The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 11. AGAIN EXPULSION? September 4 1939 England and France at war with Germany. In Budva, all the night before, a group of friends and I sat or walked up and down the avenue of gigantic mulberry trees in front of the row of small restaurants which possessed the only radios in the town. Each of us was absorbed in trying to guess what was in store for our countries and to decide what he or she ought to do. Should I return to England or America? If I did, how useful could I be there? I remembered Lord Beaverbrook's dictum: "Make yourself master of one single subject and the time must come when your knowledge will be valuable." I decided to make Serbia, the Balkans, my subject. I liked these people and they seemed to like me. I really loved them. I admired their stern struggle for the barest existence, their pride and dignity. Soon I began to feel as if Serbia were my real home, the place where I was meant to be. I traveled all over Montenegro and talked, probably, with every man or woman who spoke a word of English. I collected groups of peasants and told them clearly what the Allies were fighting for: for liberty for the small nations, for freedom for every man to walk upright, his own master, in the traditions and ways of life which each thought best. I studied the history and customs of the different regions and races of the Balkans. I began to study the Serbian language-and I can tell you that to master one's first Slav language is a fearful task. No matter how many Latin languages one speaks they are of no use at all in learning a Slav language. Carefully I watched the trend of events in Yugoslavia and the reactions of the people that made up that uneasy state. I tramped across the landscape and watched the steep mountain roads being mined in preparation for a possible Italian attack. I even had my own German prisoner: a husky youth who was trying to return home to join his army and whom, by various machinations, I prevented from leaving, though I only once spoke to him in passing. And again I became suspect. Again-"Why should a woman who might be in the gay whirl of the world wish to remain in a little Montenegrin coast town ?" The commandant of Budva actually wrote to the central government (my lawyer later saw the letter) as follows: "This lady is dangerous: she writes on her typewriter all day long." I discovered an exquisite, completely forgotten old monastery in a lovely valley opening to the sea. It had in its cellar a tiny windowless chapel, whose walls were completely covered with original Byzantine frescoes at least seven hundred years old. It had a red marble terrace about a hundred feet long, overhung with orange and lemon trees. I decided to buy it and made happy plans about my Montenegrin monastery with its rose-red terrace on the Adriatic. There was a new law that no foreigner could buy property within fifty miles of the coast, so I had to petition the Government for permission to purchase it. The Town Council of Budva, hearing of my wish, held a meeting. These serious men, indignantly differing from the suspicious military authorities, drew up a document so flattering to me that I would hesitate to repeat the wording. They begged the Government at Belgrade to make an exception in my favor and to grant me every facility. As each man had to affix his signature over a twenty-dinar tax stamp, this was no light compliment. One of the counselors ran around quickly to show it to me before posting it, and I laid it on the floor and photographed it. The permission to buy arrived shortly, but not the permission to remain there! Instead there came an order that I must be removed inland to Cetinje, the capital of Montenegro, and that I must not move about without a detective always in attendance. When I was to leave I ordered my car brought to a side gate, hoping to depart unobserved. But the news got round and the whole back of my car was filled with flowers, wine, and honey. And the children with their parents stood round dismally, none of us dry-eyed. I had the curious and perhaps unique experience of seeing a proclamation of mine posted up on the great city gates, more than a thousand years old, in which I thanked the people for their kindness to me-especially the market women who had brought me as gifts flowers they could easily have sold me. I promised to return when the day of liberty had dawned again upon a sorrowful world. And that I propose to do. Cetinje was so beautiful that I could not long regret the change. The police treated me with the most thoughtful consideration. They had to obey their orders, but they did it in form only, laughing: "What fools they are up in Belgrade-somebody's made a silly mistake!" I climbed the grim Montenegrin peaks, now covered with such a wealth of wildflowers that it took one's breath away. The little old town of Cetinje, hardly more than a village although it is the capital of Montenegro, lies in the huge crater of an extinct volcano surrounded by its wreath of mountains. To the south one descends to the lovely Lake of Scutari, to the west to Budva of the Beaches, northward to the Boka Kotorska (Bocca di Cattaro), that inlet of the Adriatic considered by many travelers (and by me) to be the most magnificent fiord in all Europe. The scenery was so wonderful, the air so wine like, I felt so well, that I came to the conclusion that of all the places in the world this would be the most satisfactory one in which to spend my life. Dunkirk and the fall of France.... I was almost beside myself with anxiety for England . . . England, solitary, the hope of the world. The attitude of the Serbs was typical of their character. Serbs as a race had a very strong feeling of admiration, of affection and gratitude toward France for the help that country had given them in the last war. Many Serbs had finished their education there, and many more of them spoke French than English. England seemed farther away, colder, less understood. The defection of France was received by the Serbs like a violent blow on the chin. They were stupefied with surprise and disbelief. It simply could not be true: respectable people couldn't do a thing so disloyal. It simply passed their ability to grasp that the last, the very last, Frenchman would not prefer to die before thus deserting an ally. Slowly the truth came home. England, little England-always now it was "little England," like an endearment-England stood all alone. This was right in their own tradition. The Serbs too had stood alone -how often in their history! The days passed, the weeks. England showed not the slightest sign of dismay. In those days something was born, a passion which England should know about and would do well never to forget. The sympathy which swept like a tidal wave across Serbia, the admiration which rose to a sort of fever heat, the feeling of comradeship of one brave race for a splendid brother, was unforgettable. When the British national anthem was played, people rose, weeping. All the old affection for France was transferred to England and increased a thousandfold. France was no more spoken of. France to the Serbs was dead. I must mention a funny incident. One evening I saw a German "commercial traveler" sitting in front of the hotel, no doubt planning, as they all did, how Germany would suck this Yugoslavia dry when she had seized it. Suddenly all the doors down the main street opened. The people rushed out and began running madly toward the hotel. The German jumped up. "What is it?" he asked, terrified, of the hotel-keeper standing near. "Is it a revolution?" The innkeeper calmly looked at his watch. "It's seven-forty, of course. That's all." "What do you mean?" asked the German blankly. "What's seven-forty ?" "Time for the English radio, of course, and mine is the only instrument in working order." The Nazi vanished, furious: no one stirred a foot to listen to the Nazi radio! A very curious thing happened to me at this time. I was on a little mountain path, hardly noticing where I was going, so absorbed I was in miserable speculation about the war. Could all the eager, proud little countries already gobbled up be lost forever? How would it all turn out? "If I could only have some sign from heaven," I groaned desperately, "some sign of hope!" I remembered how, not far south of here in Ancient Greece, soothsayers foretold the future by the flight of birds. Now this incident sounds most improbable, but I put it down because it happens to be true. At that moment I looked down at the path, and this is what I saw (owing to my being under suspicion, I now never carried a camera; otherwise, of course, I would have photographed it): A snake, about eighteen inches long and very slim, had swallowed a lizard. The lizard was large, too large for the snake's capacity, and it had only been able to swallow its prey up to the hind legs and tail, which stuck out. In dying, the lizard had bitten the snake in the stomach, a large hole. They both lay there dead. Such a sight has probably very seldom been seen even by a naturalist, but for me to see it at that moment was certainly strange. Suddenly, without warning, came an order from Belgrade that I was to be put over the Greek frontier within twelve hours, and that there positively would be no appeal. I could, however, still stand on my right, the right of every citizen of a foreign country, to see my country's representative. I insisted on my right to proceed to the capital. The police were horrified by the order and only too anxious to assist me. The wires hummed; but only to bring a stern confirmation of the order. I also telegraphed at once to my friend M.P., who, among his other distinguished activities, had helped to organize the police force of Yugoslavia and had abolished the frightful old Turkish foot-beating. The police throughout the country remained his devoted admirers. The chief of detectives of Montenegro was assigned to accompany me to Belgrade with the single purpose of explaining to the authorities there that they not only had nothing against me but only wanted me to come back. I decided to fly. After a three-hour car journey, we arrived at the Podgoritsa airfield, near the Albanian frontier. The news spread like wildfire that "a famous spy and a terrible enemy of the country" had been caught and was being transported under arrest. A mob collected, worked itself into a fury, picked up stones and, pressing closer and closer, showed signs of becoming violent. My detective stood in front of me. I can see him now, how the back of his neck grew slowly dark red with anger. He put his hand on his hip (no doubt he was armed) and: "This lady is no spy," he barked. "One step nearer, let one man raise his hand and he will be shot on the spot. This lady is a friend, a good friend, of Yugoslavia. Disperse!" Slowly they pushed back and melted away. I gave that good fellow an inscribed cigarette case and never was more pleased to acknowledge a real service. At the Belgrade airfield I was met by M.P. And then it was, of course, unnecessary to trouble the minister with my little problems. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel