The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 6. ENTER A CONQUEROR, EXIT MYSELF ALL THIS WAS AMUSING ENOUGH, but the results were not so funny. From that day onward I became, understandably, "persona non grata" to the Italian Government. The hold of Italy on Albania was saddening. The Albanians are primitive, yes; they are savage, yes. But how could they possibly be anything else under the treatment they have received? What chance has this proud, liberty-loving, virile race ever had? Who has ever in all the centuries bothered about them except to exploit them? Who has ever held out a hand to help them except to help himself ? No one, not even their own king. The neglect of this small, helpless little brother must stop. Surely the cost to us in lives alone has demonstrated the crime of our neglect. For it was the presence of Italy in Albania which helped to make the quick success of Germany in the Balkans possible. In I938 Italy had a strangle hold on every phase of Albanian life. Simply by bribing the King and ten members of his Cabinet, she succeeded in blocking every kind of development by citizens of other countries. Someday, so ran her dream, the drain of her expensive military enterprises elsewhere would end. Then she would thoroughly exploit Albania. This made for a degree of chaos and insecurity in the little land that can be only briefly sketched here. Practically every third man in the country was a paid spy. Italy, of course, had her complete espionage system; so also did the jittery king; the police had their own close-meshed spy network; every member of the Cabinet had his separate espionage service. It was fantastic, especially for me, since all of them wanted to find out what the devil I was really up to. They simply could not believe that anyone, especially a woman who "might be in Paris," would actually stay in Albania because she happened to like it. Nor was I the only suspect. Scientists, artists, writers passing through, all were marked down as "spies." But because I remained, I was the prize mystery. As I settled in Scutari to write my guidebook, every effort was made to make things uncomfortable for me and squeeze me out. Fortunately I had a "friend at court." My soi-disant partner wasn't going to let the goose, which was capable of laying for him a golden egg, escape from the farmyard. So, at the same moment that I was being subjected to all kinds of police unpleasantness, it was unofficially but authoritatively suggested to me that I become a member of the Albanian Cabinet in the capacity of Minister of Culture. My means and my interest in antiquities aroused the hope that I would undertake surveys and excavations without adding another grabbing hand to those already deep in the national treasury. I refused this invitation. But I then worked out a plan for the complete reorganization of the country under "advisory control." My plan was, of course, for the record only. I knew what was already clear to the least observant person (except, unfortunately, to the representatives of the three leading powers), that a sudden alteration of the status of the little country was imminent. We now know that the occupation of Albania by Italy was a prelude to the German plan for subduing the Serbs. It was to provide an Axis bridgehead in the Balkans for the purpose of driving a wedge across Macedonia, thus cutting the Fighting Serbs off from any help from outside. There was something to be said for Italy. She had given college educations to hundreds of Albanian boys. She had even tried to finance improvements as far as it was safe. To show how unsafe Albanian investment was under the Zog government, I heard and have reason to believe that Italy paid three separate times for hard-surfacing the road from Durazzo to Tirana. Each time the money went into government pockets. The most-used highway in the country, it was still a rutted dirt road when I was there. Italy, tired of financing the private extravagances of the King, had tightened up on grants. So Zog was now gaily trying to sell out to any other bidder. After the annexation of Austria by Germany, with its attendant uproars, I decided that I had had about enough excitement. In December I938 I returned to America. But here the smug, self-satisfied blindness and carelessness of my countrymen horrified me, especially as there was nothing I could do about it. Back in the Balkans, I would at least be in it-not just reading about it in the papers. So after just three weeks I engaged my return passage. I reached Scutari again on March 12, I939. Then things really began to happen. During my absence some enthusiastic and patriotic college boys had tried to stage a coup against the Government. They had even set up a secret printing press in the mountains. They had all been caught and labeled, like all those who opposed the corrupt Government, simply "Communists." One of the boys, probably under wicked torture, had stated that I had financed the rising. I was therefore now "unmasked" as a Russian agent, a Communist. Two weeks after my arrival I received an order of expulsion from the country. This, I learned, was an order from Italy through her tools in the Government. It was evident now what was coming. It happens that I am both an American citizen and, by marriage, a British subject. In traveling I always used my British passport to facilitate my entry into British territories. I therefore appealed to the British minister in Durazzo, and after considerable effort he got the expulsion order suspended. I was determined to remain, although now every other foreign woman and most foreign men precipitately fled the country. In Durazzo I asked Sir Andrew Ryan, the minister, what he personally would wish me to do, as the revocation of my expulsion was something of a diplomatic victory for him. He replied: "If you want to be on the safe side, go up to Dubrovnik until this little unpleasantness blows over. But if you wish to please me you will return to Scutari." He would not believe that Italy meant business. I did return and calmly took my hunting dogs for a walk through the town. The stupefied faces of my persecutors gave me some amusement. On Good Friday, I939, Italy attacked Albania without the Axis discarded formality of declaring war. I watched the panic flight of all the prominent people who had not bought their peace with Italy; also the pathetic scramble to mobilize the half-armed little Albanian Army. The money which should have paid for its equipment had gone instead into corrupt pockets and into-gold plate. The King posted proclamations calling upon his dear subjects to fight till death for their country and their king. He then gathered up the gold plate, the jewels, and all the available government cash and departed. The Italians tried to foment religious hatred in order to disunite the country. They failed signally. On Easter Sunday the Christian women brought colored Easter eggs to their Mohammedan acquaintances as a gesture of warm good will. The young men of Scutari were frantic. Madly they dashed from one end of the town to the other as rumors spread that secret hoards of weapons had been found. I was staying with the mother of my interpreter, a grand old lady of whom I was very fond. Her three sons, like all the other men, were beside themselves with hatred of the Italians. "Weapons, weapons," they cried, "any sort of weapons with which to fight the loathed enemy!" Appeals for help to the Great Powers all went unheeded, and I watched strong men go almost mad with grief and shame. Then came the march of the mountain men. I think it was the most thrilling and the most pitiable sight I have ever seen. Down they came from the hidden valleys, from the pathless snowcapped mountains, down through the towering virgin forests, springing down the steep paths, converging on the roads. Then, in columns led by their chieftains in full regalia, they marched into the town: tall, lithe, broad-shouldered fighters, in scarlet gold-embroidered jackets and skin-tight white trousers, their brilliant silk headscarfs and sashes blowing in the breeze, their gold buttons and silver chains glinting and swinging: surely the most romantically gallant figures to be seen in Europe. But in their strong hands were such guns as made me weep to see: -ancient rifles polished bright; muzzle-loaders; long, thin Arab muskets inlaid with mother-of-pearl. And for ammunition they had only the few bullets each man carried in his belt. Grimly they passed, these proudly martial, hopeless men, and grimly the hopeless townspeople watched them go. There was no sound, for their feet were clad in rawhide sandals. So they went, in scarlet and white, to oppose on the gray foothills the khaki-clad conquerors armed with deadly machine guns. In came the pressmen of the world to see "the show," among them Mr. Maitland of the London Times. He was quite worried about me. "You are the only foreign woman left in the whole country. You must leave," he urged. "You must leave at once. Do you realize what it means, the entry of a conquering army? Loot, murder, rape! You positively must leave. I have to go on to Tirana-I can't stay to look after you." That day my interpreter discovered a fantastic plot amongst the frantic townspeople to murder Maitland and myself. Not, if you please, because they didn't like us-but because of the old, long-since-discarded rule that "England revenges her nationals." It was to be made to appear that we had been killed by the Italians. Then England must interfere, they believed, and her fleet would come to the help of Albania! . . . Yes, they were naive, if you like, but these poor people were desperate. Maitland got the very last car for me. A Yugoslav aviator was to drive me to the frontier, where his plane waited to fly me to Belgrade. They were determined to get me out, and they almost succeeded in frightening me. I put my foot on the running board-I took it down-I put it on-I took it down. I simply couldn't leave; I just had to see it through. When the three sons of my hostess, Hussein, Shucho, and Halil, gave Maitland their Albanian oath (besa) that they would never let me out of their sight, that they would guard me with their lives, that I would be injured only over their dead bodies, he gave way. They watched me from then on like hawks. I was literally not a second out of their sight. They took their oath so seriously that even when I was dressing I had to hold up my hand behind a screen so that they could see me! What fun we had! Strange how in the midst of such terrible grief we could still laugh. We even made a little song something to this effect: "We brothers three, We're here to see The lady's not Put on the spot." I watched the entrance of the Italians. When the South had been overrun, the Albanians saw that to defend Scutari would be merely to sacrifice good men senselessly. The mountaineers were persuaded to slip away home-to fight again when the time was ripe. Then the prefect of Scutari went to meet the invaders and capitulate. Promptly the surrounding heights burst out into a rash of little soldiers and big guns. And the Italians gently filtered into the town. A group of officers took over the Prefecture, and the Italian flag was run up only to the same height as the Albanian. This in no way placated the Albanians. They hated the Italians, but even more bitterly they now hated the Great Powers who had deserted them in their hour of need. Ten days after the occupation was completed, Count Ciano, the beautiful and loyal "best friend" of the now ex-King Zog, was to pinch-hit for a cautious Mussolini and make his triumphal entry into Tirana, the capital. He was to be accompanied by a batch of foreign journalists to see for themselves the "delight" of the conquered. It was, therefore, considered indispensable to have one genuine Albanian mountain chieftain present who might be regarded as representing his joyful tribe. For, alas, in spite of every conceivable lure and bribe, it had been found impossible to get even one responsible mountain chief to offer his allegiance. There happened at that moment to be one of the smallest and least important of these chieftains in Tirana on family business. He had a few tribesmen with him. He was unsuspiciously got hold of, was tempted to drink and, being a Mohammedan unused to alcohol, was easily reduced to a state of confusion. The henchmen refused to drink. When in a completely fuddled state, he was offered the to him enormous sum of fifty napoleons (about $200) simply to stand somewhere next day holding an Italian flag-nothing more. He agreed. Next morning, having given his Albanian word, the sad figure in genuine Malissori dress stood holding the drooping flag at the reception of Ciano and was photographed from all angles. His tribesmen had disappeared. With the money in his pocket (it was paper of course, the Italians having instantly drained the country of all gold, the usual currency) he set out for home. It took him four days of walking to get there. Near his village his whole tribe, including his own family, came out to meet him. Without a word they shot him dead. They took the money, which to those bitterly poor people represented many months of easier living, and made a bonfire and burned it. They then sent messengers to all the surrounding tribes, apologizing for having had such a contemptible traitor for their chief and announcing what they had done about it. I listened to Mussolini's proclamation in which he promised that Albania would "soon be three times as large" as it was then and that the Albanian flag would be flown level with the Italian flag on all ships-of-war: Mussolini promises, never kept. Now the literally crowning insult to the conquered people was perpetrated. Their great national hero is Skanderbeg, who for twenty-five years succeeded in keeping his country free, fighting the Turks against enormous odds. His crown was the national emblem of Albania. It had found its way long ago into a museum in Vienna. Hitler now sent it to Mussolini, and this crown of the doughty old fighter for Albanian liberty was placed by the Italian king upon his own head. Could insulting cynicism go further? A shudder of fury, of hopeless despair swept through a humbled, liberty-loving race. The Great Powers filed a formal "no recognition"-and forgot. While the Italian Army, with its regular officers, was in control, some sincerity of good will was apparent. But now the Fascist party took over, and the instant difference was very striking and ominous. Fascism began to be clamped down on a beaten people, and one saw whole flocks and herds being driven off to be shipped to Italy. Then Flavel Barnes of Pratt, Kansas, joined me. The Italian attitude toward me had begun to be very strained. When, deciding to remain longer than she had planned, Flavel applied for permission to make a trip back to Yugoslavia for clothes, suspicion flared into certainty: she was obviously my courier and I was now certainly an agent of the British Intelligence Service. Instantly came the order to leave the country within four hours. Expostulation proving useless, I got a quick visa from the Yugoslav consul who had often most courteously extended his government's invitation to me to visit his country. I then notified the commandant that I would leave via Durazzo. A minor Albanian clerk got word to me that I was to be searched at the port and all notes and photographs taken from me. We started on the road to Durazzo but turned off suddenly and sped all-out for a small frontier post toward Antivari. The frontier guards had, of course, received no notice. I flourished all sorts of irrelevant but important-looking documents and, before they had collected their wits, we had shot across the frontier, their yells dying away in the distance. I was in Yugoslavia. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel