The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 35. "WE ARE THE GESTAPO!" ON THE AFTERNOON of the 22d, thinking it might be long before I saw the sea again (it was!), I decided to have a nice long swim. I was as healthy as it is humanly possible to be, and as I plunged about I remember thinking how fit I was for any hardship. When I came out I took off my bathing suit behind a rock, as was usual, and on drawing on my shirt and gray flannel slacks I noticed to my surprise that I had put my marked map into the back pocket instead of hiding it, as I usually did. I mention these details because they saved my life. I lay awhile in the hot sun. Then, my bathing suit dry, I went slowly back. The hotel was now completely empty, all the guests having fled. I went straight into the large dining room, which was simply a glassed terrace overlooking the lovely bay. The sun, setting behind the islands, threw a bright rosy golden glow upon the opposite white wall. Very fond of dancing and feeling exuberantly cheerful, I began to cut some capers to throw funny shadows against the wall, softly whistling to myself the while. Suddenly, on each side of my shadow, there was another shadow- one long and thin, the other smaller. I turned and faced two rubber-shod men in plain clothes. I knew at once, of course, who they were. "Ruth Mitchell?" from the smaller man. I bowed. "We are the Gestapo. You will come with us at once," he said haughtily and rudely in German, which I speak as easily as English. "May I see your credentials ?" I said, sparring desperately for time. He was slightly taken aback by my polite formality, being no doubt used to terrorizing women. "Unnecessary! I told you. I am the Gestapo. That is enough." Mildly I said: "I am an American. This is Independent Croatia. I am in Italian jurisdiction." "Madam [gnadige Frau]," he said much less rudely, "it makes no difference whatever. In any case this is an officer of the Croatian police," and he indicated the other man. I looked at him. He did not look at me. I knew the man quite well. He was a Croatian detective who had been assigned to watch me here in Dubrovnik when I was suspected of espionage-on behalf of Italy! He didn't believe it, and we had often laughed together about it. He hated the Italians. Now you never saw a more ashamed-looking man. I was to see a good deal of him during the next few days, and he never once looked me in the face. Poor devil-poor Croatia! "May I take some things with me?" "Yes, but hurry." Just then the waiter appeared with my supper on a tray. It was trout and strawberries-and-cream. "May I eat my supper? Perhaps you will join me and have some too ?" "Thank you," he bowed stiffly, "but certainly not." How many nights for more than a year I was to dream of that meal of trout and strawberries-and-cream-uneaten! Close on each side of me they marched me up to my room, while my mind frantically made and discarded plan after plan for destroying the map. We reached my door. I put my hand on the handle. "Gentlemen," I said softly, "you will at least allow me time to change into a skirt." Now trousers, by the grace of God, are still sufficiently rare on Balkan women to leave males slightly abashed. My manner had reminded these men that there was such a thing as politeness. They hesitated. I opened the door, slipped in, and closed it gently. Like lightning I jerked out the map, wrapped it around a little antique brass ink-pot and cast it far out into the sea. How bitter was that moment! All my work wasted! And my life...? "My son, my son," my heart cried out, "I have failed-I have failed! You must carry on!" But my son, his duty done, was lying still forever under the drifting desert sand. Not half a minute and those men had already realized their carelessness. As they tore open the door I was peacefully pulling a skirt over my head. Then they began to search. And they knew their business. But I knew mine better. In spite of tearing apart everything that could possibly hide it, they did not find what they were looking for: my Chetnik pass. If they had I shouldn't be writing this today. It was never found, despite their most determined efforts. Unless there has been some very unlikely cataclysm it is now where I put it and I shall go back and get it. I am very anxious to have it as it is a unique document. I was handed a few necessaries to pack into my sleeping bag. That was significant: Chetniks when caught as such do not require anything for long. I began to feel warily cheerful. Each article was closely examined by the Gestapo agent Herr Blum-that being his name, as he informed me. He later told me that he was a German resident of Zagreb (Croatia)-in other words, another little fifth columnist. He sealed the room for further search, and a few things, including my Italian permit, my dagger, and a photograph, turned up at my trial. The hotel staff had gathered in consternation and, I am sure, sincere distress to bid me good-by. I was surprised to be allowed to shake them all by the hand. They showed they thought this was a very long farewell. It was getting dark. I was put into an open car next to Herr Blum, who drove. We sped round the town, in at the Ploche gate, and stopped before the Gradska Kafana. Herr Blum ran in and came out with a tall officer. "Aha, Miss Mitchell," the latter greeted me in perfect English with a kind of joyous, victorious sneer, "I am delighted to see you! You remember me, no doubt, from the Srbski Kralj." (Belgrade's best hotel. More tourist-spy stuff, of course.) It was hard to see him clearly, but: "How could I forget such a handsome man?" I said with only faint sarcasm. "Since you knew me there you know I am an American." "You are British," he replied with smug satisfaction. "We have all the necessary proofs." "I am both, but American nevertheless," I said without heat. "It is possible, yes, I know there are such cases." His tone was worried and more gentle (he was the only German who ever admitted to me such elementary knowledge). "But I regret it can make no difference. I will see you tomorrow." ..._ Weak He waved his hand and we drove off, turned, passed through the archway by which we had entered, and stopped in front of a large door in the huge city wall, on the right about halfway between the arch and the Ploche gate. How often I had gaily passed that doorway, little suspecting what it hid! The heavy door swung back. We went down some steps into a dimly lit courtyard and into a small office opposite. Here were "Independent" Croatian policemen. They all knew me. My particulars were written into a huge tome. "American and British." I made them write both. I mentioned I had had nothing to eat. Blum at once gave an order, and in a few moments an ample hot meal was brought and a bottle of wine. I could eat and drink little, but the policemen enjoyed the rest, the bottle passing from mouth to mouth. Blum, who had really tried to be formally decent, departed. The atmosphere changed at once. I was ordered to turn out my pockets, which revealed a handkerchief, a small comb and a little paper money. The policemen relaxed and swelled up. "Ha, the English," one sneered proudly, "we'll soon get them now-us and the Germans." I couldn't repress a twinkle, which annoyed him. He barked: "Out you go!" "May I take some necessaries from my bag?" No, nothing at all, not even a toothbrush. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel