The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 15. THE PLOT THAT FAILED ON MY TRAVELS I was constantly being arrested. So often that I actually lost count. It would happen like this: news would precede me that I was coming to a town, and the German consul (they had "consuls" everywhere!), apparently under orders and with the single purpose of annoying me and discouraging me from traveling, would lay some silly charge, or get the local police excited about their chance of catching a "notorious spy." And I would be brought in. One telephone message to Belgrade, if my papers were insufficient for suspicious souls, and I would be released again with many apologies. In Belgrade itself German attention to me was much more, shall we say, tiresome. Many Serbs-sixty-seven, to be exact-came to me, begging my assistance to get them down into Greece in order to join the British Army. Upon consulting the British Legation I was told that no recruits were wanted unless every man came "with a machine gun in each pocket," equipment being far more of a problem than man power. One day there appeared a young man of whom my old Cossack houseman, Michael, was at once fiercely suspicious. He gave his name as Helmuth Wuppert. He proved to me by his papers (forged, as turned out later) that he was a Jewish refugee from Austria, escaped just after the annexation. He professed bitter and undying hatred of the Germans because his father, he said, had been seized by the Gestapo and had died in prison. He was very nice-looking, and though he was fair and blue-eyed, I believed him to be a Jew, as was later confirmed. I grew sincerely fond of this unfortunate fellow and he, I know, of me. The struggle in his heart was strangely pitiful to watch. He immediately became my most devoted attendant. Soon he begged permission to bring in his best friend, Igon, of German descent but Yugoslav birth, also ostensibly fiercely anti-Nazi. This amusing, attractive youth, a "medical student" notably vague in medical interest, could talk more and say less than anyone I ever met. He too became indefatigable in my service. I was notified almost immediately (it was unnecessary) that they were German agents set to watch me. Their business was soon confirmed when, by a slip of the tongue, Helmuth revealed his knowledge of my interest in the Chetniks. "Ha-ha, those Chetniks," I laughed heartily. "Aren't they the funniest thing in the world? I wonder how they can think anyone could take them seriously! How useless, how absurd in these days of mechanized warfare, are their daggers and skull-and-crossbones! But their history is interesting. They will supply me with a good chapter for my book." Now every American in southeastern Europe is presumed to be writing a book. (I had at that time, and also later, not the faintest intention of doing so.) "To lead them on to talk," I continued confidentially, "I must pretend admiration for them. They are such simple peasants, poor things...." Being Germans, my two watchdogs were readily induced to underestimate the importance and ability of others. By constant repetition of this line of chatter I was able to build up a reputation for frivolity which afterwards saved my life. It was not easy to decide how to handle these men. Should I play safe by dropping them or take the more difficult and dangerous course of keeping them in attendance, at the cost of unrelaxing vigilance? I decided that while they were with me they would certainly be out of other mischief-their next victim might not be as quickly warned as I was. Moreover, with them on the job the German espionage service would not find it necessary to assign someone else, someone perhaps much more skillful and intelligent and whom I might not recognize so easily. I decided to keep them. And they gave me endless fun. I used to think up the most tantalizing errands for them. For instance, I would send them to the photographers with rolls of "very important" films to develop-and call next day myself for the finished negatives and prints. Then, when they were panting with anxiety to find out what "valuable" photographs I had taken, I showed them snaps of Montenegrin folk dances, "very important for my book." I kept them stiff and sore for days trying impossible horses for me (how I enjoyed that!) and made them search in the dirtiest parts of the Gypsy quarter for imaginary antiques. They stuck to it like heroes, but I am sure they often wished bitterly they had been given some easier job. Then I let a few friends in on the farce, and with careful preparation and "precautions" we slowly filled them up with all sorts of misleading "confidential information." All this, no doubt, was relayed to Berlin, where it caused, I hope, some confusion. They, of course, were playing a similar game with me and once, at least, they were the agents provocateurs in an attempt that, if it had succeeded, might have cost me my life. About March IO, when negotiations between Germany and Yugoslavia were not going quickly enough to suit Hitler, they arrived, apparently in great excitement, to invite me to co-operate with them in a plot. They had information, source carefully given, that the German consul general Neuhausen had received documents containing precise orders for all Nazi fifth-column agents. These orders were to take effect on the date-also given in the documents-on which Germany had already decided treacherously to attack Yugoslavia. We were by a brilliant move to confront the world with irrefutable proof of Germany's intended perfidy. They had precise details of the consul's house, knew exactly in which pocket he kept the papers, and that he "never left them off his person night or day." The plan was that Helmuth was to arrive at the consul's house in an exhausted condition, supported by Igon. Ostensibly they were to have come from Slovenia with urgent news of a massacre there of local Germans. Helmuth was to insist upon seeing the consul general instantly. When the latter came down to answer the cry for help of his own countrymen, they would shoot him dead, seize the papers, run out and hand them to me, whose role was to be that of an innocent lady accidentally passing by. The timetable and all details were worked out, even to the names of the guards likely to be on duty and how they were to be dealt with by confederates, whom they assured me they had already sworn in. The plan was interesting. It was so finished that I was inclined to believe and still think it was actually intended to be carried out. I asked for time to think it over and immediately consulted with M.P. We came to the conclusion that the plan could not have originated with these two agents but almost certainly was an order from the German secret police. It even seemed more than likely that the plan had been made by Neuhausen himself and that the intention was to murder someone in place of him. By laying the crime to Yugoslavia, Germany would have another strong lever for threatening the Yugoslavs and hurrying them into signing the treaty, thus leaving Germany free for her attack on Russia. The lure to me was, of course, that the documents (which would have been blank) were to pass into my own hands. And there is little doubt that I would have been shot on the spot "by accident." Steps were therefore taken at once, but quietly, to discover the hotheads who had been misled by these agents provocateurs. Additional safety measures were taken also to protect the fat, repulsive consul himself. How strange and disgusting for me to be the means of saving the life of this sinister fellow who not only would gladly have seen me dead but had been long and cunningly planning the ruin of Serbia! Yet it had to be done. My two youths soon knew of the increased alertness and the doubled guards and the plan was called off Yet at my court-martial later I was accused, among other absurdities, of having plotted to murder the German consul general. Apparently Helmuth and Igon had felt obliged to turn in something to justify their pay. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel