Supuestos

AFTER THE HEAVY GLOOM of oppression in Albania, the very sunlight of Yugoslavia seemed more golden, the air more buoyant. Children ran out gaily in greeting and threw leaves into the car: children hid in Albania. The women waved and laughed: women veiled or wept in Albania. My heart felt crushed with pity for the tragic and guiltless people I had left behind.

As we passed along the indescribably magnificent littoral of Montenegro, through Budva of the Beautiful Beaches, and on along the Dalmatian coast to Dubrovnik (Ragusa), it seemed to me that that scarlet sunset, glowing across the rocky islets set in a silver sea, could not be real, that I had never in my life seen such loveliness.

Dubrovnik, with its great, white, crenellated walls set boldly out into the sea, was lit with a spangle of lights, a dream city taken from some medieval illuminated missal. Almost one expected oversize saints and angels to flutter above the battlements.

In May I939 Dubrovnik was gay, eager, prosperous, crowded with foreigners with money to spend. Flavel and I began to explore some of the world's finest scenery.

One evening, tired from an excursion and not expecting to go out again, I slipped into a long black silk "hostess" gown with flowered sleeves. After dinner, however, the moon shone so bright, the air was so mellow, and the music from the near-by square so alluring that we strolled down there. We stood in a quiet corner to enjoy the charming scene: the palm trees, little tables crowded with cheerful humanity, the music softly accompanied by the moonlit waves breaking under the towering age-old walls.

We noticed that the people began passing us closely and staring at me. "A slinky black dress and flowers, a serpentine figure and red hair"-so, I heard later, ran the gossip. "What else can she be but a spy?" From that night on, I was called the "femme fatale of Dubrovnik."

Busybodies got busy, and now I began to appear in the suspicion books of the Yugoslav Government: "In her quiet way, she observes

everything" is a quotation from a letter my lawyer later saw in my dossier.

Flavel and I decided to make a complete tour of the Balkans by car. We wrote to Shucho, my Albanian interpreter, who spoke all the necessary languages and drove well, asking him to come and drive us. He arrived. We made every possible effort to buy a car in Yugoslavia. But tourist business was very brisk and we could not find one for sale. Shucho knew of a suitable one in Scutari, and though he was warned, urged, and begged not to return into Italian territory, he decided to risk it.

He went, bought the car, and started back. He had almost reached the frontier again when he was arrested and thrown into prison, together with his younger brother, Halil. They were charged with acting as my agents, as "spies."

They were the breadwinners of a large family, and I received a frantic message from their mother, imploring me to secure their release.

I was, of course, extremely upset and felt responsible for the lives of these boys who had unquestionably been prepared to give their own lives for my safety only a few weeks before. Flavel engaged another chauffeur and at last secured a car. She set off without me, begging me to the last moment to come too. I simply could not do it: I had to get those boys out of prison.

So now I settled down in Budva, on the Montenegrin coast of the Adriatic near the Albanian frontier, and began pulling every conceivable string to secure their release. Everyone who might have any influence was approached, including the Queen of Italy, a Montenegrin princess. In vain.

I arranged means of getting in touch with the boys inside the prison and supplied them and their family with money. Soon I became involved with an extraordinary cast of characters: spies, blackmailers, street women known to be sleeping with high Italian officers in Scutari, corrupt officials. The hero of my thriller was a brave little man, a Jew, who also loved the boys and who three times risked his life by slipping across the frontier to help them.

Among others I had written to Herr von Pannwitz, the German minister to Albania, the last diplomat left in Tirana, who also had liked the boys. His reply was as follows:

"In spite of every effort, I have been unsuccessful in securing their release. I therefore strongly advise you to go yourself to Scutari and address your request personally to the authorities, since Italians, as you know, always dislike refusing a request from a lady."

I had some reason to think this might be a trap. Nevertheless I decided to go.

Any hope of my getting a visa for Albania was, of course, out of the question.

But parties of Germans were being taken by bus for a few hours in Scutari to observe the delights of the Italian occupation. My name was smuggled onto one of these "omnibus passes."

My friend the Yugoslav director of the bus company was so alarmed that he decided to accompany me on the pretext of road inspection, and Imre Gal, another friend of great influence in the Balkans, drove in his own car to the frontier, determined to plunge across if the bus came out again without me.

After a night in Podgoritsa and a start at 4 A.M., we arrived in Scutari at eight in the morning. The instant the bus stopped I asked the director to wait one hour for me at the hotel and then take whatever action he thought best. Then I ran at top speed to the prefecture to get there before the news of my arrival. Imagine my surprise: the town was gaily decorated for the arrival next day-again, yes, again- of the busy and charming Count Cianol.

I was instantly shown into the office of the acting commandant of Scutari, Captain Marolli of the Carabinieri. Though he had never seen me he knew at once who I was.

"How did you get here?" he screamed.

"By bus, of course. How else?"

"You are under arrest!"

He seized my British pass, which I had with me, and ran out into the corridor.

Ensued a banging of doors, furious shouts, and a buzz as of angry bees.

Marolli returned and sat down glaring at me. I began quietly explaining the situation to him from the very beginning.

The telephone rang-I could hear an excited voice squealing the news. "Yes, yes. She is here"-an informer on the job. Again and again the phone rang.

"Dash the thing," I laughed. "I want you to listen to me, sir, and I have to start from the beginning each time!" I felt that the boys' lives depended on my getting him into a good humor. He forgot himself and smiled.

"I am listening, madam, with full attention. Please proceed. I will get rid of these interruptions."

He switched the phone to a secretary next door. Slowly he began to relax, his high color returned. Everyone who came into the room, I began to notice, was sent out again more and more peremptorily.

I finished my story. "Will you please, sir, let the boys go, now that you know how absurd it all is?"

He sat looking at me without answering. He had unbuttoned his jacket.

Suddenly he got up and locked the corridor door. So this sort of thing did really happen outside of novels! When I looked down I saw my knees visibly trembling like those of a character in the comics.

But this was anything but funny. Nothing was more certain than that if I antagonized him now he would take it out on the boys.

"Madam," said this fat, disgusting bloodhound in the gentlest voice, "there is such a thing as love at first sight. If I asked you if you had ever kissed a man the first time you saw him, what would your answer be?"

"My answer, I'm afraid, sir [all this was mostly in French, my Italian being inadequate for subtleties] would be 'No'." I don't know what gods I called upon, but I kept on smiling.

"The boys will be released," he said, "instantly released if you will agree to remain here in Scutari with me. See, I will give you proof of my profound sincerity."

He went to the side door and gave his secretary an order for the immediate release of the younger boy, Halil.

I collected my wits and became even more politely formal. "I am sure, mon capitaine, that it is simply because you have not seen a European woman for some months that I make such an impression on you. Much as I appreciate the compliment you pay me, I have my own family to think of. I regret exceedingly that it is impossible."

He made the most astonishing fool of himself. He wept. Even more astonishing, however, he continued to behave with courtesy and respect. The performance lasted for another hour. When he saw that it was useless, his good manners-and I consider this no second-rate victory-did not desert him. He decided that I must be put across the frontier immediately.

Meanwhile the director, alarmed at my non-appearance, had sped away to the Yugoslav consul who, dressing formally, hurried to the prefecture and announced:

"This lady is here under the direct protection of the Yugoslav Government. I must warn you that if she is molested, my government will take a very serious view of the matter."

This far exceeded his authority, of course, and was a great responsibility for him to take.

Captain Marolli now ordered "the best car in Scutari" and an elaborate lunch;

he put me into the car himself with many bows and hand-kissings and, with a young Carabiniere lieutenant and two armed soldiers, I was driven to the frontier, the same post where I had escaped before.

Arrived at the post, the lunch, including wine, was carefully laid out and punctiliously served by the guards. The lieutenant gave himself infinite pains to entertain me. He bewailed the advantages of Abyssinia, where he had just been

stationed, compared with Albania, which he believed would always be a liability rather than an asset to Italy.

The bus hove in sight, came up, and stopped. And now occurred a curious and ominous incident.

As I prepared to mount, at a sharp word of command the platoon of soldiers, drawn up like a guard of honor, presented arms. The attractive lieutenant bowed over my hand, handed me in, and stood at the salute as the bus moved off-the Germans, of course, all agog with excitement and curiosity.

I made no explanations-but they did. Immediately on arrival in Dubrovnik they spread the information that I was an Italian emissary: had I not received the most distinguished military send-off?

The official finger wrote and, having writ, moved on, and-Italy was now the third country for which I had been proved a spy!

I had failed again, and this had seemed the last hope. Soon came the news that Shucho had been transferred to a malarial island off Valona. I felt miserable and desperate.

Then Vaso appeared. He was a huge, intelligent Montenegrin frontier policeman who had hidden my messengers on the little lake steamer and been otherwise helpful.

"Why all these complicated schemes?" he asked me calmly. "They've been fun, but I'm getting tired of them. Why not go at the thing simply and straightforwardly now and finish it?"

"How?" I breathed, amazed.

He explained what he meant.

And so it was done: we bribed everybody from the prison governor down to the smallest turnkey-quite possibly even Marolli himself. It took time and cost me about 150,000 dinars (about $3,ooo at the then current exchange), but the boy arrived at last in Yugoslavia.

The war broke out soon afterwards, and Shucho returned to fight in the abortive revolt of the Albanian mountaineers. My last information was that he had been killed in action.

Vaso, who remained my trusty and dependable henchman, later joined General Mihailovich.