The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 36. PRISON ONE OF THE CROAT POLICEMEN took my elbow and hurried me across a dimly lit courtyard. An iron door was unlocked. Roughly he pushed me in. The door clanged shut, and iron bolts scraped noisily. The guard's steps retreated . . . were gone. Silence. I was in prison. Black silence-with only the sucking moan of sad sea waves breaking softly, sobbingly, right under the cell. I stood holding my breath. I had never in my life before been really frightened. I was frightened. Were there others there in the dark? Or was I all alone? I listened intently. No sound of breathing. Only the sough of a lonely, inhuman sea. Well, I might as well try to find out what sort of a place I was in. If I went forward I might trip over something, but if I followed the wall I should at least get back to the door again sometime. With my foot I felt along the skirting board. I found I was alone in a fairly large cell (about ten by ten) with only a pail and a narrow bench. So that was that. Now nothing more could happen to me-until the next thing. The bench was about nine inches wide, splintery and wobbly. The cell was hot and stuffy. I took off my jacket and rolled it up. Then, afraid only of what might crawl up onto me, I balanced myself on my erratic bench and went to sleep. The crashing of heavy bolts awoke me. The door was thrown open and a surly guard motioned me out: "Wash,"- he grunted. Bright sunlight revealed men and women standing in line in the courtyard, waiting their turn at a very slightly screened tap, evidently the only water supply. I stood in line and did the best I could with my handkerchief and little comb. No prisoner spoke to me. Almost all, I thought, were Jewish. They looked very scared. They were returned to crowded cells and locked up. I stood waiting. No one paid any attention to me. I asked for some food but was given only a rude, blank stare. There was an overturned rowboat in the yard. The sun shone warmly upon it. I hitched myself up and sat there practically all day watching people being brought in, tearful, terrified, and quickly pushed into every cell but mine. An old man, evidently an old lag (habitual criminal), was puttering about with a broom. I gave him ten dinars to sweep out my very filthy cell. Then he settled himself in a shady corner, opened a dirty handkerchief, and munched a crust of bread. We looked at each other with friendly speculation. He would have shared with me, but I wasn't that hungry-yet. A Croatian detective, whose bushy head of hair I had long known by sight, began walking up and down, coming ever nearer. Quite close, he threw me a pitying glance and, from the side of his mouth, whispered in English: "This is not yet known in the town. Can I tell anyone you are here?" I thanked him, mentioned an American by name, and said I would like some food. He nodded and soon went out. Nothing further was heard about that. About six o'clock I was ordered back into my cell. The door was bolted. There was nothing to do in the dark but go to sleep again. (I happen to be one of the world's most expert sleepers!) Next day I went through exactly the same routine except that twice I was given some dry bread. But about seven o'clock that evening the door opened noisily. I was ordered out and led over to the office. Had they found the Chetnik pass? The sunlight, the sky seemed strangely beautiful to me. In a little guardroom, containing a desk, a bed, and a large mirror, were Blum and the officer of the evening before, who introduced himself as Major von Nassenstein, chief of the Gestapo for the district. Instantly I knew by their expression that nothing had been found. I relaxed. The major was very good-looking and evidently quite a gay cavalier. For the first time in many years I heard the inimitable accent, the short, clipped sentences of the old-time Prussian officer, the sort of thing one used to read about in old German light novels. It was a wonder and, yes, a pleasure to hear. I said so, knowing he must be proud of his military family traditions. He asked me this and that. I insisted I was an American "writing a book" and smiled at "absurd" suspicion. I did the lone and artless little woman, depending on "the well-known chivalry of the Germans," amazed at such inconsiderate treatment. "But, of course, war is war, I can permit myself no resentment at a mistake." Et cetera. Practice has made me pretty good at this, except the artificial tears, which I can't seem to squeeze out. I mentioned my long years of effort, well known in Germany, to bring about better understanding between the youth of England and Germany before the Nazis came into power. (When Hitler took over, he instantly banned the organization and confiscated our property without compensation. It was Nazi policy to suppress all international links.) I mentioned this to the chief of the Gestapo. There was a pause. He looked at me somberly and gave a curious sigh. He told me he had been born in London and went to school there. I could detect a touch of nostalgia. The man had once unquestionably been all that we mean by a "gentleman," and one could sense the effort he was making to keep from admitting to himself-even in the small dark yours he no longer merited that title. Blum went out, and the major showed that he could not be alone with a woman without reverting to gallant habits. Suddenly he asked: "Do you know who informed against you?" I told him I suspected it was Hasanovich. He nodded and said with haughty disgust: "Diese Mohammedaner-grassliche Leute!! [These Moslems-disgusting people!]" That was a curious admission for a member of the Gestapo to make, since they deliberately train even their own small children to be informers! The major said his orders were to send me to Belgrade for examination, that I should have to travel with a detective to Sarajevo, where a personal friend of his would look after me, and that he himself would call for me with a car and drive me up to the capital. Blum returned and we went out into the office. Von Nassenstein, putting his arm over my shoulders in a protecting way, ordered the now very respectful police to treat me with every kindness. The same Croatian detective who helped arrest me was told to escort me to Sarajevo and ordered to supply me with everything I required. Von Nassenstein took out his pocketbook and gave the detective a handful of thousand-dinar notes. The two Germans then left with much politeness. A meal with wine was ordered, again finished off by the police, and I was again, but more gently, shoved into my cell. Next morning very early a car took the detective and me to the railroad station at Gruzh, and we got into an ordinary passenger train. I had a window seat in a crowded first-class compartment, he opposite me. I noticed he carried with great care a thick envelope of papers which also contained my dagger. Neither he nor I spoke to anyone, and no one suspected I was a prisoner. Three times he took me into station restaurants and ordered anything I wanted, but kept close beside me. He was silent and never looked straight at me. I made no attempt to escape either by quickness or by bribing. It is hard to explain why, but it is a fact that from now on throughout the whole business, except for one terrible moment in Belgrade prison, I had the absolutely firm and sustaining certainty that I should come through alive. Not only that, but immediately after the first shock of arrest I had the strong conviction that this was what had been intended from the beginning; that this was meant, that this, in some way still unguessed, was my real job, much more important than the other-and much, much harder. What would it be? I must wait now, and be ready. As I gazed, unseeing, at the passing scenery that had so thrilled me when I was free, I hummed inaudibly: "Ready, now ready, Chetniks brothers . . ." Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel