the village of Dubravica, the river began to narrow, and the banks were different. Not fields now, forest, bare willow and poplar, and flocks of small birds that left the branches and circled in the sky as the boat engines pounded past them. And, on both sides of the river, the land rose, not yet steep, just the first of the Carpathian foothills, the real mountains waiting downriver. Still, it was cold in their shadow and Serebin buttoned his jacket. 4:30. Bazias at 7:30. Erma took over at the wheel and sent Zolti back to the stern with a sandwich, fat sausage on black bread, and a cup of coffee. Serebin didn’t really want it. “She says you should eat something, because later…” He didn’t bother to finish. Serebin drank the coffee.
The wind sharpened as night fell, and Serebin left the open deck. The Empress had a searchlight mounted atop the pilot cabin, which threw a tight yellow circle on the water ahead of the boat. Maybe it kept them from running into the shore, he thought, but not much else-staying afloat more likely depended on a helmsman’s knowledge of the shoals and sandbars. A wooden handle that operated the searchlight was set next to the wheel, and Erma reached over and swept the beam along the bank, turning trees into gray ghosts, and, then, revealing a stone kilometer marker with the number 1090 carved on it. Later on, Serebin watched a forest appear in the middle of the river-an island. Erma spun the wheel to the left and the Empress curved slowly around the shore, their wake breaking white against the tangled tree roots. “Ostrovo island,” she said.
There was a bonfire onshore, sparks rising in the air to the height of the trees, and three men in silhouette who stood watching the flames.
Serebin asked if they were hunters.
“Who knows what they are.”
In the light, jagged granite rocks rose from the river. The boat passed within ten feet of one of them, which towered high above the cabin. Beyond the rocks, a fishing village, dark and silent, small boats tied up to a dock. Erma pointed an index finger at the ceiling, bobbing it up and down for emphasis. “Hear that?” she said.
He had to listen for a moment before he heard it-soft at first, then growing, the low, steady drone of aircraft, a lot of them. He leaned forward and squinted through the cloudy glass of the cabin window, but there was nothing to see. The sound went on and on, rising and falling, for more than a minute. “Luftwaffe,” Erma said. She had to raise her voice so he could hear her.
Was it? They were headed southwest, he thought, which meant Greece, or Yugoslavia-maybe even North Africa. If it was the Luftwaffe, they had to be flying from airfields in northern Roumania. To bomb who? British troops in Greece? “Somebody’s going to get it,” Erma said.
Sometimes the RAF flew over Paris at night, on their way to bomb targets in the Ruhr-steel mills, arms factories. People stopped talking when they heard the sound, and, in a silent cafe or shop, waited until it faded away. Paris. Sad, how doors closed behind you. He stared out at the river. Some people would wonder about him. Not Ulzhen, not Anya Zak, they knew, but others might. Or might not-it was no longer very interesting, when people went away. Marrano had told an odd story, over dinner, about Elsa Karp, Ivan Kostyka’s mistress. She too was gone. Had left London, nobody knew why. There were rumors, Marrano said, as always. Stolen money? A secret lover? Connections with Moscow? Some people said that she’d left England by steamship, a freighter flying the flag of a neutral country. Serebin had wanted to hear more about it, but Gulian started to tell stories about Kostyka. “We’re not so different,” he said. Came from obscurity, both of them, no family, no money, on their own before they were sixteen. Serebin didn’t think they were at all like each other, he knew them both, not well, but he’d…
“Up there,” Erma said.
Serebin could just see lights, shimmering in the haze that rose from rivers in the evening.
“Bazias,” Erma said.
First came a sign marking Roumanian territory-on the north bank of the river. Erma throttled the engine back to its slowest speed, barely making way, letting the tug and its barges drift to a stop, and Zolti threw a line to a Roumanian soldier who made them fast to a thick, wooden post. There were two boats docked on the upriver side of the canal-a Bulgarian tug hauling bargeloads of grain, maybe wheat, and a small river freighter, flying the Soviet flag, likely coming up from a Black Sea port. Two Russian sailors sat on the freighter’s deck, dangling their legs over the side, smoking, and watching people go in and out of the customs post.
Not much more than a weathered board shack with a flag on a pole in the front yard. Erma said, “You must bring all the papers with you.”
Serebin patted the envelope in the pocket of his coat.
It was warm inside the customs shack, a coal stove in one corner, and surprisingly busy. Serebin couldn’t sort them all out-men from the tugboat and the freighter, two or three customs officials, an army officer, trying to make a telephone call-tapping the bar beneath the receiver and waiting for an operator.
One of the customs officials took his feet off a deal table, sat up straight, and beckoned to Serebin and the others. Zolti knew him-said something funny in Hungarian, obviously kidding him. The official grinned, looked at Erma, nodded toward Zolti, and shook his head. Ahh, that guy.
“Hello, Joszi,” Erma said. “Busy night?”
“Who’s your passenger?” the official said, stretching an open hand toward Serebin.
“Business type,” Erma said.
The official took Serebin’s passport, wrote the nationality, name, and number in a ledger, opened a drawer in the table and stared down for a moment, then closed the drawer. “Cargo documents, please,” he said to Serebin. Then, to Erma, “Where you’ve been, darling?”
“Esztergom. Over to Bratislava, in December. Froze our you-know-whats off.”
The official nodded in sympathy as he went through the cargo documents, checking the signed approval stamps franked into the upper corners of each page. “What are you doing with these things?” he said to Serebin.
“Mining iron ore, up near Brasov. There’s a mill going in as well, and a foundry.”
“In Brasov?”
“Near there.”
“Where?”
“Sighisoara.”
“There’s iron ore in Sighisoara?”
“Domnul Gulian is told there is.”
“Oh.” The official looked back down at the documents and found the Marasz-Gulian letterhead. Then he turned halfway around in his chair and called out to the officer trying to make a telephone call. “Captain Visiu?”
The captain, young and rather smart looking, with a carefully clipped mustache, returned the telephone receiver to its cradle. He didn’t slam it down, exactly, but used enough force to produce a single note from the bell.
Zolti, in Hungarian, asked the official a question.
The answer was brief.
