The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 52. THE INFORMER TANYA had been secretary to the Belgrade correspondent of a London paper. A White Russian refugee with, she said, extremely aristocratic connections, this tiny, dried-up body and soul was the trickiest and most selfish woman in the prison. In spite of her extreme caution I soon discovered that she hated England and America with whatever passion she was capable of. She believed-wishfully-that Germany would win. And she hated Serbia that had treated her so well. All she loved was herself and her brother who had worked for the Associated Press and who also was in the prison. One day two soldiers came to take him away. I happened to be at the peephole. As he was brought down from above, he tried to break away from the guards to shout a word to his sister through the hole. He was struck violently in the face with the yell, "Zuruck! [Back!]." He was marched out. Should I tell Tanya? At that time we still pitied her. I decided that she might go mad with grief-better to say nothing. That night Hahn told Katitsa that the brother had been taken away to be shot as an English spy. Now ensued a remarkable exhibition of loyalty and kindness on the part of the women. Tanya must not know, must not guess. Infinite were the pains we took, the stories we thought up, to keep her especially cheerful. There was something macabre, ghoulish, in seeing this tiny creature, her head too big for her wizened body, so merry that she actually danced the steps of a Russian folk dance for us. Then one day came the news that the brother had been seen in a German prison camp: he had not been shot after all. Still we did not regret our efforts-then. A woman came to call on her, marching in grandly, guards saluting, and took her out to lunch! Imagine our excitement at this unheard-of event. We could hardly wait for her return. When she returned (without, of course, bringing us anything to eat) she was a different Tanya, haughty, condescending, but more cagey than ever. The woman came again next day and took Tanya out for good. But not before I had discovered who the powerful deity was for whom all German prison doors flew open. She was the infamous Frau von Akten, born Banderer, who had for years been the chief German woman spy in Yugoslavia, who now has the blood of hundreds if not thousands of Serbian patriots on her hands. For years she had on weekdays acted as a humble school teacher in Novi Sad. At week ends she entertained lavishly in her luxurious Belgrade apartment. Is it necessary to say what Tanya became? She was an expert on foreigners in Yugoslavia. It was not long before two Englishwomen married to Serbs were brought in, first fruits of a new career. Spies pretending to be prisoners-we had plenty of them, of course, but they were not nearly so much of a nuisance as you would expect. In fact, they added a grimly humorous note. They appeared to be men in German service who had made a slip and had chosen this in lieu of other punishment. To make themselves convincing they told tales of hair-raising courage with themselves as heroes. They led dreary lives. For within a few hours of their entry we knew, by some sure extra prison sense, what they were. Thereafter they moved in a sort of vacuum, everything dead around them. They were despised even by the guards and were treated by us with just a bare minimum of politeness to avoid trouble. They were the only lonely people in the prison: cold, outside our warm and pulsing life of love and dread and cunning. One morning, coming out with a dustpan, I saw a new man, rather nice-looking, talking to one of these spies while the two swept the yard. He must be warned! I stumbled, bumped into him, and dropped my pan. He turned, and as we both bent for it I whispered: "Careful -informer!" He gave me a startled half-smile. Behold, by evening we knew that he himself was a new spy! I later saw one of these fellows in one of my endless series of prison trains. It was the same man who had informed against Trudi's boy. No longer sleek and slimy, he was bedraggled, desperate, hopeless. It was obvious that he was now himself in serious trouble and was going down the drain. I wished my dearest Trudi could have known, although it would have given her small comfort: she was where no comfort could ever again mean much to her. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel