THE BALKANS CONSPIRACY - Croatia, the War, and the Future

THE BALKANS CONSPIRACY1

The Balkans ConspiracyISBN I 74027 1343Copyright © Vladimir Orsag 2002First published 2002 by Ginninderra pressPO Box 53 Charnwood ACT 2615 Australiaginninderrapress@com.auPrinted by Panther Printnet,Fyshwick, ACT3

The suffering of my people was my daylight, all the time.- Irene Neumann4

Table of ContentTABLE OF CONTENT ................................................................5ACKNOWLEGEMENTS.............................................................7DEDICATION ...............................................................................8INTRODUCTION .........................................................................9APOLOGY...................................................................................10PROLOGUE ................................................................................111. PARIS 1936 ..............................................................................132 PARIS 1937 ..............................................................................423 MOSCOW 1937 ........................................................................744 ZAGREB 1937 .........................................................................965 VIENNA 1938 ........................................................................128BELGRADE 1940 ..................................................................1526 ZAGREB 1941 .......................................................................1547 MONTENEGRO 1943 ..........................................................1738 LONDON 1943.......................................................................1819 BELGRADE 1945..................................................................20010 BELGRADE 1946................................................................20911 BRIONI ISLAND: 1948.......................................................2235

12 BELGRADE 1949................................................................ 23613 BELGRADE 1949................................................................ 247MOSCOW 1950...................................................................... 25614 ZAGREB 1951 ..................................................................... 271PULLACH 1951 ..................................................................... 28215 ZAGREB 1951 ..................................................................... 309PULLACH 1952 ..................................................................... 32916 THE QUEEN FREDERIKA 1952...................................... 33717 MELBOURNE 1952............................................................ 34618 MELBOURNE 1973............................................................ 363BELGRADE 1973 .................................................................. 370MELBOURNE 1976............................................................... 38019 PULA 1977 ............................................................................ 382MELBOURNE.1977............................................................... 386LONDON 1977....................................................................... 413EPILOGUE................................................................................ 4156

ACKNOWLEGEMENTSI wish to extend my gratitude to the late John B. Hume, VicCassells BA, David Patterson BA, the late Dr Ian O'Brien, DrRobert G. Williscroft, Robert W. Shields and the late Sir RobertRisson. This book could not have been written without their assistanceand guidance, and I am rightfully indebted to their patience,understanding and moral support.Last but not least, I want to thank my beloved wife, Lydia,who stood by me in the dark hours of my literary solitude andstoically endured my prolonged search for truth. I am fully awarenow of how difficult it was for her to live with my dream, whichover a period of twenty-four years turned into a literary nightmare.7

DEDICATIONTo my late father, who stoically endured persecution, imprisonmentand exile; my political mentor the late Ing. August Kosutic,a former deputy premier of Hrvatska (1938), who faced asimilar destiny; and my tutor, the late Lady Mira Radic-Kosuric –the daughter of the Croatian MP, Stjepan Radic, who was assassinatedin the chambers of the Belgrade parliament in 1928.Although my respect for them has never ceased to exist, inspite of differences of opinion, I could hardly follow their footstepsdown the path of the persecution they experienced throughouttheir lives. It is obvious that people of such fibre, motivation,sacrifices and belief are extremely important for any change ofdestiny in Hrvatska.It is sad that they missed the introduction of democracy inHrvatska, an even more ironic event because it was carried out byyesterday's hard-core believers in the totalitarian regime of MarshalTito – a self-imposed leader who hoodwinked not only Churchill,Stalin, Truman, Nehru, Nasser, Sukarno and the Muslimbrethren in Bosnia, but also his own people in Zagorje province.Zagorje's honest, hard-working, poor but politically náivepeople could never understand why Tito chose to be buried in aforeign land where its leaders always chose military confrontationto prevent the self-determination of Hrvatska.Who knows? Maybe this novel could provide some answersfor those who are seeking knowledge rather than being victims of'disinformation'.8

INTRODUCTIONThe Balkans Conspiracy is a novel based on the history ofHrvatska (Croatia), and the numerous inconsistencies and incorrectinformation which were published in two well documentedbooks on Tito and have been perpetuated by an unusual agreementbetween Western and Eastern intelligence fraternities. Asthe novel shows, the devastating effects of this deliberate misinformationpersist in the Balkans even now.The author is not responsible for any misinterpretation offacts. If it had been possible to have access to the dossiers ofNKVD/KGB, CIA, MI5/MI6, ABWEHR/BND, ASIO or UDBA,then it would have been much easier to establish what is incorrectinformation, deliberate disinformation or just an oversight. However,the lack of such access leaves it up to readers to distinguishfact from fiction.9

APOLOGYIn 1941, the city of Zagreb, where I was born, was occupiedby the forces of the Third Reich. The newly created puppet regimeimmediately conscripted thousands of men, as well asschool-age children like myself. I was then seven years of age.Our paramilitary training consisted of various drills and politicalbrainwashing, twice a week, and Sunday-morning paradesin which all members of Ustaske Uzdanice, the Ustashe YouthOrganisation, marched in military formation.Although our guns were only hand-made replicas, some boyshandled them with hatred, while others really enjoyed them. Aftereach parade, we would pick up crushed rocks from the heaps providedfor us to smash windows of shops owned by Jews. Thosewhom we found on the streets wearing the Star of David wouldbe humiliated, ridiculed and kicked.My father devised a plan by which I would be discharged –dishonourably, of course. Suddenly I became the loneliestschoolboy, a situation which continued until well after the end ofWorld War II.Subsequently, we escaped this hell hole and chose Australiato be our new home. I was horrified, however, to discover on myarrival that some of my countrymen continued with their despicablepast. Although I was delighted finally to be free, I was saddenedto see that some of them remained prisoners of the past. Atthe same time, I suspected the day would come when people ofmy origin would pay a horrible price. The recent war is a the resemblanceof suffering in comparison with that of World War II.I always believed that what we did then was wrong. Therefore,I wish to apologise profoundly for any humiliation, sufferingand degradation which I caused to my fellow man.Although it is too late for those who continue with anti-Semitic rhetoric, I hope new generations will learn never to repeatit again. Only then can we all look forward to a better world.Vladimir Orsag, Canberra, 200210

thousands, but this latest task – the elimination of one man – wasproving to be extremely difficult. Too many complications intruded.He poured himself another vodka and continued his musing.12

1.PARIS 1936Early in the morning of Monday 9th October, Maurice d' Alpuget,a recently appointed gendarme from the Quai d'Orsay prefecture,was carrying out his usual patrol. By the time he reachedthe Avenue L 'Grande Serbie, most of the shops were alreadyopen for business.His attention this morning was directed towards a particularbuilding. In appearance, the three-storey structure seemed no differentfrom the others on the same avenue, but Maurice had noticedsomething odd: the building had few tenants, yet it had aninordinate number of visitors – strange characters, mostly men, ofwidely differing ages and nationalities. Some were dressed in foreignsuits and others in poorly patched clothes. Day after day, hewitnessed this strange procession, noting that some of them repeatedtheir visits while many were never seen again. At first,since the ground floor of the building was occupied by the labourexchange, he assumed they were looing for work but, after closerobservation, he noticed that some of visitors disappeared throughheavy timber gates into an adjacent arched vestibule.As he approached the labour exchange, he saw the gates werenow open, so he slipped unnoticed into the dark jaws of the archway.The labour exchange was another mystery. It was hardlylarge enough to accommodate a dozen visitors, yet on one occasion,by his count, one hundred and thirty-two entered and departedin half an hour. Maurice's curiosity was aroused. He wasdetermined to find out what was going on behind those gates andoffice doors. It could be something big...perhaps enough to leadto a promotion. He smiled at the thought, then glanced cautiouslyinto the avenue; he could not shake off the thought that he wasnot the only one watching this place.Experienced in surveillance, Maurice was aware that a prematuremove could spoil two weeks of hard work. He suspectedthat something sinister was going on but with insufficient evi-13

dence it was too early to notify his superior officer, Captain PierreChauvel.For now, Maurice would have to remain silent; creating theimpression he was merely doing his routine patrol, hoping thiswould satisfy not only those watching from outside but also thosewho spied on his movements along the avenue from behind heavycurtains on the second floor. His casual walk and occasional stopat a butcher or greengrocer should put their minds at case.At every stop, he chatted with proprietors, making generalinquiries about complaints, or disturbances in their neighbourhood.He made no obvious reference to the subject of what wasgoing on at number 49. The ambiguous or negative answers hereceived, and the hostile and hasty responses, convinced his police-tunedinstincts that something was wrong – deadly wrong.Worried in the end that he might stall for too long, he mentionedhis concern to an officer who, before his promotion, hadpatrolled the same area. His friend's answer had surprised him.'If I were you, I wouldn't pay too much attention... at least,not yet.''What do you mean?''That particular building is out of our jurisdiction – I mean,yours.''What's so special about it?'Maurice raised his voice.‘A lot. The building is the headquarters of the InternationalBrigade and our instructions are not to bother them or their visitorsuntil we get our orders from the minister.''Isn't that strange? I've been working in the area for almost afortnight, yet nobody has given me instructions like that.''There's really nothing to be upset about, believe me. Yourduty is to maintain law and order, and to see that all the thugs outsideare kept in line. So far nothing has happened to warrant ourconcern, has it?'Maurice's expression made it plain that he was flabbergastedby this offhand attitude. He persisted. 'But, sir, it appears thatsome visitors never reappear. Don't you think that somethingstrange is going on?'14

'Why would they reappear? Their destination is the SergeValley in Spain.'Maurice could see he was making no progress, so he said nomore. Privately, however, he determined that from now on hewould pay more attention to a number of tough-looking charactershe had seen cruising along the avenue. Judging from their appearance,they were either Spaniards, or nationals of some Balkanstate, certainly not types who would be interested in law and order.An hour before Maurice's arrival, at approximately fivethirty,Josip Broz had entered his office. Even if the newly appointedgendarme had been on duty at that early hour, he couldnot have observed Broz's arrival. Broz insisted, despite the protestsof the NKVD officer, Peter Denisovich, that he have his officenext to his apartment. Though he did not use the apartmentmuch, it was convenient head like the sword of Damocles: tightercontrol by the French police could jeopardise, if not completelycripple, his activities – the very existence of the International Brigadewould be at risk. Broz had taken every precaution he couldthink of. To justify the numerous visitors to his office, he movedit to three rooms on the second floor and opened the street level asa foreign labour exchange. As well as providing a front, the labourexchange was a legitimate undertaking, staffed by two femaleclerks who were genuinely interested in providing job opportunitiesfor those in need.On the second floor, the largest of the three rooms was designatedas a reception' area. The walls were lined with chairs,which were rarely empty during office hours. In a glasspartitionedcorner opposite the entrance door sat comrade LydiaDzerzinsky. About thirty-two, with a short, solid figure, she wasalways subject to unsavoury jokes about her slowness.The office next to Broz's was Major Peter Denisovich's.Aged forty-four, he was a former member of the Cheka – theRussian secret police, later to be renamed the GPU, then theNKVD and eventually the KGB.Denisovich had joined the Communist Party at the age ofsixteen. When he was twenty, he became one of the top trainees15

under the chief of intelligence, Felix Dzerzinsky, Lydia the receptionist'sfather, who helped consolidate Stalin's power. WhenDzerzinsky died in 1926, the politburo named after him a citysquare, in which they erected a statue in his honour.As a result of his early success, the young Denisovich wasrewarded with promotion and had now been given this importantappointment in France. His main duties were to organise all thesecurity measures pertaining to the establishment of the InternationalBrigade and to ensure Broz's personal security. In addition,he was responsible directly to Moscow for oversight of the entireoperation.The major shared his office with Maria Gucciano, the publicrelations officer. An attractive, intelligent young woman, Mariawas an able linguist who had inherited the languages of herSlovenian mother and her Italian father. Her duties were a mixtureof everything: apart from her PR work, she shared the typingwith Lydia and was also cook, messenger and decoy; she evenshared sleeping quarters with Broz. The Slovenian language shelearned from her mother had been the foundation for her masteryof Serbo-Croatian, the mixture of Croatian and Serbian introducedby King Alexander in 1929 in the vain hope that one languagewould magically curtail nationalistic animosities. Wisely,Maria's mother had sent her to a private school run by the SacredHeart nuns in Trieste, where she pursued studies in French, German,English, Russian and Hungarian.Maria's Russian was good, but she constantly polished itwhen in the company of Broz and Denisovich. Even Broz experiencedsome difficulties with Russian, but Denisovich was alwayshandy; he had been Broz's teacher back in Gorky when Broz tookan elementary course in intelligence. Although Maria could askfor assistance from Lydia when necessary, she deliberatelyavoided her, mainly because of the receptionist's almost blind devotionto the Party. Maria's communications with Lydia were restrictedto matters of office routine.Broz's office, the smallest, was connected directly to hisapartment by a closet with concealed doors; only those who werefamiliar with its existence could find their way into the apartment.The closet itself was like a miniature room and fitted with a ward-16

obe, make-up table and a large mirror encircled with light bulbs,the type usually found in theatre dressing rooms. The closet wasthe most important part of Broz's complex; he used it as a place todisguise himself every time he left the building by the front door.His disguises were ingenious. Sometimes he would appear as abutcher or a driver, at the other times as a milkman, baker, chimneysweep, then again as a priest, or even a respectable businessman.The closet was just one of the security precautions initiatedby Denisovich, who was well aware of the presence of Spanishsecret agents in Paris supported by royal Yugoslav agents. Thetwo services had the game goal, but for different reasons: theYugoslavs were seeking revenge for King Alexander's assassination,while the Spaniards were trying to stop interference in theiraffairs.Under the floorboards of the closet was a secret vault wereBroz kept valuable documents and large sums of money. The officewas spartan but functional. Its main window overlooked aservice laneway, which was connected to the street level by firestairs.For an emergency getaway, Denisovich had designed a deviceby which either he or Broz could leave in a hurry through thewindow; instead of using the stairs, they had to step onto a littleplatform fitted with tension wires tuned to their weight. The platformwould then descend quickly, allowing them to reach groundlevel much faster than by the stairway. There was only one drawback:the device could be used by only one person at the time,though it needed only a minute to be reset for a second trip.On this particular afternoon, Broz was to meet, for the firsttime, Kim Philby, a British war correspondent from The Timeswho, on his way to Spain, was going to receive an intelligencebriefing from Denisovich. Their first meeting was to take place inthe Closerie des Lilas restaurant on Montparnasse Boulevard, butin a private room, not the main dining room. Broz was aware ofStalin's plan to use Philby to cover the war from the Nationalistside. Due to the possibility of language difficulties, it was naturalthat Maria should attend the meeting with Denisovich. Lydiawould remain in her office to look after normal business.17

Broz was worried by Maria's attitude towards Lydia. Lydiahad not made a complaint, but Broz noticed a coolness betweenthem. Lydia, he agreed silently, might be a trifle slow, but Mariahad failed to take into account one very important factor, a factorwhich prevented Lydia from joining in arguments – her training.She had been trained in one of the best schools in Gorky and, beinga fierce supporter of the working classes, she looked uponMaria with contempt. To Lydia, Maria's feminine characteristicswere the product of a bourgeois background.Major Denisovich insisted that Broz and Maria should leavein the official black Citroen; he would leave earlier and park hiscar in the vicinity of the International Brigade's headquarters, sohe could intercept any car that might be tailing them. Broz wasnot very happy about the idea, but there was no room for argument.Just before noon, as arranged, they left the building on theirway to lunch. Once inside the restaurant's private room, they instructedthe headwaiter to escort Philby in as soon as he arrived.They were only halfway through their appetisers when there wasa light knock on the door. The visitor, of average height, slim andwith an Anglo-Saxon face, was ushered in by the headwaiter andintroduced.'Allow me to introduce Kim Philby.'Broz and Denisovich rose instantly. As each shook bandswith Philby, Denisovich introduced the visitor to Maria.'It's a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Gucciano,' saidPhilby, bowing slightly.Although his face remained unchanged, Maria felt an unexplainableattraction to him. In perfect French, she exchanged afew pleasantries with the young Cambridge-educated Englishman.He appeared to be very different from Broz, Denisovich orany other man she had ever known. He also seemed differentfrom countrymen of his whom she had met before, George Orwelland James Klugman. Somehow, the young man radiated so muchvitality she could almost feel the vibrations, yet he appeared imperviousto her charms.As lunch progressed, with the sound of light chatter and theclink of glasses, Maria gazed around table at the laughing faces.18

Odd, she thought, only a few minutes ago these men were totalstrangers, yet here they are at their first meeting acting like lifelongfriends. During the meal, there was little reference to thenature of the strange gathering, but Maria sensed it must have afar deeper meaning than just a social occasion.It was decided they would all return to Brigade headquarters,where Philby would be initiated into the secrets of the intelligenceoperation. On the return trip, the curtains were carefully drawnacross the windows of the black Citroen.Back at headquarters, Philby was ushered into Broz's office,and coffee and cigars were quickly produced.As Broz snipped the end off his Havana, he glanced quizzicallyat Philby.'Kim,' he said, 'do you know the real reason for our meeting?'Philby met the Croatian's gaze coolly. 'I'm not quite sure, Josip...butI think I can guess.'Broz smiled. He appreciated a sharp mind and tactful approach.'We were instructed by our great leader, Joseph Stalin, toprepare you for your star in Madrid.'In the act of lighting his cigar, Philby paused briefly, thentook a few seconds to get the Havana drawing well. Broz knew hehad surprised the Englishman, but there was no trace of it in hisexpression.'What do you mean... Madrid? I was under the impressionthat I'd be covering war developments in Spain from our side.'Unsure of Philby's instructions, Broz clarified the Brigade'sposition. 'Well, it was decided that your star in Madrid would beof greater benefit to us if you reported on the war from the pointof view of the other side. As a man of trust, it's obvious that fromtime to time you will receive useful information, but we'll adviseyou what kind of information we're seeking as the situation arises.Movement around the Spanish countryside could be very dangerousfor you. Several provinces have changed hands several timesalready.' He dragged on his cigar and exhaled. Through the bluesmoke he nodded towards Denisovich. 'Comrade Peter will briefyou later on the information we are seeking at the moment.'Not yet accustomed to Intelligence matters, Philby frownedin puzzlement.19

'But how am I going to pass on this information to you?''Very simple. Before you leave Paris you'll receive instructionsand a map showing the positions of all dead letter boxes.'It was the first time Philby had heard the term 'dead letterbox', but his intuition guided him in the right direction. 'Youmean prearranged places?''Exactly. A cavity in a wall or a hole in a tree. Oh, by theway, you've been booked in at the Hostel La Macareña on Callede Goya Street. It's about four blocks away from Retiro Park.You'll be able to arrange a meeting there with your resident officer,the third secretary of the Russian embassy in Spain, CaptainBoris Guzenko. Whatever you do, do not contact him at the embassy.It's under surveillance around the clock.'By now, Philby was beginning to realise that his comradeswere experts in intelligence. Their instructions made a lot ofsense, but he was not confident he would be able to fulfil theirexpectations. 'Surely it's not going to be easy to deliver informationof that sort without being followed?''No, but to overcome that we'll train you over the next fewweeks on how to elude surveillance. We don't expect to hear fromyou for at least six weeks. Just concentrate on consolidating yourposition. If you should gain some knowledge which you think isimportant, you can always pass it to us, of course, but you mustfirst gain their trust. Build up a wide circle of friends. Only thenwill we be able to use your services properly.''So, in the mean time I'm not going to be of any use?''Of course you are, but you must dig yourself in deep first.Don't worry, Kim, my friend, your time will come, but first it's acase of – how do you say it? – softly, softly catchee monkey, eh?'He threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'As a foreigner,'Broz continued, 'you'll be watched. The Spanish secret service isaware that many British subjects, being on the political left, arenot to be trusted. Your first duty must be to convince them otherwise.'As he was speaking, Broz cleared his desk and spread out amap of Madrid. Philby noticed a number of crosses marked inred. Denisovich pointed to each one in numerical order. 'Whenyou arrive in Madrid, it will be a Sunday. Take a stroll around the20

streets and memorise the position of each dead letter box, and itsnumber. It's most important that you look casual. Even if youthink some one is following you, do nothing but continue towalk.''How do you want me to transcribe any information? In code,or in long hand?''It depends. If the message is short, write in longhand. On theother hand, if the message is very important, you must use invisibleink. Do you know how to make it?''I'm not sure... I seem to recall something about lemon juice,when I was a kid.'Denisovich took a small porcelain plate and dissolved in it, ina tablespoonful of alcohol, one antipyrine tablet. Kim observedevery move. He watched with fascination while Broz took atoothpick and wrapped cotton tightly around the tip. Dipping thetip into the solution, he proceeded to print carefully between therows of printing on the page of a book. Nothing was visible to thenaked eye.Broz smiled at Philby. 'Unfortunately, it takes an hour to dry,and even then it has to be placed between sheets of blotting paper.'While they left their sample writing to dry, Peter indicated onthe map that the location of Kim's hotel, at the corner of Calle deGoya and Calle de Velazquez, was marked with three crosses, andalong P. Dela Indepedencia there were another two. The streetrunning alongside Retiro Park, C. Alfonso XII, contained at leastanother half-dozen drops. The park itself was infested withcrosses. Philby gazed at the map nonplussed. How the hell wouldhe remember them all?Peter interrupted his thoughts, a twinkle in his eyes when hespoke. 'Don't worry, Kim, you 'll get to know it all easily. Nowlisten. When you get to Madrid, buy a copy of a book by a writercalled Hume, Modern Spain, then select a page, one that you canuse for the text of your message.'Kim nodded. 'Right. Is that the lot for now?'Peter grinned at the perplexed look on Philby's face. 'Notquite. Tomorrow we'll demonstrate to you how to avoid surveillance,sufficiently so that you'll be able to move around without21

eing tailed everywhere. But now I want you to have look at this.'Pointing to the Avenue des Champs Elysées, Denisovich indicateda number of restaurants with exits into adjacent lanes, andbookshops with convenient exits, explaining the merits of eachone.Philby concentrated hard to take it all in. The speed ofDenisovich's instructions amazed Philby, and he found it hard tofollow. He realised that any objection or suggestion of slowingdown would be frowned upon.Peter turned back from the map. 'It's extremely important thatyou learn the routes between dead letter boxes by heart. If youleave a written message saying, "See page 3", then the residentofficer will know that you have something for us in dead letterbox number 3. Only in the case of very important and very complexmessages will you write in invisible ink. You can use eitherRussian or French.'Philby nodded again, while Denisovich continued with hisinstructions. Broz was busy with his work while they talked, butnow and then he would glance at them to make sure Denisovichwas covering everything.Just before five-thirty, Broz rose. 'Comrade Kim,' he said,'I'm going to leave you in capable hands. I hope to see you tomorrow.If you have any problems, let me know: We're here to assistyou in every way possible to carry out your duties.''Thank you, comrade Broz.'Broz bade them goodnight and made his way to Lydia's office.Maria had already gone to his apartment to prepare his meal.He paused at the open door to Lydia's office and knocked lightly.'Could you stay on duty, Lydia, until they finish their work?'Delighted that Broz had come to her instead of Maria, Lydianodded happily.'Yes, of course. But what about tomorrow?''Well, I'm going away for a few days, so you'll be in chargeof the office.''What about Maria? Is she going with you, comrade Broz?''No, she'll be here a little later, but don't worry about her. Shehas to compile information to get her report ready by the time Iget back.'22

Despite her dullness, Lydia's face seemed to glow beneaththe skin and she smiled brightly, exposing perfect teeth. She feltimportant, a feeling rarely bestowed on her, despite her abilityand her almost blind devotion to Josip Broz. Broz had noticed thisdevotion and had of ten wondered about it. Was it professional, orsomething deeper? But he was always too busy to ponder it forvery long and, in any case, he had his hands full with Maria.Lydia watched as Broz closed her office door. Oh, how sheloathed that Maria with her graceful walk – more suited to a professionalmodel than to her position with the Brigade – and thebitch was beautiful, too! She had to admit that, much as sheloathed her, Maria was the most attractive creature she had everseen, in Russia or anywhere else. Deep down, Lydia felt shecould offer other things in life to compensate for her dullness andrugged appearance.Perhaps Maria might not look so handsome had she, likeLydia, participated in the war against Poland. Lydia was a fiercefighter who had been blooded in Kiev with Tukhachevsky whenhe was a general. Her role in the Polish campaign had earned herwidespread recognition and acceptance by the soldiers, who hadtreated her as an equal. She knew that war situations suited hermuch better than this office job but, being properly trained, shenever questioned, nor asked special favours, even though her fatherhad been a hero of the Bolshevik Revolution.The heavy timber gates of the labour exchange building werenormally closed at six every evening, but on this particular Mondaynight they remained open, a fact that puzzled Maurice d' Alpuget.At exactly six-fifteen, a large, black Citroen limousine,with curtains drawn on the rear side windows, approached thearched vestibule at 49 Avenue L'Grande Serbie. In size and appearance,it looked more suitable for a funeral than for everydaytransport. As soon as the limousine disappeared inside the vestibule,the massive timber gates were shut.Out of Maurice's view, two heavy-set bodyguards dressed inill-fitting grey suits stopped the car at the rear service entry andushered its blindfolded occupant to a stairway. On the secondfloor, they knocked softly on the door of a small apartment, givinga prearranged signal. The door opened and they silently23

guided their companion inside, halting him in the middle of theroom to face their leader. The man on the right quickly undid theblindfold and both left the room, closing the door quietly behindthem.Michael Padev, well-known Balkan journalist and writer,stood for a moment rapidly blinking his eyes to readjust them tothe light. Finally, he managed to focus on the man in front of him.Smiling slowly, he reached for his host's outstretched hand and,paraphrasing Stanley, said in Croatian, 'Comrade Broz, I presume'.Broz smiled fleetingly and gestured towards two overstuffedarmchairs separated by a coffee table. 'Please be seated. Makeyourself comfortable.' He too spoke in Croatian.Settling in his chair, Padev noticed a home of Bosnian slivovitzand two small liqueur glasses on the table. Broz, playing thepart of gracious host, immediately offered his guest a glass, an offerPadev gratefully accepted. As he sipped, Padev surreptitiouslystudied his host: a thickset middle-aged man, whose square, typicallyBalkan face was dominated by a pair of thick-lensed, hornrimmedglasses.It was Broz who broke the easy silence, and his voice held agenuine note of regret. 'I must apologise for the inconvenienceyou've suffered, but I'm afraid it's a sign of the times.'The journalist waved away the apology with a smile. True, hehad spent the last hour being driven around the streets of Paris,blindfolded and uncomfortably bundled into the rear of the car,but this meeting more than made up for any temporary discomfort.He was quick to reassure Broz. 'No matter, comrade Broz. Iunderstand completely. One cannot take too many precautions.These days, no one's life is guaranteed – particularly those in highpositions, like yourself.'Broz motioned to the journalist to help himself to the homeand settled further back in his chair. He studied the other man intently.'For some time now, comrade Padev, I've been receivingrequests from various sources to grant you an interview; Frankly,though, I'm still not sure I should be doing this.'24

Padev leaned forward, replacing his glass on the coffee table,thus freeing both hands to lend emphasis to his words. 'Comrade,this is not just an interview for some newspaper article that willbe read once and then promptly forgotten. I intend writing the biographyof one of today's leading Communists, the head of theInternational Brigade for the Balkan states, Josip Broz – you!'The other's forcible statements surprised Broz. He had, infact, believed that the interview was being conducted for the localCommunist newspaper. To be told that the journalist wanted towrite a book about his life was something of a surprise, albeit aflattering one. 'But why me?'Padev relaxed in his chair but lost none of his intense manner.'Because, comrade Broz, in the world today there are veryfew people you can point to and say, "He is going places, he willsome day became a man among men." One day, you'll truly standhead and shoulders above those around you and, when that daycomes, I, Padev, want to be able to say, "Look, I told you so. Iwrote about the man in 1936 and predicted he would becomegreat.'"Padev ceased speaking, trying to fathom the workings of themind hidden behind the thick glasses. Padev truly believed everythinghe had just said, but he knew that if Broz declined therewould be no second chance. It would be a bitter blow to him to berefused.After what seemed a long time, though in fact it was less thana minute, Broz finally smiled. 'All right, comrade Padev,' he said,'I'll give you your interview. But don't blame me if my life provesso boring and dun that no one win want to read it.'Padev picked up his glass, returning Broz's smile. 'You cansafely leave that part of it to me.' He raised his glass in a toast.'Here's to a happy and long association.'Broz returned the salute and both men drank deeply. Whenthe glasses had been drained and refilled, Padev took a notebookand pen from an inside pocket.'Where do we start?' Broz asked.'At the very beginning,' was the reply. 'We'll start with yourchildhood and family, then work our way chronologically up to25

the present day. Just to start us off, when and where were youborn?'Broz was silent for a moment, mentally composing himself. 'Iwas born,' he said eventually, 'in the early nineties in a villagecalled Klanjec, some forty-five kilometres from Zagreb in theprovince of Zagorje.''Please go on. Just tell me about your family and early life. IfI need to clarify something, I'll interrupt.'After further hesitation, Broz started, the words coming morefluently as he began to reminisce. His story, as it unfolded, wassimilar to that of thousands of others brought up in the area, aplace of small, heavily farmed properties, the people usually poorbut not actually starving. Families were often large, with sometimesas many as ten to fourteen children, though in Broz's familythere were only nine.The Catholic Church was an all-pervading presence. Theprovince was still part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, but thenative population received very little consideration. Broz's fatherhad been the village blacksmith, and the boy, Josip, like most ofhis peers, had left school when he was only twelve, after which heserved an apprenticeship with his father. Padev noticed a slighthesitation in Broz's voice every time he mentioned his father, butdecided not to pursue the matter. He feared that interruptionsmight antagonise Broz and cause him to terminate the interview;As Broz relaxed, the details flowed more freely. At Padev'srequest, he went back to the period before he left school and recountedsome episodes and escapades in his early childhood. Itwas when he again reached in his mind the age of twelve that reluctancebegan to reappear in his narration.Finally, Padev ventured to ask the question, 'You didn't likeyour father, did you?' His timing was good.Broz was vehement in his reply. 'No, I didn't. When I startedworking for him it was for at least fourteen hours a day, cleaningthe workshop and tools and making deliveries. It was only aftertwo years that he started paying me even a pittance.' As Brozcontinued, his anger lessened, but bitterness remained in hisvoice.26

It appeared that young Broz had had a miserable life workingin the blacksmith's shop. As he grew and proved himself to be anable apprentice, his father began leaving him alone for longer andlonger periods to do the work, whilst he spent more and moretime in the tavern. Since he was fifteen, Broz had, in fact, begunto work alone most of the time. At that age, Broz finally thoughtabout leaving the village.'I can understand why you wished to do so,' Padev interrupted,'but was there a specific incident that made up your mind?''You 're very perceptive,' Broz smiled. 'Yes, there was oneincident which you could say made a lasting impression on mylife.'A businessman, he explained, came to the forge one daywhile Broz was, as usual, alone. He offered the boy a substantialsum if he could fix a broken carriage wheel and replace it withinan hour. Normally, the fitting of the wheel was the work of twomen, one operating a fulcrum to lift the wagon while the otherslid the wheel on, but the young Broz would not think of gettinghis father from the tavern to help. Instead, after repairing the rim,he asked several passers-by if they would lift the back of the carriagewhile he replaced the wheel. They readily agreed, and allwent well until Broz started to rotate the wheel, allowing thegrease to spread around the hub. He had almost finished, whenone of his helpers slipped, letting the carriage crash down ontoBroz's left hand. By the time he got to the nearest hospital, thehand was so swollen and mangled that the doctor immediatelyrecommended amputation at the wrist. A frightened but defiantBroz refused the operation. Several days later, his defianceproved justified when it was discovered that only a portion of hislittle finger had to be removed.Broz paused in his story and held up his left hand for Padevto see. The finger had indeed been amputated for a third of itslength.'Do you find it much of a handicap?' asked Padev.'Oh, no, I never think about it now. In fact, there was a timein prison when I was thankful... but I suppose you still want me tostick to chronological order,''If you wouldn't mind.'27

Broz nodded and continued his story. When he was releasedfrom the hospital, he firmly resolved to leave the village at thefirst opportunity, What little money he received from his fatherwent towards his board and clothing, but sometimes when heworked alone a grateful customer would give him something extrafor a job well done. For the next year, he saved all his smalltips, keeping them in an old chocolate box hidden under his bed.In addition, he hired himself out in his space time as a guide topeople coming to the area looking for fishing spots, or sometimeseven to couples looking for a private area where they could getaway from jealous wives or husbands. Not only would Broz arrangeaccommodation for them, but he would also run small errandsor bring in provisions, all the while putting in a full day atthe blacksmith shop.To Padev, it all added up to a picture of a young man discontentwith life, working non-stop to effect an escape from histyrannical father and his miserable environment. Being under age,he could not confide in anyone his plan to run away.Finally, Broz could wait no longer; he decided that what littlemoney he had would have to do. Early one morning, the sixteenyear-oldleft the sleeping house and made his way to Zagreb. Asmany of the provincial people used the Zagreb markets, Broz decidedthat southern Zagreb would provide a refuge where hischances of discovery would be reduced. After tramping the streetsfor several hours, the weary boy found an out-of-the-way tavernwhose owner was looking for someone to help serve and performall the heavy duties around the hostelry. In return, he offered fullboard and lodging plus a small wage. Broz quickly accepted,starting work immediately,The job did not last long. The landlord had a daughter who,as Broz put it, though not beautiful, was willing. It wasn't long beforeher father caught them in the barn, and within minutes Brozwas back on the street with his belongings and a sore head,For the next few days, he searched for work and lodgings,each evening returning to the main railway station, where he slepton benches. He eventually found someone willing to hire him as aconstruction labourer. The good news was that he could sleep onthe site; the bad news was that he would not be paid until the job28

was finished. In his plight, any job looked good to the young runaway;he accepted, and moved into the half-completed building,sharing a room with several labourers. They worked from six untilsundown, with only a half hour break for lunch. What littlemoney they had was pooled to buy food, and rosters were drawnup for cooking and cleaning chores.Padev could tell from Broz's tone that he remembered thosedays with some sort of affection, even though the work must havebeen hard and dangerous.During those months, Broz met and became friends with hisoriginal political mentor, an old man named Marko. They met oneSunday on the beach of the Sava river and Broz spoke of himwith admiration.'He was an old man, much older than my father, but his mindwas alert, agile. We met several times when I was still working inthe building, and soon he was lending me books to read in theevening after work.' Broz paused, thoughtfully sipping his drink.'Such books! Marx and Engels, mainly. Much I could not understand,but Marko helped, putting their political theories into thecontext of our everyday working life.'Then the construction job had come to an end. Broz was paidoff. He went straight to the old man who, through a contact in therailway yards, managed to get the youth a job as a mechanic withAustro-Hungarian Railways, mainly on the Orient Express. Alsothrough Marko, Broz became a member of the Communist Party,which was then gaining strength in the railway complex becausemen were working fourteen hours for very little money. ThoughBroz was the youngest member, he became one of the more vocalones, urged on by Marko and by what he was reading, the oldman continued to lend him. In time, he had begun to addressgroups of his workmates, learning at that early stage the techniquesof haranguing and crowd control. Then came World War I,and Broz was conscripted into the Austrian army.'But weren't you too young?' Padev interrupted. 'You'd havebeen only about eighteen.'Broz laughed. 'At that stage, I'd lied about my age for so longand so often that nobody, including me, knew exactly how old Iwas.'29

Padev returned the laugh, realising how comfortable he feltwith the man in front of him.'But seriously,' Broz continued, 'the party hierarchy hadasked that we all participate in the war to the best of our ability.They wanted people to be trained in the art of warfare, to gain allthe military knowledge we could so that, when the inevitable conflictbetween us and the establishment arose, we would prevail.Anyway, as a big country lad, I had no difficulty in passing forsomeone years older.'After some very rudimentary preliminary training, the youngBroz had been sent to Russia to fight against the army of TsarNicholas. In March 1915, he was wounded on the Carpathianfront and captured by the Tsarist forces. Sent to a concentrationcamp after recovering from his wounds, he began to organise theCommunist brethren in the camp into disciplined cells. It had nottaken Broz long to learn Russian or to realise that most of theguards in the camp were secret Communist supporters. The officershad kept the guards as poorly fed and ill equipped as theirprisoners, trusting them less and less as rumours grew of rebellionwithin the Russian army. The conflict between the two groupshad come to ahead in early 1917, when the commanding officerinstructed the guards to break up the Communist cells. But the officerwas shot by a guard during heated argument. During theconfusion that followed, the strong Communist Party group inPetersburg managed to extricate all of the camp Communists and,as a safety measure, inducted most of them into Russia's RedArmy.So it had come to pass that the young blacksmith lad from aremote village in Yugoslavia became a member of the RussianRed Army, and he cemented his new role in life by promptly marryinga Russian girl, Polka.Padev realised that Broz had stopped talking for several momentsand looked up from his notes. 'What's wrong?' he asked.'I was just thinking of Polka.''Is she all right?'Broz shrugged. 'I think so. It's just that our divorce becamefinal recently.' 'I'm sorry,' Padev said, meaning it.30

'No matter. Our love died a long time ago.' Broz stared intothe past, remembering that, after Polka had returned to her nativeland in 1929, she had made other associations within the new Sovietruling class. Being extremely beautiful, she changed her lifestyle.He sighed and continued with his story, pausing occasionallyto sip his slivovitz or refill their glasses.Padev was too busy writing to drink.'I wanted to stay in Russia for ever. I was studying. I likedthe Russian people. Our life was good.'Stories of the deteriorating conditions in Yugoslavia keptcoming back to haunt the Croatian. Finally, in 1920, he 'soughtpermission from party leaders to travel to his homeland to organisethe Communist Party there. Permission was granted and,leaving his young wife behind, he returned to Zagreb. Using it asa base, he spent the next four years travelling the country, givingspeeches and lectures, trying to bring the many factions of theCommunist Party together into one cohesive unit. His job wasmade harder by the internal conflicts within Yugoslavia betweenCroats and Serbs. The Croats had finally accepted the SerbianKing Alexander – at least, the ruling minority had – but this hadhad the effect of creating more animosity between the peasants ineach state so that, though they believed in the same Communistideals, they were reluctant to work with each other.Occasionally, Broz managed to return to Russia to spend afew precious days or, if he was lucky, a week with his wife andson. 'It was during my return to Moscow in 1924 that I met theCroatian Peasant Party's leader, Stjepan Radic. He was there forthe Fifth Congress of the Comintern, and I think he was trying tofind support for Croatian autonomist claims.'Broz seemed reluctant to continue his life story at this stage,so Padev let him digress.'Radic was a popular leader, dedicated and able to convinceothers with his vision of freedom. The Croatian Peasant Party...'He looked across at the journalist. 'You remember the HSS?'Padev nodded.'Well, they were right behind him in his program of egualityand social justice based on democratic principles. The people,however, being born rebels, preferred to settle their grievances by31

force. When Radic was assassinated in 1928, it was effectivelythe end of any hope for an autonomous Croatia.'Padev thought back to the Radic assassination in the chambersof the Belgrade parliament. A fusillade of shots had left twodead and three wounded, one of them Radic. He died on 8thAugust 1928. Although the assassination conspiracy had been organisedby military and political circles closely connected withKing Alexander, the Croatian population attributed the bloodydeed to Alexander himself. A Radical deputy, Punica Racic, whohad fired the shots, was arrested a year later. He was tried andconvicted. Sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment, he escapedjail through royal intervention.On 6th January 1929, King Alexander proclaimed himself,by royal decree, absolute ruler, thus promptly disposing of anypretence of democratic government. The name of the country wasofficially changed to Yugoslavia, the land of south Slavs. Alexanderruled ruthlessly as a dictator. An ultra-secret pan-Serb cliguecalled the Black Hand had grown up around him. To becomea member, an aspirant had to kill ten people, the victims chosen atrandom or sometimes even selected from the future member'sown family. It had been a time of strife, killings and potential uprising.Padev dragged his mind back to the present. Broz explainedhow between 1924 and 1928 he continued his forays into Yugoslavia,trying to get across to the people that Communism meantlooking beyond national boundaries. He even joined with the HSSin an attempt to reach an amicable peace settlement with theSerbs. However, during that time the demonstrations against theking became more and more violent, and all Croatians becamesuspect. Broz insisted that, contrary to popular belief, the unrestwas in reality instigated by the extreme right-wing Croatian leaders,who were against peaceful negotiations with the Serbs, believingthem to be arch-enemies.As a result of this continued unrest, the royal Yugoslav policebegan to use more violence to break up demonstrations, misusingtheir power of arrest and detention. They also used thedemonstrations as an excuse to arrest anyone they considered tobe Communist subversives, throwing many hundreds into prison.32

In 1929, Broz was arrested. After a hastily convened farce ofa trial, he was sentenced to five years in jail. He spent two yearsin Lepoglava prison, which was run by Vlada Milic, well knownfor his hatred of political prisoners of any persuasion. Milic hadoften been quoted as saying that locking up political prisonerswas the government's biggest mistake; he argued that all suchprisoners should be hanged along the main highways as an exampleto the peasants. Not being allowed to do so, he did the nextbest thing and tortured many of his guests to death.The prison consisted of two buildings. One, an eighteenthcenturymonastery, housed the governor, prison staff and guards.The other, a newer building built after World War I but ten yearsold, was draughty and ill repaired. It housed five times as manyprisoners as it was intended to. A large wall surrounded bothbuildings.Broz's initiation into the hellhole of Lepoglava was a typicalexample of the guards' brutality under their cruel governor. Alongwith forty-five other prisoners, he was received by Milic himselfas soon as they arrived.As they assembled in the courtyard, a guard motioned Brozforward, calling him by name, and said to the governor, 'This isone, sir.'Milic stared at Broz for a moment, then smiled and turned tothe guards. His words were simple but said with such gloatingthat Broz immediately feared for his life. 'You know what to do.'The guards quickly hustled Broz away to a small, bare cellwithin the building, where he was ordered to strip and stand in themiddle of the room. Broz spent the next few hours standing, aloneand naked, fearful for his life, while his guards were changedevery hour. Eventually, he was overcome by physical and nervousexhaustion and began to fall asleep on his feet. This seemed to actas a signal to the guards, for in the next moment they were uponhim, pummelling him into the ground, then hoisting him back tohis feet. The most frightening aspect for the young Broz was thatthroughout the beating not a word was spoken by any of theguards. They stood silently in the corners, staring at him fixedly,just waiting for him to make any movement so they could beathim again.33

After forty-eight hours of this treatment, when they foundthat the beating could no longer force him to stand, the guardspoured buckets of icy water over him to bring him back to consciousness.The memory of the pain was still reflected on Broz'sface as he spoke to Padev; the journalist could see that it took aneffort for him to continue.It was on the third day that he had weakly tried to resist. Asone of the guards dragged him to his feet after another dousingwith water, Broz aimed an ineffectual punch. Surprisingly, itlanded on the guard's chin. Even with no real force behind it, itwas so unexpected that the guard fell, and Broz clumsily jammedthe now empty bucket over the fallen man's head. The next thingthat Broz remembered was coming to in a solitary confinementcell; the fallen guard's companion had beaten him into mercifulunconsciousness. There was a suit of rough prison clothing lyingon the floor beside him and after donning it Broz spent the followingweek alone, delirious at times, as his injuries healed.After he was released from solitary confinement, he foundmost of the other politicals had been given the same treatment.Some died during the process. Once again, Broz dedicated himselfto organising the political prisoners into activist cells.'It wasn't easy,' Broz recalled. 'They all wanted to pursuetheir outside grievances within the prison cells.''What was the population of the prison at that time?' Padevasked.'About two thousand prisoners in all...around eight hundredof them political,' Broz replied as he continued with his story.Conditions in the prison were atrocious. Fights occurredregularly over scraps of food the prisoners were expected to liveon. Broz and his fellow leaders decided that the only viablecourse of protest open to them was a hunger strike. Any other sortof rebellion would be ruthlessly crushed. At first, he found it difficultto get others to cooperate – particularly the non-politicalprisoners and those political prisoners who were not members ofthe Communist Party. Finally, by getting each of his dedicatedCommunists to work on at least two non-committed prisoners, hemanaged to obtain majority agreement to the hunger strike, a34

strike which they hoped would lead to the dismissal of the governor.'We could, of course,' said Broz, 'have arranged to have himassassinated.' He spoke of the killing of another human being incold, unemotional terms. 'Many of us had outside links throughwhich we could bribe or intimidate some of the guards, but notenough to make a big difference in our situation.'Broz had been against assassination. His reasoning was thatthe system produced men of Milic's ilk, therefore the system hadto be changed. Removing the governor by assassination wouldonly have led to his replacement by another who would no doubtbe even more repressive. After a month of organising, the timewas ripe; for four days the prisoners refused any food. The governor,in retribution, segregated the ten men he suspected as ringleadersand took them away for treatment. Broz was the first to bepicked.Their treatment consisted of prolonged torture. First, theguards pushed long slivers of pointed wood under the prisoners'fingemails, shoving them gradually deeper and deeper. Brozgrimaced at the memory, then smiled grimly, raising his mutilatedleft hand. 'That was the first time in my life I was glad I only hadnine fingers.'After several days of this repeated torture, two of the ten suspectshad committed suicide, according to official reports, but therest continued the hunger strike. The governor changed his methodsand ordered sandbag treatment for the remaining eight. Thisinvolved continuous pummelling with long, oval sandbags untilthe prisoner was unconscious. He would then be revived and thebeatings continued. Two more men committed suicide after receivingheavy blows to the chest. By the seventh day, one prisonera day had died – always, of course, after committing suicide.On the eleventh day, only three were left. By now, the majority ofprisoners wanted to give up the strike, but Broz managed to get amessage to them, asking them to continue, otherwise all thedeaths would have been in vain.It was only later that he realised how close a thing it hadbeen. Prisoners had been using every connection they had to stir35

the politicians in Belgrade and to have every detail of the strikereported in the press.Shortly after he passed the message for the strike to continue,two inspectors visited the prison and had the governor removedfrom office. Broz become something of a hero both inside andoutside the prison and, as a result of the strike, regulations governingpolitical prisoners were relaxed a little. Working hourswere shortened, with a corresponding increase in leisure time.Visitors were allowed once a month, and prisoners were permittedto both write and receive letters. Receipt of parcels of foodand clothing from home was also permitted. The torturing did notstop, but at least it was greatly reduced.Broz next began a lifelong association with another leadingCommunist, Mosa Pijade, a Serbian Jew, joining in lectures andencouraging debate among other prisoners. In collaboration, theytranslated Stalin's History of the Bolshevik Party and The RevolutionaryManual into Croatian and Serbian, Broz doing researchand the translation from Russian while Pijade polished his Croatian.'At first,' Broz explained, 'paper and light were a problem, butwe soon set up a smuggling operation to bring paper in that wenton until my last day in prison.'Because of the change in attitude towards the prisoners, candleswere supplied on demand.Broz's sight, bad since childhood, deteriorated. He spent oversix months in the prison hospital ward. Despite this setback, heand Pijade managed to finish the translation. Then, because of theovercrowding at Lepoglava, Broz, with only two years to serve,was transferred to the less gruelling Maribor prison. On arrival,he discovered that he was a celebrity; many prisoners joined theCommunist Party to support him. Each night, the various partycells would meet in secret and, before long, the party was firmlyentrenched in Maribor.Broz took off his thick-lensed glasses and passed them toPadev. 'It was during that time that a fellow inmate made these.'The journalist was astonished at the detail that had gone intomaking the frames, and how light they were; deceptively so, be-36

cause of the thickness of the lenses. 'They're an incredible pieceof craftsmanship.''Yes,' Broz replied, replacing them. 'Any optician would beproud of them. And remember, they were made with primitivetools.'His poor eyesight changed Broz's life. One day he was calledto the governor's office to meet a visiting eye specialist fromZagreb University; the specialist was looking for people withspecific eye diseases so he could conduct a special research program.Broz was surprised to find the specialist was his excommandingofficer in the Austro-Hungarian army. At first,Doctor Otto von Tauber did not recognise him, but soon theywere once again comrades-in-arms exchanging war memories.Prison authorities granted Tauber permission to take Broz andseveral other prisoners, under guard, to Ljubljana hospital, wherethey were given a private ward and the best of treatment. InBroz's case, no treatment was available. His eyesight had deterioratedso far that, without glasses, he was almost totally blind.Tauber, however, pretended that Broz was needed in his research,and thus Broz spent several months of his sentence in relativeease and comfort.Mosa Pijade also enjoyed good fortune; the government decidedthat the sentence of some of the politicals should be cut, inparticular prisoners of advanced age.'That was a particularly humane thing for them to do,' commentedPadev; Broz laughed. 'Not really. The bastards wereafraid that if one of the old men died it could provoke morestrikes and unrest, so they decided to get them out of prison.Anyway, they were so well watched on the outside that it madelittle difference.'Pijade's release stirred a similar desire for freedom in Broz,and he began to investigate various means of escape. Eventually,he decided on a plan. In preparation, he affected and developed arelationship with one of the nurses, whom he identified to Padevonly as Maria. After converting her to Communism, the rest wasrelatively easy, and in 1933 they both escaped from the hospital.Although Broz had not mentioned it, Padev guessed thatTauber must have helped in the escape bid. Broz left a note stat-37

ing that his only reason for escaping was his love for Maria. Heexpressed regrets for any trouble his escape may have causedTauber, effectively diverting all suspicion from the specialist.Broz and Maria spent the next months in hiding, in and aroundZagreb, protected by a small circle of Communist friends. Theuse of informers within the police system enabled them to stayjust one step ahead of the police and their network of spies.Broz used well the lessons he had learned in prison; he reorganisedthe party cells so that, if the police should take one of itsmembers, or should the cell be infiltrated, the only party membersendangered would be those within a small single unit. Any informeror turncoat would be able to name a maximum of only twomembers. At first, the party general secretary, Nikola Gorkic,objected to these practices but, at Broz's insistence, and with Pijade'shelp, Gorkic eventually yielded. In time, he came to appreciatethe added security given by the new system.During 1934, as police repression grew, and persecution underKing Alexander became more savage, this security proved itsworth. Also, as the Croatian resistance grew, the party became thetarget of other political groups, such as clericals and extremists.Broz and the other leaders, in turn, became more ruthless withtheir own members. All new members had to serve a probationaryperiod during which they were closely observed They were normallyallowed one minor mistake but, if any suspicion fell on amember, he was ruthlessly dealt with. Broz began to move morewidely throughout Yugoslavia as his network of informants andcollaborators grew.When King Alexander was assassinated in Marseilles on 9thOctober 1934, some believed the reign of terror had come to theend. His successor, Prince Paul, regent of the king's young sonPeter, soon proved himself to be an even worse tyrant. The princehad been very rich and influential in Tsarist Russia, but during theBolshevik Revolution he had lost everything, and he had come tohate anything to do with Red Russia and its followers. Once incontrol, he instigated an even tighter crackdown on the CommunistParty, and once again Broz was in fear for his life. The RussianComintern, seeing the situation, decided it was time the38

Croatian was taken out of the immediate firing line, so they orderedhim back to Russia to work in the Balkans secretariat.'What about Maria?' Padev asked.Broz shrugged non-committally. His reply was brief and heseemed unwilling to elaborate. 'I'm afraid our affair did not lastlong.''And your wife in Russia?'Once again Broz was reticent. 'As I said before, she had anew life. I did not interfere.'Broz was a dedicated worker for the secretariat and becameso prominent that in 1936 he was offered the position of recruiterand organiser for the Balkan states at the International Brigade'sheadquarters. He paused and glanced quickly at Padev. 'This isnot for publication, you understand.'Padev nodded, noting the intensity of Broz's concern, andBroz continued, 'Well, I was picked not only because of my ability,but also because I was not Russian, but Croatian. The Russiansat this stage cannot openly support the working-class strugglein Spain. They can only provide secret backing in the form offinance and armaments.'Padev sensed that the interview was coming to an end, butdecided to prolong it as long he could. 'So, comrade Broz, justhow do you see yourself principally? As a Communist, a Croatian,a Yugoslav... or what?'Broz thought for a several minutes, sipping the last of thebottle. 'First and foremost, I'm a Communist. As a Communist, Irecognise no international or national boundaries. To me, there isno such thing as a Croatian or Serb, or even a Frenchman. Thereare only brotherhoods of men, scattered throughout Europe andabroad. For identification purposes only, I admit to being a CroatianCommunist, but that is the extent of my nationalistic feelings.'Padev noticed Broz glancing at his watch. After checking hisown, he realised with a start that the conversation had been goingon for over four hours. 'One last question, please, comrade?'Broz nodded.'What do you foresee for the Communist movement?'39

Once again, the Croatian considered the question. 'The worldis not quite ready for us. But it will be soon. Already, people inthe West are beginning to question the motives of their electedgovernments. The rich are growing tired of accumulating moreand more wealth just for sake of it. Now they are trying to manipulatepolitical power. When the people decide, as they will doin time, that their leaders no longer care about them, but are moreconcerned with their own status, then the time will be ripe. Ithappened in Russia. It is happening now throughout Europe –greedy people usurping power that does not belong to them andcrushing the people in the process. Communism will win.'Padev remained silent while he absorbed Broz's intensity offeeling. He was convinced that the man before him was totallydedicated, totally sure that Communism was the only viablemethod of government, and he could feel the others personality,strong, vibrant, in the room. Reluctantly, he closed his notebook,now almost completely full, and rose to his feet. Broz rose withhim.'I wish to thank you, comrade Broz, for your time and effort.'Broz took the other's hand. 'No, it is I who thank you. It'smany years since I've been able to talk as freely and at suchlength.'Both men smiled.'Now I must call for my men, who will escort you back toyour pick-up point.' Broz went to a buzzer set in the wall near theentrance door.In seconds, the two bodyguards were back in the flat, andPadev was again blindfolded. He realised the men must have beenwaiting outside the door all the time the conversation was goingon. He paused in the doorway, his head turned blindly towards theCroatian leader. 'Before I go, comrade Broz: if I need to clarifysome points, may I contact you again?''By all means, comrade Padev; Now that you know our channelof contact, I assure you your next request for an appointmentwon't take six months to process.'Both men laughed, and Padev was led away. Broz waited fora moment, then crossed to the shuttered window, opened it andlooked outside. In the wash of light from the car's headlamps, he40

watched white Padev was quickly bundled into the back seat ofthe black limousine. The car moved off sedately into the darkness.Within half an hour, allowing time to shake off any shadow,Padev would be back at his pick-up point while Broz, escorted bytwo members of the Brigade, would be clear of the AvenueL'Grande Serbie and on his way to yet another safe house.41

422PARIS 1937The afternoon of 7th April was cold. Comfortably seated insidehis warm and spacious office, the Russian ambassador, VladimirPotemkin, occasionally glanced out of his window at thesmall park opposite. Most of the trees were still in their dormantstate - confirming Potemkin's view that winter was far from over.The French capital, shrouded in grey depression for almost aweek, promised nothing but more cold weather and icy cold rain.There was no doubt that the miserable environment was affectingPotemkin. Puzzled, he searched through the papers heaped on hisdesk. Where was the damned thing? He was sure he had it earlier...he remembered it had a pink cover...Suddenly, his attention was drawn to pile of documents in hisout tray: a pink file protruded from near the bottom of the heap.Sliding it out slowly, he flicked it open. The entire dossier dealtwith proposed reception procedures and catering arrangements forMarshal Nikolayevich Tukachevsky's delegation. Their stay in theFrench capital was to be a short one, but had already been hailedas a great success by Vital Gayman in an editorial in L 'Humanité,the chief newspaper of the French Communist Party.Born in 1893, Tukhachevsky began his military career inTsarist Russia. His excellent performance at a cadet academy securedhim a commission in the guards regiment as a lieutenant. Atthe outbreak of World War I, he had gone to the front. Captured,he escaped from Germany and returned to Russia. He was disturbedby the state of civil unrest but, like most young people atthat time, he was woo over by Communist propaganda andswitched sides, joining the Bolshevik party in 1918 at the age oftwenty-five. Despite their age difference – Potemkin was thirtythreeat that time – they took an instant liking to each other andhad remained good friends ever since.They shared similar political views, views which in thosedays of Russian depression would have been dangerous to disclose– even to one's own father. In April1920, Tukhachevsky

was made commander-in-chief of the Bolshevik forces on thePolish front and, in the same year, was appointed to the generalstaff: In July, he led his first attack on Warsaw. The attack, orderedby Lenin, ended in fiasco. During this period, the first riftappeared between Stalin and Tukhachevsky. At that time, Stalinwas a member of the influential Revolutionary War Council and,as such, disapproved of Lenin's plan. The irony of the situationwas that Stalin had been responsible for the fiasco every bit asmuch as Lenin. Although Stalin was against the plan, he instigateda premature attack on Lvov, which caused Tukhachevsky'sdefeat.It was obvious to Stalin that Tukhachevsky's knowledge ofthis blunder would be a threat to his record. After the defeat,military circles took Tukhachevsky's side, and he was given theopportunity to modernise the Red Army. Dedicated and talented,Tukhachevsky proved his ability. His efforts and achievementsimpressed his superiors so much that in June 1935, despite Stalin'sobjections, he was appointed deputy people's commissar forthe defence of the USSR. In November of the same year, while hewas still only forty-two, Tukhachevsky was promoted to the rankof marshal of the Soviet Union.Potemkin had been impressed, but he knew that Stalin wasdetermined to remove Tukhachevsky, one way or another.Glancing quickly through the routine catering arrangements andthe list of invited guests, Potemkin turned to the final section ofthe file. Prepared by the second secretary of the embassy, ColonelIvan Ivanovich, it outlined a new set of security precautions. Potemkinknew that these new stricter proposals had upset his staff;hell knew, the existing ones were bad enough, but there wasn'tmuch Potemkin could do about it.The colonel, with his endless stories about his military experiences,might have fooled most of the embassy staff into believingthat his rank was a Red Army appointment, but Potemkinknew better. Colonel Ivan Ivanovich was a highly respectedmember of the NKVD.Potemkin glanced through the guest list awaiting his approval,hoping to see somebody entertaining for a change. No,just the same old tired faces. He reached for his pen, then paused;43

had someone added a name to the list? The add thing was that itwas in a different typeface from the others on the file.The ambassador pressed a button on his intercom. 'Natasha,contact Colonel Ivanovich immediately. Ask him if it would beconvenient to see me before he leaves the embassy. Let me knowhis answer, please.''Straightaway, comrade Potemkin.'Waiting for Natasha's reply, Potemkin raised his eyes toglance at the single photograph on his desk. He had taken the shothimself only a few hours before he left Moscow. He smiled todayat the two bright young faces that smiled at him against the backdropof Gorky Park. So confident, yet so vulnerable. He ran ahand through his thinning grey hair. Their youthful zest made himfeel every one of his fifty-two years. How his wife Lydia – hisown dear Lidushka – would have enjoyed seeing Anton receivehis master's degree at Moscow University; she'd always been soproud of their firstborn. Now little Olga, only nineteen, wasstudying forestry at the University of Leningrad.Rain splattered against the window and, despite the warmthin the room, he shivered. Alone. This time he was completelyalone – alone in an alien country. Though heaven knew, Paris –even in winter – was preferable to the grim greyness of spartanMoscow. His eyes misted over and, momentarily, he bowed hishead in grief:Lidushka... darling Lidushka. It was only a month since shehad died, and her lovely face haunted him stil1. He needed nophotograph of her; he only had to close his eyes and there shewas. Sighing, he rose to refill his glass and crossed to stare out ofthe rain-streaked window. Driven by the icy water, a newspaperskittered along the gutter of the empty street.The children, much as he loved them, were a worry. He usedhis position to convince the Ministry of the Interior that Olgashould be allowed to finalise her studies at the Sorbonne, so thathe could have her near him. What had been her reaction? She refused.She wanted to stay with her fiancé Sacha, she said. Madehim look like a fool with the ministry! The Ministry of the Interior:he smiled to himself – he heard the cynical Muscovite namefor it, the Ministry of Love, many times. Given time, he was sure44

he could have convinced Olga otherwise, but what with this new,difficult posting and Lydia's death... He sighed and returned to hisdesk. What the hell was keeping Ivanovich?Then there was Anton. Potemkin suspected that it was Anton,not Sacha, who was behind Olga's determination not to come toParis. She was devoted to her brother, and he to her – so much sothat he turned down an excellent job offer in Moscow for a muchless prestigious position as engineer at a factory producing agriculturalmachinery in Leningrad. All so that he could be closer toher. When Olga refused to come to Paris, Anton, too, tried tochange her mind; he spent most of that last day with her in GorkyPark pleading with her to go, to no avail. Olga had inherited astreak of her father's stubbornness.Potemkin took another sip of vodka. It would be nice, hemused, if he could have had at least one of his children with him.But Olga, for her own reasons whatever they really were – had refused.Anton, well, he knew there was no way the securityauthorities would allow them both to be outside the USSR at thesame time. He was, he reflected bitterly, an outsider in more waysthan one: not only an alien in this country, but also with his ownpeople here in the embassy. It was the old story: political expediencyversus career diplomacy. The political situation in Francebeing what it was, the embassy staff expected a political appointment,hence their hostility when he, a career diplomat, had beenassigned to the post. He was aware of their hostility, but it did notworry him; after all, not many knew of Russia's involvement, albeitunofficial, in the Spanish Civil War. It was that participationthat made the appointment of a career diplomat mandatory.Emptying his glass, he picked up the pink dossier once againand flicked it open. Ivanovich: every intuition told him here wasthe spearhead of the hostility. Here was the man who, in effect,controlled the embassy. To the rest of the staff, Colonel Ivanovichwas merely a second secretary, but Potemkin knew much moreabout him than that. Ivanovich had conspired with Nikolai Yezhovand Joseph Stalin to get rid of Yagoda, the former chief ofthe NKVD, so that Yezhov bimself could fill the post, a job henow carried out with ruthless efficiency.The desk intercom buzzed, interrupting his thoughts.45

He stabbed at the red button. 'Yes, Natasha.''Colonel Ivanovich should be with you in a few minutes,comrade ambassador. I finally managed to track him down. He'sbeen at a meeting all day, but it has just finished.''Meeting?' Potemkin frowned at the disembodied voice. 'But Iwasn't...' He checked himself. More of the colonel's highhandedness;no doubt something to do with Saturday's reception.'Comrade ambassador?''Never mind, Natasha... just thinking aloud. Look, could youcome in earlier tomorrow? I'll have some important documentsready for typing.''Certainly, comrade.''Dosvidanya, Natasha. See you in the morning.''Dosvidanya, comrade ambassador.'Potemkin snapped the intercom and glanced at his watch.The wily colonel should arrive any moment. While he waited, theambassador flicked through his mental filing system. It had been1919 – no, 1918 – only about a year after the October Revolutionthat the young Lieutenant Ivanovich had joined the Commissariatof Foreign Affairs. And it wasn't long before he was picked up byFelix Dzerzinsky, the chief of Cheka, as the NKVD was thencalled.Under Dzerzinsky, young Ivanovich had learned quickly:plot and counter plot. There was nothing against him on the record,nothing concrete, but one heard things. Take the meteoricrise of Joseph Stalin to the command of the Russian CommunistParty, for instance. To accomplish that, he had had to dispose ofLenin – and he had to do it discreetly; he could not risk the assassinationof such a godlike figure. The Cheka's laboratories haddone their work well; park tapeworm, taenia solium, had been introducedinto Lenin's food so he gradually became incapacitateduntil, finally, his brain ceased functioning. Not a dramatic end,but just as effective as an assassin's bullet.It was hardly coincidence that the dashing Lieutenant Ivanovichhad been, at that time, assistant to the chief of Cheka's laboratory.Nor was it mere coincidence that Ivanovich, at thirty-two,had been suddenly promoted to the rank of major. Potemkin knewthat he would have to treat Ivanovich gently – the colonel still46

maintained a close relationship with Yezhov, the new NKVDchief – but he was determined to find out more about this mysteriousaddition to Saturday's guest listThe buzzer hummed. Potemkin stabbed at the control buttonwhich operated the door.It was Ivanovich. 'My apologies, comrade ambassador. Allthese meetings, committees, seminars...' – he smiled disarmingly– '... you know how it is.'Potemkin smiled thinly, veiling his distaste for this dangerousman. 'Of course, comrade...hazards of the profession. I won'tkeep you long...' He opened the dossier at the reception guest listand swivelled it on the desktop to face the colonel. 'This last nameon the list, Josip Broz. it was added after I approved the originaldraft, I assume by you. Perhaps you'd be good enough to tell mewho he is, and why I wasn't advised of his presence?'Ivanovich stared at him for a moment, his face expressionless,eyes calculating. Then the jaunty smile returned, and hecleared his throat. 'Why, certainly, comrade ambassador. The requestarrived early this morning...from Moscow...and, since I amgenerallyon duty here earlier then you are...' – he paused fractionallyto let the implication sink in – '...I naturally added the nameto the list myself. I couldn't brief you beforehand because of mymeeting this morning. As for comrade Broz, I believe you areaware that he is the chief organiser of the International Brigade inParis... at least on paper.'Potemkin pointedly ignored the sarcasm in the colonel'svoice. 'But isn't it rather late to arrange an extra invitation?''No, I've arranged everything, comrade ambassador. I shalldeliver the invitation by hand on my way home tonight. Will thatbe all, comrade?'Ivanovich started to rise, but Potemkin waved him back intohis chair.'No...not quite. The problem is not the invitation itself but theflouting of regulations in issuing it.' Potemkin detected a flash ofuneasiness in the colonel's face, which he quickly disguised.'I'm sorry, but I don't quite understand. Which regulation isthat?'47

'Correct me if I'm wrong, my dear colonel... but any NKVDbriefings I have had discourage direct contact with our agents onforeign soil. Is that not so?'Ivanovich did not reply immediately, pretending instead toconsult the dossier. When he raised his eyes again to meet Potemkin's,the old confidence had returned. 'Correct, comrade ambassador.'He laughed lightly. 'I've been briefed with similar instructionson many, many occasions. ' He cocked an eyebrow atthe ambassador. 'However, this is rather a different situation.Comrade Broz is not an agent. He's the official organiser of theInternational Brigade, appointed by the supreme body of theComintern. Not only that, comrade. To simplify his involvementwith the Brigade, he's invited here as the second secretary of theYugoslav Communist Party.'It took all the control the ambassador could muster to keephis face empty of dismay. 'What the hell is going on here?' he responded.'I must confess that this is news to me, comrade colonel.I had always believed that such things were arranged by GeneralKrivitsky – a very capable officer.'Ivanovich almost smirked. It was obvious the ambassadorhad not been fully briefed on some of the political intricacies ofthe situation.'Ah, true, comrade ambassador. Very true. A most distinguishedofficer. But at this stage of our negotiations, I'm afraid wecannot acknowledge our involvement in this Spanish Civil War –not officially or publicly. The Comintern has decided this policyis necessary to avoid having a clash with other Communist partiesin Europe, you understand. Surely you can see that we must consolidateour power base fi...'Potemkin interrupted, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in hisvoice. 'Oh, I see! What an admirable arrangement. How very,very convenient. Let me see if I've got it right, comrade. Am I toassume that, if for some unpredictable reason the project falls toproduce the formidable results expected of it, we will.. .ah, howshould I put it?... slide responsibility onto somebody else's shoulders?Hmm? Is that the idea?'Ivanovich scowled and moved restlessly in his chair. 'Well...er...I don't think I would have phrased it in quite those words,48

comrade ambassador. Our primary concern, just now, is to avoidpublicity.'Potemkin decided to press on, taking advantage of the colonel'sobvious discomfiture. ‘All right, all right, I can see that thisBroz is of some importance, but answer me something else. Whyhave you found it necessary to tighten even further the alreadystringent security arrangements here at the embassy? A number ofthe staff have complained already, and I think you're putting unnecessaryrestrictions on their activities within the compound.'The colonel's face reddened, and Potemkin did not miss thewhitening of his knuckles as he clutched the arms on the chair.When he replied, his voice gritted through his teeth. 'I realise,comrade ambassador, that I'm not popular around here, but thatdoesn't worry me. I have no time for such sentimental claptrap!I'm here to get a job done, not to win any popularity contests! I'vebeen entrusted with the security of the embassy and I'm going todo the job to the best of my ability. My prime responsibility atpresent is to ensure the safety of the visiting delegation.'Stroking his neat goatee beard, Potemkin looked speculativelyat the fuming colonel. Odd, he thought; Ivanovich had noteven mentioned the most important person in the delegation – itsleader Marshal Tukhachevsky. He smiled patronisingly. 'Yes, yes,of course it is, comrade Ivanovich, but I mean...is it really necessaryto put the entire staff through a security drill... every day?'Infuriated, the colonel jumped to his feet, all pretence at diplomacygone. 'Easy, comrade ambassador! Take care that youdon't trespass on my area of responsibility. Security is my job. Idon't interfere with anybody's else's duties and, by the same token,I won't permit anyone to interfere with mine!'Potemkin gazed calmly into me colonel's implacable eyes;when he spoke, his voice was soft. 'And are you suggesting, colonel,that I interfere with your job?''Yes, I am!'The ambassador remained unmoved, watching the irate colonel,whom he had obviously rattled. Perhaps now was the time topush him a little further – to gain more information on the originof these security proposals. Potemkin pursed his lips, then smiled.49

'Very well, colonel. In that case I won't ask you to justify eachpoint of your security proposals after all.'The colonel's face turned apoplectic. 'Justify! What do youmean... justify! You know damned well that, even if you did askme to, I could refuse! I take my orders from Moscow – not fromyou.'Potemkin gave him an arch look and laughed quietly. 'Oh,come now, comrade Ivanovich, enough of these euphemisms.Let's call a spade a spade, eh? When you say Moscow, what youreally mean is the NKVD. Don't you?'The colonel flicked a quick glance towards the door behindhim, replying, his voice lower but still harsh and full of menace, 'Ialways refer to Moscow, comrade ambassador, for the simple reasonthat you are the only person in the embassy who knows of myappointment with the NKVD.' He paused, then, leaning across thedesk, glared balefully into Potemkin's face. 'And I think it wouldbe advisable... very advisable, to keep it that way.'The implied threat was not lost on the ambassador but it wasobvious he would get nothing more out of the colonel, so he roseto his feet in a gesture of dismissal. 'In that case, I'll bid you goodnight, comrade, unless there's something else you wish to...''Yes, there is. I would like the use of this room during the reception– only for half an hour.''This room?' Potemkin could not keep surprise out of hisvoice. Unconsciously, his gaze flashed around the room, taking inthe rows of valuable, beautifully bound books, many of them giftsfrom friends. 'Presumably you have a special reason for your request?'The colonel replied non-committally, 'Yes, I have.'Potemkin considered refusal, but decided it would be pointless.Other ambassadors had used this room before him; only hekept it locked. He glanced towards the fireplace. It shared a chimneyflue with the embassy's main office and could be used as alistening post in summer. He wondered fleetingly if Ivanovichwere aware of this. The colonel was still staring at him, waiting.'Very well, permission granted, providing you advise me whenyou require it. I'll be carrying the key with me.'50

The colonel smirked openly now; Completely in control oncemore, he too inclined his head. 'But of course, comrade ambassador.''Goodnight, then, colonel.''Goodnight.'The ambassador watched the padded door click shut, thenpoured himself a vodka and settled down to attend to his correspondence.An hour passed before he finished. He stretched wearilyand glanced at his watch. Good, he thought, all the others willhave left by now; Locking the office, he made his way quietly tothe embassy's basement. He had been escorted around it on takingup his appointment and had inspected the records: personnel, bothinside and outside the embassy, Russian agents on French soil,and their contacts with Russian resident officers not necessarilyon the embassy staff.Producing his key ring, Potemkin selected an oddly sharedkey. Thank heaven the wily colonel didn't know everything, hethought – and let himself into the cavernous room.Negotiating his way between racks of files, Potemkin madestraight for a filling cabinet in one corner. The master key had itopen in seconds, and he flicked through the dossiers until hespotted one labelled BROZ. It was not a thick file, but Potemkinhoped to find something. Anything. Taking the folder to an emptytable, he flicked on a light and began to read.Broz, it appeared, had been born in Klanjec, a village nearZagreb, in 1896. He left school at an early age of twelve, and atsixteen he left Klanjec. Although be was under the legal age, hevolunteered for the Austro-Hungarian imperial army and waspromoted shortly after to the rank of sergeant. His commandingofficer, Tauber, took him to the Russian front, where he wascaptured by the Tsar's army. He was sent to a prisoner-of-warcamp from which he escaped at the outbreak of the revolution.Commissioned into the Red Army with the rank of lieutenant, hecame to the notice of General Yagoda, chief of the OGPU, whointroduced him to Stalin. Greatly impressed by the young Slav,Stalin took him under his wing.After the revolution, Broz married a Russian woman, Polka,and was allowed to make frequent forays into Yugoslavia. He51

made his last trip just before Stjepan Radic was fatally woundedin the Belgrade parliament on 20th June 1928. Outraged by thehigh-handed policies of Yugoslav's King Alexander, he joined thenewly reformed Communist Party, which was under the surveillanceof the Yugoslav royal police. Subsequently, he was arrestedand sentenced to six years' hard labour.Broz, who suffered from an eye disease, once again met hisformer CO, Doctor Otto von Tauber. Although Tauber was awarethat Broz's condition was irreversible, he sent him to hospital inLjubljana for treatment. Broz took the opportunity to escape.Tauber was able to prove that he was not involved in the escape.Potemkin paused, musing to himself. How convenient. Hesuspected the long arm of the OGPU and wondered if Tauber hadbeen used as a cover.In 1934, while travelling through France, King Alexanderwas assassinated. The local press branded it a terrorist act of theworst kind, while Yugoslav newspapers hinted that the killingwas the work of Croatian terrorist organisations and suggestedthat the whole thing had been planned by one man – Josip Broz.Although the allegations were never proved, they earned Broz areputation he was never to lose.The ambassador sat back in his chair, doubt on his face. ThisBroz was no ordinary man. Brave, shrewd, and with the ability tocommand – no wonder the Comintern and the NKVD consideredhim a valuable asset. He was also a dangerous man...and hewould be here at the reception on Saturday. Why, particularly atthis time? There was no way the NKVD would reverse their decision.Why had they delayed their request until the very last moment?It must be more than chance that the visit coincided withthe secret arrival of Leon Trotsky in the French capital and hiscovert meeting with Marshal Tukhachevsky on Friday afternoon.Should he warn them? Or was he jumping to conclusions, seeinghobgoblins where they did not exist?He glanced back at the dossier. Broz was educated at GorkyCollege. Odd! In those days, the college had been reserved exclusivelyfor Russian-born citizens. With his NKVD connections,Broz could also have a link with Nikolai Yezhov; Could it be thatGeneral Yezhov was aware of Potemkin's secret trips to Switzer-52

land to meet Trotsky? His trip log listed all the trips as being toVienna, and he had covered his tracks very carefully, but... therecould always be a slip-up somewhere.Slowly, Potemkin rose from the desk and returned the dossierto its cabinet, making sure to lock it. He then let himself out ofthe basement. Yes, he would have to keep a very wary eye on thisyoung Slav, otherwise he might very well upset the entire plan. Atthe same time, he would have to warn Marshal Tukhachevsky ofthe possibility of discovery. It would be ironic, indeed, if this onetimepeasant blacksmith turned out to be the means of wrecking aplot that would change the entire world of politics and of history– the return of Leon Trotsky to power in Russia.The additional duties and tighter security restrictions imposedby the second secretary, Ivanovich, were gradually exhaustingthe Russian embassy staff. Any sympathy they had hadfor him was quickly dissipating, and in careful whispers some ofthem had been heard to voice the opinion that perhaps Potemkinhad not been so bad after all. It was too late. Colonel Ivanovichwas here – to stay – so they'd have to make the best of it. Thegrumblings weren't restricted to the lower echelons either: even afew of the taller poppies felt that some of Ivanovich's securitymeasures were specifically designed to humiliate them in the eyesof their colleagues.Nevertheless, the tightening of security was understandable:the list of VIP visitors was an impressive one. From France therewas the prime minister, Pierre Laval; the minister for external affairs,Gabriel Pevi; and Vidal Gayman, the editor of L 'Humanité.Germany was represented by Walter Ulbricht, the general secretaryof the German Communist Party, and his assistant, FritzPfeifer. The British were sending George Orwell as their delegate.In addition, there would be Communist Party representatives fromnumerous other European states.Colonel Ivanovich was well aware of the risk of the smallorganisedgroups of White Russian emigrés; he had warningsfrom their intelligence networks in France, Germany, Spain andBelgium. The emigrés were thirsting for revenge after the collapseof Trust, the organisation which brought together all Russianemigrés under a single umbrella, regardless of political views53

or beliefs. It was very possible that they might mount an attackduring the reception.In 1934, when a senior member of the NKVD, ColonelNikolai Popov, defected to Switzerland, a similar organisationhad been found to be operating inside Russia. On the assumptionthat the internal organisation had similar goals and views to theirown, Trust established contact with them. The Russian-basedgroup, however, was exposed by Popov as being the sinistercreation of Joseph Stalin. Stalin, paranoid about outsiders whomight be a potential risk to his position, had set up the Russianorganisation so that he would have access to the plans and intentionsof the White Russians.This clever manoeuvre enabled him to eliminate his enemiesat home and abroad – on false evidence, of course. To the West,the liquidations went unremarked. There was no connection betweenme Russian secret service and the few bodies found fromtime to time; obviously this was just yet another internal powerstruggle. Naturally, when Popov exposed Stalin's infiltration plan,the scattered remnants of me leaderless White Russians closedranks and resumed their sporadic attacks. It was such an attackthat Ivanovich feared might take place in Paris.Consequently, on Saturday 10th April 1937, when Broz arrivedat the Russian embassy accompanied by Major PeterDenisovich, he was not surprised to see a number of plain-clothedRussian secret service agents at the main gates. The normal giveawaybulge of concealed weapons was not apparent under theirbulky fur coats. Broz and the major produced their invitations asrequested and were permitted to proceed to the main entrance.They were received by Colonel Ivanovich, who introduced themto me ambassador.After a brief exchange about me inclement weather, Brozwas taken on a found of introductions, culminating in a meetingwith me guest of honour, Marshal Tukhachevsky – the one manwho could simplify the execution of Broz's French operations.The marshal smiled, holding out his hand. 'Ah... Josip. At lastI have the pleasure of meeting you in person.' He glanced quicklyaround the room before continuing. His voice dropped to a confidentiallevel. 'A little bird tells me that you've been having a lot of54

problems with operations – born here and in Spain – but I think Ican safely say that after tonight you'll have little trouble from theFrench.'Feigning surprise, Broz replied, 'But I don't understand. Howcan that be?'The marshal clamped a friendly hand on his shoulder and aneyelid dropped in a conspiratorial wink. 'Simple. The FrenchMinistry of Police have agreed to overlook your activities here inthe capital.'Broz smiled. 'Well, comrade, that's a relief. Now I'll be ableto concentrate on our friends in Spain.'As they toasted Broz's success with 1928 vintage Frenchchampagne, Colonel Ivanovich interrupted with a request forBroz to join him; there were a few more people he wanted him tomeet. Broz excused himself and began to circulate with Ivanovich.As they did so, Potemkin's eyes followed their progresscovertly. What had the colonel wanted the key to his office for?Who would be meeting there? From time to time, he exchangedglances with Marshal Tukhachevsky; the marshal, too, was keento see which member of his delegation would be meeting secretlywith Broz.Aware that his boss, Potemkin, would be watching him like ahawk, Ivanovich had concocted a little diversionary tactic; he arrangedfor Major Boris Zubov to slip away, making sure his departurewas not observed, in the opposite direction to Potemkin'soffice. At the same time, Potemkin observed another officerleaving in the direction of his office. As he turned back to hisguests, Potemkin feigned concern, frowning for the colonel'sbenefit, but continued to watch Ivanovich, who was mixing casuallywith the visitors. Eventually he nodded, almost imperceptibly,at a member of the Russian delegation, and they disappearedthrough a different doorway. A few minutes later, Broz set hisglass down and followed. Potemkin nodded slowly to himself ashe refilled his glass. It was clear now that Broz's invitation hadbeen planned from the outset but was kept secret until the lastpossible moment.In the office, Colonel Ivanovich and Major Zubov inspectedthe area carefully to ensure that it was safe for their secret meet-55

ing. During their inspection, the door buzzer purred on the ambassador'sdesk. Broz had arrived. Slipping quickly through thedoorway, Broz was introduced to Zubov, who handed him asealed envelope.'Comrade Broz, this is a personal letter from tovarisch JosephStalin. He instructed me to hand it to you personally... and to remainin your presence while you read it, after which it is to be destroyed.But first...' – he reached into an inner pocket and producedanother paper – '...first I must ask you to sign this acknowledgement.'He smiled kindly. 'For NKVD records, you understand.'Broz signed the acknowledgement and took the letter. Zubovnodded, then turned to that with Ivanovich, while Broz wanderedacross to sit on a sofa in front of the fireplace.Why had he received the letter in such a secretive manner?Why had his presence at the reception been so important to theRussians? Shrugging, he ripped open the long bulky envelopeand, to his surprise, found it contained only two sheets of papercovered with closely written handwriting. Obviously, Stalin hadn'twanted to dictate the contents to anyone else. More and morecurious! He glanced quickly towards the other two officers, deepin conversation, then began to read.Fraternal greetings, comrade Broz,The Comintern and I wish to extend to you our congratulationson the success of your untiring and devotedefforts in Spain, efforts which, I have no doubt, will leadto our eventual victory. Your reports have clearly illustratedyour outstanding ability to organise such a complexproject as our brigade. I feel sure that the experienceyou have gained will be an asset to you in years tocome. As I promised during your recent stay in Moscow,our wheels will soon be in motion in Yugoslavia and,once you have completed your current assignment, wewill make a final bid to have you promoted to generalsecretary of the Yugoslav Communist Party. Your organisingability, as I pointed out earlier, will contribute56

greatly towards the success of your struggle for freedomagainst imperialism.I would like to take this opportunity to put you on yourguard against possible danger, our intelligence sourcesnote increased activity by the royal Yugoslav secretservice in Paris, and I can assure you that they are preparedto assist anyone willing to assassinate you. As youprobably already know, some turncoat members of thePOUM – the Spanish Labour Party for Marxist Unity –have been enlisted as agents of the Spanish secret servicein France. These turncoats, we believe, may be underthe influence of some reactionary group – possibly acover for Leon Trotsky. We must discredit him. For thiswe will require hard evidence to satisfy our friends –and, of course, the imperialist press. It would be invaluableif you, in conjunction with other European partymembers, could promote our ideals – stressing that Trotskyis merely a tool in the hands of those elements in theWest who would like to see political change in Russia.While we exist, we are a bulwark against imperialistgreed, and we endanger their plan for the enslavementand corruption of the entire world to suit their politicalends. These imperialist lackeys will be suitably punishedwhen we take control.Our intelligence service recently intercepted a diplomaticpouch on its way to Madrid from Belgrade, andfound, amongst other confidential documents, a letterwith photographs of you attached. The photographswere taken while you were in Lepoglava prison, and theletter offered the services of the royal Yugoslav secretservice to take part in your capture. Dead or alive.However, our comrade in Paris, Peter Denisovich, hasbeen asked to step up arrangements for your personalsafety. There is no doubt in my mind that they will try totrick you into showing yourself, so let the impress up onyou once again – be careful. Do not, under any circum-57

stances, leave Paris. Should you be called away, delegateone of your ablest lieutenants, because your losswould jeopardise not only your project in Spain, but theentire future of the Balkan Peninsula. Together in armsin the struggle against imperialism,Joseph Vissarionovich StalinBroz let the letter fall on his lap. Sighing, he removed hisspectacles and wiped the thick glass lenses. He felt quite touchedby Stalin's obviously sincere concern for his well-being. Itseemed that Stalin valued his services in Spain, but why would hedisclose details of NKVD activity inside Yugoslavia? Could hisultimate ambition be a possibility? Leader of the Yugoslav CommunistParty! To see once more his beloved homeland – and especiallythe green grass of Zagorje province. If so – how soon?His thoughts were interrupted by a polite cough; it was MajorZubov.'Finished, comrade? Shall we destroy the letter now?'Broz hesitated. He would have clearly loved to keep the letter.'Not yet, major. I wish to check a few details first.'Smiling, the major nodded and returned to Ivanovich, whileBroz rose and crossed to the fireplace. He quickly reread the letter,then dropped it into the grate. He watched the pages curl andblacken, hungrily consumed by the flames, and felt that his ownskin was scorching with them.After shaking hands with the two officers, he slipped out ofthe office and left the embassy by a side entrance. He was met byPeter Denisovich, who, on the way to a new safe house, told Brozthat in future he would accompany him to each new location, andthat safe houses would be rotated every night – not every secondnight as previously. Broz nodded off-handedly. He wasn't evenlistening; his mind was full of the letter – and his obviously elevatedimportance with the Comintern.As they walked along the Quai d'Orsay, Broz had his headlowered in thought. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, causingPeter to bump into him. Turning slowly, he stared straight into themajor's eyes. 'I've been thinking,' he said. 'Those photographs of58

me – the ones that were found in the diplomatic pouch. Whathappened to them?'Nonplussed, the major stared back at him, momentarilyspeechless. 'But how could you know...?'Broz smiled.Peter dropped his eyes, then glanced back at Broz andshrugged. 'I must confess you surprise me, comrade. I was notaware that you knew so much about the activities of the NKVD,but your source must be an impeccable one.'Broz laughed quietly. 'I don't think I could have a better one.''Well, since you know so much already, I might as well tellyou the rest. I substituted your photographs with those of a deadman... one of your own countrymen. So, hopefully, the Spaniardswill now be on the outlook for a Josip Broz who never...'His further comment has drowned out by Broz's laughter ashe leaned against the major for support. 'Ha ha... Oh, dear me...how simple... but effective... I think I'm getting a stitch in myside. I haven't laughed so much in years. Thank you, Peter. You'llnever know how good it is to find someone I can really rely on...particularly at this time. By heaven, if I'd had you back in Yugoslavia,I wouldn't have spent so much time behind bars.'Peter did not miss the bitterness in Broz's voice when hementioned prison. It was obvious that he did not think very highlyof those who had been responsible for his safety in his homeland.As they continued to stroll, Peter kept turning things over in hismind. Just how much potential power was behind this mysteryman from the Balkans? How had he gained the confidence of thelikes of Yezhov and Stalin? Take the invitation to the reception,for instance. According to the policies of the NKVD, such a thingwas impossible, but Broz had wangled it and obviously not withouthelp from the powers that be. Peter glanced surreptitiously athis companion, who was still smiling to himself. Peter, my boy,he mused, perhaps it might be prudent at this point to change yourhigh-handed militaristic approach to this man. It might not be awise thing to lock horns with him; having such powerful mentorsas he seems to have, it is irrelevant whether Broz was born inRussia or in some unheard-of village in Yugoslavia. He nodded59

silently to himself, his mind made up. In future, he would treatthis man – this enigma – with kid gloves.Early one morning, several days after Marshal Tukhachevsky'shurried return to Moscow, Broz received an anonymoustelephone call. The caller spoke in French but with an accent thatBroz could not quite place. Though he refused to identify himself,the man admitted to being a member of the French CommunistParty, an admission supported by the fact that Broz's personaltelephone number was a restricted one known only to his immediateassociates and a few of the party hierarchy. The man musthave obtained it from someone high in the party, but to maintainhis anonymity he refused to disclose from whom.The caller went on to detail events which he said he had witnessedon Friday 9th April. It appeared that a friend of his hadbeen assassinated in France, apparently killed by a well knownTrotskyite gunman, for publicly speaking out against Trotsky andfor organising anti-Trotsky rallies. The caller told Broz that hehad been visiting the grave of a friend in Montmartre cemeterywhen he noticed, parked beside the road not far from the ornateentrance gates, a black car with the plates and markings of a Russianembassy vehicle. The only occupant of the vehicle was thedriver, a huddled mass behind the steering wheel whose face waspartially obscured by the furs he wore, though the pleasant dayhardly warranted them. 'I only gave the car a passing glance, comrade.After all, the man could have been waiting for his wife or...''Yes, yes. Get on with it,' interrupted Broz.The caller pretended to be hurt by Broz's abruptness. 'There'sno need to get impatient, comrade, I'll come to the point soonenough,' he said, taking on a lecturing tone. The man was obviouslyenjoying Broz's discomfort, but he continued with his story.Some five minutes after he had arrived at the cemetery, his attentionhad been attracted by the arrival of a second car – this time alarge American-made limousine with French plates. This vehicle,also without passengers, had pulled up at the kerb in front of theRussian car, leaving its engine running. As it came to a stop, thedriver of the Russian car got out, locked his door and moved tothe front passenger side of the limousine in front.60

'And that, comrade, is when I recognised both men.' Thecaller paused, anticipating a response from Broz. It was quick incoming.'Well? Who were they?' Broz realised the man was playinggames with him, teasing him, but his interest had been aroused.Why would this man call him unless there was something moreinvolved than a mere visit to a cemetery?'Patience, comrade, patience.' The caller made the admonishmentsound like a mother chastising an impatient child, but hecontinued. As the limousine pulled out from the kerb, the watcherhad moved unobtrusively to the iron railings surrounding thecemetery to ensure that he had not been mistaken in his originalidentification. 'I tell you, comrade, there can be no mistake. Thepassenger was Marshal Tukhachevsky. The driver of the limousinewas ex-comrade Trotsky himself.'Mention of the two names totally stunned Broz, made himspeechless. Russia's most beloved marshal meeting with the manmost hated by Stalin. What the hell was going on? The callermust be mistaken. Finally, Broz found his voice. 'But how youcan be so sure?''Because, comrade,' he said, 'L 'Humanité published an articleon the greatly loved Marshal Tukhachevsky only that day, an articlecomplete with pictures of the great man. As for Trotsky –well, any true comrade would know him anywhere. The traitor!'The man spat out the word 'traitor' as if it were a curse.Broz was totally confused. 'That's just it. Why would Trotskyrisk his life in France where he's well known... for a meeting withthe marshal? It just doesn't make sense.''I thought it strange too, comrade Broz. That's why I decidedto phone you. The way I see it is this: if it's all above board, if thetraitor wants to give himself up and return to Russia, and was arrangingit all through Marshal Tukhachevsky, no harm has beendone. But if it isn't, well... you see why I wished to remainanonymous.'Broz could. If there was a conspiracy, and the caller's namebecame known, then two powerful groups of conspirators wouldtry to silence him.'Yes, I see. But why contact me?'61

'Who else is there? The Russians? I don't think so. Anyway,everyone knows that comrade Broz is a loyal dedicated Communist.I mean, you wouldn't be entrusted with the well-being of theBrigade if you weren't, would you?' The man's tone was bitinglysarcastic.Broz had the impression that the caller held him responsiblefor the Brigade's recent setbacks. He resented the implied criticism,but managed to keep his voice level as he asked, 'Are you amember of the Brigade?'The caller laughed harshly in Broz's ear. 'Oh, no, comrade. Ionce thought of joining, but I changed my mind when I found theparty in Spain was riddled with traitors and spies. You've probablygot more royalists and Trotskyites in the Brigade than truecomrades. There's certain1y no future in that. Goodbye, comradeBroz.''No, wait...' Despite the now openly stated denigration ofBroz's beloved Brigade, he ignored the man's last statement, tryingone more time to get the caller's name, or at least somemethod of contacting him again. 'Just tell me...''I've told you enough. It's time for me to go.' The man's voicewas determined, but there was a slight pause as he decided on hisnext words. When they came, the voice no longer held any banteringundertones. The tone was concerned. 'I only hope, comrade,that carrying the burden of such knowledge doesn't squashyou – like a swatted fly. Once again, goodbye, Broz.'The man hung up, and Broz sat stating fixedly at the wall beforehim, not even realising he still had the phone cradled to hisear. He could not believe that Trotsky would risk so much for justone meeting with Tukhachevsky.But how did he know it was only one meeting? Perhaps therehad been a number of meetings, perhaps many. Again, there hadbeen that veiled reference to Tukhachevsky in Stalin's letter, areference that now started to make some sense.Slowly, Broz replaced the hand piece back in its cradle. If thecaller had been telling the truth, and Broz believed he had, hisclosing remarks and tone of voice showed concern for Broz'ssafety, a hinted warning to proceed slowly and care fully. Notsomething a hoaxer would be concerned with. Then what had62

een the purpose of the meeting? Why such an out-of-the-wayspot if everything was on the level? If Trotsky had met withTukhachevsky to try and effect a reconciliation with Stalin, then anearly deserted cemetery was hardly an ideal meeting ground.Broz shook his head. Trotsky meeting with Tukhachevsky torestore a relationship with Stalin just did not ring true. Trotskywas an extremely proud man. Before he had been deported by theOGPU under article 58/10 of the criminal code for counterrevolutionaryactivity, he had been offered the opportunity to stayin Russia if he renounced all opposition to Stalin. It was an offerhe had been quick to emphatically reject as against all his principles.Broz could not envisage such a man pleading for the opportunityto return.There was something else – something lurking in the recessesof his brain, trying to come forward. He knew it had something todo with the marshal and the embassy party. Something the marshalhad said. But what?With a start, Broz suddenly realised he was not alone. Peterstood in the open doorway staring intently at him. The man'sscrutiny irritated Broz, and his voice showed it. 'Yes, Peter, can Ihelp you?'Peter started as if caught in the middle of some guilty act.'Ah, no, Josip.' His voice was flustered, but quickly regained itsnormal, urbane tone. 'I was just passing and noticed you lookingso preoccupied. Is there anything I can do for you?'Broz studied the other man. Peter had some good contacts atthe embassy, people who owed him favours. Perhaps he could beof use. But he could not be told the truth concerning the phonecall, not until Broz had all the facts and could distinguish, friendfrom foe. He decided to enlist Peter's help and quickly formulateda temporary cover story. 'Perhaps you can, Peter. Come in, please,and shut the door.' He smiled at him, all traces of his previous irritationhidden.Obviously pleased that he was going to be taken into Broz'sconfidence, Peter moved further into the room and sat in theroom's only visitor's chair.63

'It's like this, Peter.' Broz leaned forward, his tone confidential.'I've just been given a tip concerning an embassy official andI'm not sure if it's worth anything.'The other man broke in eagerly, shifting to the edge of hischair. 'What was it, Josip?'Broz smiled and held his hand up to restrain Peter's eagerness.'Not so fast, Peter. There's no sense in spreading maliciousgossip now;'Peter nodded and ruefully moved back in his seat.'Especially if it's untrue,' Broz continued. 'That's where youcan help me. What I need to know is if there is any way we canfind out who had embassy cars on loan on Friday 9th April?'The request was certainly unusual but was so vague that therewas no way Peter could determine Broz's reason for wanting theinformation. He pretended to mull over the problem presented tohim by Broz. Actually, all he had to do was ask his superior,Colonel Ivanovich, for the information, and it would be forthcoming.No doubt, Ivanovich would want to know why he informationwas required. Indeed, so did Peter. He stalled for time.'But, Josip, what excuse could I use for requesting the information?'the other man persisted, his curiosity really aroused.'What is the real reason?'Broz rose from behind his desk, indicating the conversationwas over. He was no longer smiling. 'I've told you, Peter. There'sno sense in spreading rumours. Just get me the information, then Ishould be able to tell you what it's all about and whether it's trueor not.'Peter rose, realising that further argument would be fruitless.'All right, Josip. I'll see you this afternoon.'He left the office, and Broz returned to his desk. Throughoutthe morning, he worked on the minutiae that usually occupiedmost of his day: supply requisitions, transfer approvals, demandsfor funds – all had to be perused and approved.Broz kept thinking about his mysterious caller with the perplexingnews. Then it hit him, the information that his subconscioushad been trying to come forward with since the call. It hadbeen at the embassy party night. The marshal had been sayingsomething inconsequential about Switzerland, and Potemkin had64

interrupted abruptly, changing the subject. The interruption hadbeen so rude that Broz had expected the marshal to explode, butinstead he had whispered to himself, his voice so low that Broz,standing behind him talking to Ivanovich, had heard his words: 'Iunderstand.'At the time, Broz had dismissed the inconsequential statement,believing the younger man had been forgiving Potemkin forhis interruption. But if there was a high-level conspiracy inFrance involving Tukhachevsky and Trotsky, who could possiblybe better to coordinate meetings and pass on information than theambassador in France? Why then did Potemkin want Tukhachevskyto remain silent about Switzerland? What was so specialabout that country? Then he remembered: back in January, it hadbeen discovered that Trotsky was living in Switzerland in a smallchateau in Nidwalden Canton, lying in the beautiful valley. Trotskygot wind of the discovery and had disappeared before actioncould be taken by the Russians. The marshal, by his own admission,had been in Switzerland – no doubt on official business.If he had seen Trotsky during his visit, then that would explainwhy a fellow conspirator would want him to remain silentabout the country, hoping that, by not mentioning it, the visitwould be forgotten and the connection between the two nevermade. What Broz had to discover was the timing of the marshal'svisit to Switzerland, and he had to do it without alerting the embassy.He could not use Peter again without giving him someinkling of what was up. There had to be another way. Then anearlier thought came back to him: if Tukhachevsky had been inSwitzerland on official business, his trip would have receivedwide publicity. Broz had a contact at L 'Humanité.One phone call and five minutes later, he had all the informationhe could get, at least from his source. In November, themarshal had spent two weeks in and around Geneva as a guest ofthe Russian ambassador to Switzerland. They had been contemporariesduring the war and had kept in touch in the interveningyears. As an afterthought, Broz asked his reporter friend if therewas any reference in the paper to Potemkin being there at thesame time. The reporter said no, but he seemed to remember theambassador taking some sick leave around that time to get over65

about of the flu that was decimating Paris. He had stayed lockedwarmly away at the country villa owned by a supporter of theparty. The reporter remembered because the ambassador had beenincommunicado for several days whilst recuperating. He tried toextract the reason for Broz's interest in the movements of the twomen, but had to settle for Broz's terse comment, 'Party business,'as he hung up.The pieces were coming together. If only he could prove thatPotemkin had been in Switzerland at the same time as the marshal,then some sort of conspiracy might be proved. The time theambassador spent incommunicado was more than enough' to haveallowed Potemkin to make a visit to Switzerland and to return tothe villa.Finally, Broz decided the only option open to him was to goto Switzerland and question the people there himself. He couldnot trust anybody at the embassy, or indeed any of the Russians.The business of a Trotskyite conspiracy could be tied in with thelosses the Brigade had recently sustained. He immediately beganto prepare for his trip by removing a set of false papers and a sumof money from his cache. As an afterthought, he decided to takeall the papers and money remaining in the cache. He intended tobuy as many tickets and to get on and off as many trains as possiblein an endeavour to throw off the men who would undoubtedlytry to trace him. The fact that he intended travelling to Switzerlandmust remain a secret.Around noon, Broz was interrupted by the arrival of his secretary,Maria Gucciano. At thirty-two, she was extremely beautiful.Broz had been having an affair with her for some time, butrecently he had sensed a cooling of his feelings towards her. Infact, he had decided the previous week it was time the affair wasended but he had not yet got around to telling her. None of thiswas apparent as she crossed the room to his desk.Even though they were alone, the personal relationship betweenthem was not allowed to intrude on their professional relationship.At least not on the surface. Today, however, her mannerand tone of voice was not that of the superior, impersonal privatesecretary that he had come to expect.66

'I'm sorry to disturb you, comrade Broz, but this telegram hadjust been received and decoded. You'd better look at it now.'Broz accepted the telegram from her, noting that the originalwas attached to the decoded copy and nodding in approval.'Good. Thank you, Maria.'Though he obviously meant it as a dismissal, Maria hesitated.Her words were cautious as she replied, 'I think I'd better stay.You may need me.'Broz was puzzled. Why was she showing such concern? Itwas totally unlike her during office hours. He replaced the thickreading glasses that Maria disliked intensely; she contended thatthe crude, prison-made black horn frames destroyed the outline ofhis face. It was his habit to remove them when she entered his office.Without them, Broz could not read a word; in fact, his visionwas so impaired as to be almost nonexistent. As he read the telegram,the bottom dropped out of Broz's world and he realisedwhy Maria was so concerned. It was a short communication, butdevastating in its impact.The paper said,1600 men, including most of our instructors, killed today– Serge Valley. No information available.The SingerThe Singer was Ramos, a man who had been a friend forover sixteen years. The report had to be correct. Ramos would nothave sent it otherwise. But so many men... and the instructors, theindispensable ones! How? Broz realised that Maria was talking tohim, trying to get his attention. He abandoned all attempts at cooldetachment.'Josip? Josip? Are you all right?' She made as if to comeround the desk to comfort him, but he halted her with a sharpcommand and a raised hand.'No! I'll be all right. Just let me think.'Maria remained silent and returned to the front of the desk.Broz let his anger and frustration dissipate. The blow the Brigadehad received might well prove to be fatal to it. How many upperechelonleaders did he have left? How many instructors? What67

was the morale like? How many wounded? There were so manyquestions to be answered, and he was stuck behind a desk inParis.He made up his mind quickly. No matter what the ordersfrom Moscow, his place was with what was left of the Brigade,not here in Paris conducting a bloody paper war. He had to bewith his men, many of whom he had personally recruited – atleast, if they were still alive. How the hell was he going to manageit?Then he remembered his earlier arrangements. There wouldbe no problem getting into Spain from Switzerland. Arrivals fromthere were not subject to the same intense scrutiny as arrivalsfrom the other countries. Red Cross transports were leaving forSpain every week and were always welcome there. It would besimple to attach himself to one as a Red Cross volunteer.He looked at Maria. Her concern for him was obvious. It wastime to tie up the loose ends, make a clean break. He tried to keephis voice level as he spoke to her. 'Maria, please shut the door andsit down with me for a moment…She willingly complied, automatically smoothing her skirt asshe sat.Broz gestured towards a nearby home and asked, 'Would youcare for some slivovitz?'Maria always enjoyed the famous Bosnian plum brandy.They were soon sipping from delicate Bohemian crystal glasses.Broz finally broke the silence. 'Maria, for some time now I'vebeen meaning to talk to you about our relationship.'Maria could tell by his tone that what he was about to saywould be unpleasant. Broz had been offhand and preoccupiedduring their last few private meetings, so she had an intuition ofjust what he was leading up to. As he continued, she knew shewas right.Broz explained he had never meant their relationship to becomeso deep, so involved as it had, that things had gone far beyondwhat he was sure either one had imagined when he initiatedthe affair. That was the word Broz used – 'initiated'. To Maria,who had fallen truly in love with the rough-featured Slav, thatwas the final indignity. To talk about their affair as if it were a68

military campaign or some potitical exercise seemed, to her, todemean it. She arose abruptly as he continued, flinging the fragilecrystal glass from her fingers to smash into a thousand pieces onthe wall behind Broz's head. Having removed his thick-lensedglasses, he had only vaguely seen her leave the chair. He knewthat something was wrong when he heard the glass breaking behindhis left ear. He groped for his spectacles and put them on, hiseyes quickly refocusing.Maria was standing before him, her cage bringing her closeto tears, her words forced out through clenched teeth. 'You bastard.You rotten, low bastard! So all I was to you was a convenience.Something that was there at the right time. All right, youbastard. It's over. But some day, Broz, you'll pay for this. Believeme. You 'll pay...' Her sobs prevented her from continuing. Sheturned and ran from the room, tears streaming down her face.Broz was stunned. He had had no idea she would react thatway and could not understand the intensity of the outbreak. Allhis life, his closest personal relationships had been with men.First within the party groups, and then in the cells of various policestations and prisons in Yugoslavia. His dedication to thecause came first and everything else carne a poor second. Evenhis beautiful wife Polka in Russia had been little more thansomething he had seemed to acquire along the way. His divorcein 1935 had been a painless affair. No, he would never be able tounderstand women. Anyway, there was work to be done. Hestarted clearing his desk.Around three o'clock that afternoon, Peter returned to theCroat's office. In his hand he carried a sheet of paper which heplaced triumphantly on the desk in front of Broz.Broz stared at it for a moment, puzzled, then remembered hisearlier request for Peter to get information about the embassy vehicles.'I have it, Josip. A copy of the vehicle log sheet for Friday9th April. A list of all vehicles used, by whom, and times out andin.'Broz picked up the sheet and quickly scanned the twenty orso entries listed. Marshal Tukhachevsky had used an embassy carin the morning and had driven the vehicle himself. The times69

matched. The marshal could have been at the cemetery at the timethe caller said he had been.For the sake of appearances, Broz continued down the list beforelooking up. 'Did you have any trouble getting this?' he inquired.In fact, Peter had quickly obtained the copy from his superior,Ivanovich, and had had it in his possession most of the day, afact which he could not impart to Broz. 'A little bit. I was shuffledbetween embassy clerks but finally tracked down the right one.He accepted the explanation you suggested, and here it is. Nowwhat is this all about, Josip?'Broz steepled his fingers and smiled at the man across thedesk. Until he knew more, he couldn't use Tukhachevsky's name,in case Peter was involved, but he had concocted a cover story.'Well, I'm sorry, Peter, but it appears to have been a wild goosechase. You know Captain Rankov from the embassy military securityguard?'The other man nodded; Rankov was in charge of all militarypersonnel at the embassy.'Well, my caller said he saw Rankov in an embassy vehicleoutside one of those establishments in the red light district, onethat caters for men who like young boys. He said he saw Rankovleave the vehicle and enter the place.' Broz allowed his disapprovalof homosexuality to show in his tone. He leaned forward,folding his arms on the desk. His voice turned conspiratorial, butstill disapproving, as he continued. 'You can imagine how I felt.A prominent military figure leaving himself open to pressure,perhaps even to blackmail, by consorting with young boys.'Actually, Peter could visualise it only too clearly, havingbeen recruited by Ivanovich in just such a manner, threatenedwith exposure and ridicule if he did not report everything concerningBroz directly to the colonel. He managed a sickly grin asBroz went on.'Anyway, it doesn't matter. As you can see from the sheet,Rankov didn't have a vehicle out on that day, so the caller musthave been a hoaxer, trying to stir up ill-feeling.' Broz leaned backstudying the other man, hoping he would accept the explanation.70

Peter felt a sense of anticlimax. He had been sure that Brozwas on to something, something bigger than just a captain meetingother men, but Broz's explanation covered everything. Therewas nothing to argue with.The Croat rose and crossed to the window, his back to Peter,the copy of the log sheet negligently slipped into a nearby wastepaperbin. His next words totally dismissed the matter of the vehicle.'Have you heard the latest from Spain?'Peter said he had not, he had been out of the office all day.Broz turned and gestured towards the telegram still lying onthe desk. 'Read that,' he said.The effect of the telegram on Peter paralleled the effect it hadhad on Broz earlier in the day. His agile mind easily grasped theimplications of such a large loss for the Brigade. His face paled asthe blood drained from it. 'Josip, what the hell are we going todo?' His voice was a whisper, all thought of the earlier matterbanished by the fearful news.Broz returned to his desk and sat down. When he spoke, hisvoice was cold, authoritative. 'First, we need answers to somequestions. I've already been authorised to go to the Spanish bordernext week and examine the situation there. I'll arrange for somesenior men to cross over to Spain for debriefing when I arrivethere.'The colour returned to Peter's face, though shock could stillbe seen on it. 'Remember, you 're not allowed to cross over intoSpain, Josip. Stalin's orders expressly forbid it.'Broz was quick to realise the implication of his statement.'How do you know about Stalin's orders?' he retorted.Peter was on the spot; he had allowed the bad news to unsettlehim, make him unwary.Ivanovich had made it quite clear to Peter, as his watchdogfor Broz, that Stalin had forbidden Broz to enter Spain, and it waspart of Peter's instructions to ensure that the restrictions were enforced.A one-way trip to Siberia was his reward if he did not. Hecould not tell Broz that. It would reveal his true relationship to theman in front of him.'Well, I must have heard Maria mention them, I guess.'71

The Croat knew he had mentioned the orders to no one, andfor the first time he realised Peter's role in his life. He was obviouslythere to report back to the Russians on the movements andactivities of Josip Broz. It came as no real shock to learn this; infact, on reflection, it seemed the most obvious and realistic thingfor the Russians to do. His only regret was that he had not learntof Peter's duplicity earlier.'Yes, no doubt it was Maria. Anyway, I'll be leaving nextThursday. It'll probably take me several days to get there. I'll holeup in a safe house until I'm absolutely sure there's no one followingme, so if you don't hear from me for several days or even aweek, don't worry.'Peter had no intention of letting Broz disappear for anylength of time, especially not a week. He spent the next ten minutesarguing fruitlessly for Broz to take a bodyguard with him,someone to protect him and, though Peter didn't say it, someonewho could report back to him on his movements. The Croat wasadamant. He stood a better chance of reaching the border area unobtrusivelyif he were alone: a second person only doubled thechances of recognition. The only concession Broz would makewas to agree to report his whereabouts every day. It was a concessionhe had no intention of fulfilling, but Peter, as he left the office,was also making plans, plans which included putting a followeronto Broz first thing in the morning. One who would suckwith him until he returned from the border area. He stopped in thedoorway to say goodbye. The Croat was standing framed in thelight from the window.'So we'll meet tomorrow morning to finalise the travelmovements, Josip?' Broz nodded.'I'll see you then, Josip. Dosvidanya.''Adieu, Peter.'As soon as Peter left the room, Broz retrieved the copy of thelog sheet from the bin and placed it in his pocket. Five minuteslater, he left his office through the anteroom. Shortly afterwards,he was walking down the steps of the apartment building nextdoor. During the night, Josip Broz slipped out of Paris and disappeared.72

It was not until the next morning that Peter realised the implicationof the Spanish farewell and cursed himself for being afool. 'Adieu' – not see you, but good bye. Immediately, he had allthe safe houses south of the border alerted, with orders to reportto him as soon as Broz arrived, but he never found out that Brozhad deceived them all. The Croat never headed south; he hadgone east. East to Switzerland, the first leg on his journey to theSerge Valley.73

3MOSCOW 1937Captain Sergei Orlov, splendid in his dress uniform, sat at hisdesk guarding the entrance to the office of his superior, GeneralNikolai Yezhov, chief of the NKVD. As secretary to the general,all messages were routinely passed through him to the inner office.The message he now held in his hand was anything but routine.It contained closely typed numbers on a small square ofyellow paper and had been forwarded from Kaliningrad station. Ithad originated in Spain from Jose Diaz Ramos, general secretaryof PCE – Partido Comunista Español, the Spanish CommunistParty. The message was encrypted in Yezhov's personal code andshould have been pass ed to the general as soon as Orlov had receivedit.However, Orlov was delaying entering the inner office, usingthe excuse to himself that Yezhov was busy preparing for hismeeting tomorrow morning with Stalin – too busy to be disturbed.Orlov made no real pretence of believing himself. Once again,Sergei Orlov was caught on the horns of a dilemma of his ownmaking, a dilemma that had plagued him constantly now fornearly ten years.In April 1922, Germany and Russia had signed the RapalloTreaty and begun establishing a normal relationship between thetwo countries. Even more important had been the successful conclusionof secret negotiations between the two armies. The negotiationsallowed German officers and units to acquire experiencewith the Russian army and provided opportunities for Germanexperiments with the design of weapons such as tanks, aircraft,heavy guns and even poison gas, weapons that were forbidden bythe Versailles Treaty.Russia also began helping Germany to clandestinely rearm itself,building and storing vast quantities of war material for itsnew ally. In return, Russian officers spent prolonged periods inGermany studying the superior German army tactics and, in par-74

ticular, the role of military intelligence-gathering agencies, agenciesthat had served Germany well during the Great War.In 1926, a young Lieutenant Orlov arrived in Berlin as one ofa group of eight recent graduates from Gorky's Lenin Academy,all picked by the OGPU for their dedication to studies and theirpotential for military intelligence-gathering.The students were programmed to round off their training byspending several months with each of Germany's army Intelligencedepartments, each paired with a German officer to act astutor and mentor.Lieutenant Orlov's partner was Captain Reinhard Gehlen.From the start, the two became firm friends, the German takingboth a professional and personal interest in his Russian protégé.Gehlen was a master at collecting vast amounts of seemingly unrelateddata, collating them in his mind and using his great intelligenceto eventually produce startlingly accurate forecasts ofevents to come. Orlov, though lacking Gehlen's native intelligence,proved himself an apt pupil and a competent intelligenceprocessor. So much so that after only two months the German decidedthat Orlov had worked well enough to deserve a rest. He arrangedfor them both a week in Bavaria.To Orlov, after the stark grimness of Russia and equally dismal,strife-torn Berlin, the beauty of the untouched Bavarian alpswas refreshingly new. They stayed amidst the towering alps at theluxurious Hotel Edelweiss, famous for its restaurant and soirées.For Orlov, the week flew by, punctuated by all-night parties,walks in the high mountains and a fleeting affair with a beautifulbut impoverished German countess.Back in Berlin, his duties no longer seemed so interesting, hisreturn to Russia not quite so sought after. After six months, whichincluded two more trips to different spa resorts and equally briefbut tempestuous affairs, he openly expressed to his German friendhis dissatisfaction with life, and Gehlen realised that Orlov wasripe for plucking. Gehlen first outlined the future that lay aheadfor an OGPU officer, the slow progress up the ranks – if one werenot eliminated during one of the many purges – the lack of moneyand the constant worry of everyday life in Russia.75

Orlov knew all this first-hand. The alternative offered to Orlovwas simple and enticing. A sum of money deposited in a bankin Germany or Switzerland every month, information passed tohim that would make for a quicker, safer rise within the OGPUand eventual resettlement in Germany if things become too hot orif Orlov decided the time was right. In return, all Gehlen askedwas for Orlov to pass on to him any snippets that would not reallyhurt Russia – after all, what really important information was evertrusted to a lowly lieutenant? – and would be conveyed throughsecure channels. He made it sound like a personal favour and verysafe. And it would help Orlov. The Russian readily agreed.For several years, everything went as planned. The young officerpassed on, through various channels, small pieces of informationand gossip that came his way on troop movements andmilitary personnel and, in return, received information on fellowofficers and trends that enabled him to pick the changes in powerand always side with the officers in favour at different times.His supervisors grew to like the young man, and his rise tocaptain was quicker than any of his classmates. On 18th March1937, Yagoda was removed from his post, and on the followingday General Nikolai Yezhov took command of the NKVD. Yezhov'sfirst official act was the appointment of Captain Sergei Orlovto be head of mokrie del – the dirty tricks or wet affairsbranch within the NKVD – as his new secretary. As secretary tothe general, he was to act as a filter, rerouting routine reports,handling the numerous requests from section leaders for Yezhov'stime and attention, deciding who should or should not see thegeneral. Though the rank was only that of captain, the occupant ofthe post wielded more power than many of the colonels within thedepartment, and the duties included overseeing the training ofjunior officers. Life had become worth living for Sergei Orlov; heenjoyed the extra power and influence his job brought including anew apartment.Then one day, just before his leaving the apartment, he founda written message which had obviously been slipped under hisdoor. It was a handwritten, unsigned note from Gehlen, demandinga meeting that evening at Gorky Park. How peculiar. Orlovguessed it must be something very important. Surely, Gehlen76

would never try to get in touch with him at NKVD headquarters?Failing to meet him might be even more dangerous now than ignoringthe request. Although Orlov had never really contemplatedthat he might be the only person passing on information, hegradually became aware of the significant extent of German infiltrationamong NKVD officers. He also knew that to air preciseknowledge of German infiltration would certainly be unwise anddisastrous for him. At the time, German officers were still beingtrained in Russia – in fact, there were over eight hundred of themaround the country. And there was no real reason why Orlovshould not look up his old teacher.Orlov wondered why the request to see him had come in sucha roundabout and furtive manner. It was with a sense of dread thathe visited the German that night; and, for ever after, Sergei Orlovlived in constant fear. Gehlen produced a copy of a file detailingthe information passed by Orlov, the monies paid and every debitof his private life, including those halcyon days in Germany solong ago. Gehlen was quite brutal – either Orlov passed copies ofeverything that went across his desk to Germany and carried outvarious duties as commanded or the file would suddenly appearone morning on Yezhov's desk. Both knew the consequences ofthat – a very slow death in a basement of Lubyanka prison nearDzerzinsky Square.Orlov left this meeting a shaken man, very conscious of hisown vulnerability. Every week thereafter, he passed copies ofanything of importance had to Gehlen and ensured that adversesecurity reports on certain officers were lost or mislaid, guaranteeingthem an easy trip through the training academy. Strangely,Orlov never grew to hate Gehlen. Indeed, as the years passed andhis involvement grew, he came to depend psychologically on himmore and more. Gehlen become the only man Orlov could trust –his lifeline out of Russia if things went wrong.Orlov's latest instructions from Gehlen had been explicit.Anything to do with Spain had to be forwarded without delay.Quickly, he copied the series of numbers on a sheet of paper, ensuringfirst that there was nothing underneath it to receive an imprint.After checking to make sure the copy was exact, he foldedthe paper and placed it in his tunic pocket.77

There was no need to wait for the message to be decoded. Asa result of a late-night incursion into his superior's office, Orlovhad long ago sent copies of Yezhov's code keys to Germany.Once he received the message, it would probably take Gehlen lesstime to decode the message than the general himself.Orlov rose from his desk, crossed to the door and, with a perfunctoryknock, entered the office. The squat bulk of Yezhov inill-fitting civilian clothes appeared incongruous behind the eleganceof the mahogany desk.The general looked up from the file he was reading, obviouslydisturbed by his subordinate's entrance and resenting theintrusion. 'Yes, what is it, Orlov?'The captain crossed to the desk and handed the message toYezhov; 'This has just come in, tovarisch Yezhov. I thought youshould see it right...''Of course I should,' Yezhov interrupted, noting the Spanishreference number on the top of the slip of paper. 'See that I'm notdisturbed.''Yes, general.'Yezhov watched the captain leave the room, closing the doorbehind him. He realised he had been abrupt with his aide, but ameeting with Stalin was always a nerve-wracking experience andtomorrow's would be no different. Now a message from Spain,where recently all the news had been bad. As the door closed behindOrlov, Yezhov unlocked the steel-lined drawer of his deskand extracted a large leather writing case, embossed with thecoat-of-arms of a long-since-eliminated aristocratic family, thecrest always reminding him of his own deprived childhood. Heunfastened the clasp and removed the sheet of paper, headed bythe code which indicated Spain, from among the several sheetsinside.The page listed sixteen Roman and Latin numerals with thenames of different books listed beside each one. After checkingthe first number on the message, he ran down the list until he locatedthat number and the corresponding book. Yezhov could nothelp but think how appropriate it was as he removed the bookfrom a bookcase behind him. In his experience, there was alwaysmore war than peace.78

The rest of the numbers on the message indicated first a page,then a line and finally a particular word on the line. This system,used to transmit short messages, was cumbersome but unbreakableunless the decoder knew which book was referred to. Thehardest part for Yezhov was translating from Spanish to Russian.The words were always simple and with a Spanish-Russian dictionaryhe gradually interpreted the message.In this case, the message was very short, but, to Yezhov,completely devastating and unbelievable. For some time he sat,his body immobile, his mind racing in circles. He just could notbelieve it, refused to believe it. The message had to come fromRamos himself; it must be true. If it was... No, the consequenceswere unthinkable.He suddenly realised the intercom on his desk had beenbuzzing insistently for at least a minute. He furiously punched thebutton and barked an inquiry into the microphone.At the other end, Orlov could tell from the voice that somethinghad gone spectacularly wrong; he made an effort to keep hisown voice even and emotionless. 'I'm sorry, tovarisch Yezhov,but Marshal Tukhachevsky is on the phone. It's the third time he'sphoned in half an hour and he demands to speak to you,'With a start, Yezhov realised it was indeed over thirty minutessince he had received the message. He was still feeling confusedbut realised he had to pull himself together. 'Yes, all right.Put him through.'The general quickly tried to collect his thoughts as he waitedfor the connection to be made. When he finally picked up thephone in response to its ring, he regained some semblance of hisnormal composure, though he was far from settled. 'Yes, marshal.What can I do for you?'The older man's voice still remained firm and authoritative,even over the constant static of a bad connection. 'It's about themeeting tomorrow. I've compiled my report on the Paris meeting,but I'm having problems getting details on the Spanish situationfrom your department. What the hell is going on?'Yezhov almost blurted out the contents of his recently receivedmessage but stopped himself in time. 'I'm not sure I knowwhat you mean, marshal,' he stalled.79

The marshal's voice expressed his impatience. 'That bastardHitler is using the war as propaganda to drive a wedge between usand the French. He's getting more information on the stinkingthing than I am. Where the hell is he getting it from and why thehell can't I get decent intelligence from our man... the one I met inParis – Broz? My people in Paris can't find him anywhere. Whereis he?'Tukhachevsky was getting too damned close to the truth. Didthe old bastard already know what had happened? Was the marshalwarning him he already knew? He had to stop this conversationimmediately. 'I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, marshal.No doubt tovarisch Stalin will give us a thorough briefing attomorrow's meeting.'The mention of Stalin's name had the desired effect, as it didwith almost everyone in Russia. The marshal quietened down. 'SoI have to wait until tomorrow, then?''I'm afraid so, tovarisch Tukhachevsky.'Tukhachevsky rang off without a salutation, and Yezhovslowly replaced the receiver, his palms sweating, his thoughtsnow even more confused. If the marshal did support Trotsky, andYezhov truly believed he did, and if he also knew the contents ofthe message, then Tukhachevsky and Trotsky now had the meansto cause the overthrow of Stalin, citing it as a sample of Stalin'sbungling machinations. If Stalin went, then as a matter of coursehis top aides and advisers would also go. Yezhov realised that inhis case it would not be just exile to Siberia or even a quick firingsquad; he had been too ruthless, too ready to wield his enormouspower to exact revenge for purely personal reasons. No, if NikolaiYezhov went, it would be a slow lingering death, more likely inone of his dungeons.There was no way out; Stalin had to be told immediately. Butnot by Yezhov; The general knew exactly what had happened toprevious messengers who carried bad news to Stalin. The Russianleader had once attacked a messenger with a letter opener till theman was a bleeding, mutilated wreck, only to have his praetorianguard finish him off. In other instances, the messengers had beenconsigned to the care of Yezhov and his people, and had never80

een heard of again. There was no way that Yezhov himself couldconfront Stalin, but what alternative did he have?Suddenly his face cleared, then even the ghost of a smile beganto form on his face. Perhaps there was a way out, after all.First, he cleared his desk, placing the crypt-codes back into thefolder and the folder into the drawer. Then he ripped the originalcoded message between thumb and forefinger and set fire to it,waiting until flames were licking at his fingers before droppingthe ashes into a tray, mashing the remains and dumping everythinginto the water closet adjoining his office. Flushing the pan,he stayed until the scraps disappeared. Returning to his desk, heplaced the decoded copy of the message in a thick protective envelope,then sealed all the edges using his massive official stampand hot wax. After satisfying himself the envelope could not beopened without ripping it or breaking the deeply embossed seals,he buzzed for Orlov.His aide entered the room seconds later. 'Yes, tovarisch Yezhov?''Ah, Orlov;' Yezhov managed a small grin and his tone ofvoice was almost pleasant. 'I want you to take this envelope immediatelyto the Kremlin and deliver it personally into the handsof tovarisch Stalin. I'll ring to let him know you're coming.''Yes, tovarisch Yezhov. Shall I wait for an answer?'This time Yezhov really did smile. 'Yes... Yes, why not.Place yourself at the disposal of our great leader. Now hurry,away with you.'When Orlov left the room, Yezhov lifted the red phone thatwas a direct line to Stalin. Almost immediately he heard thehusky voice of the leader himself. 'It's Yezhov, tovarisch. I'mafraid I've just received a message containing some extremely badnews from Spain.' There was an ominous pause, and Yezhovcould feel his nerves tightening, his stomach churning.'What is it this time, tovarisch general?''Tovarisch, our outpost station at Kaliningrad has passed on amessage from Ramos. I've decoded it and I think it's somethingyou should see immediately. I've sent Orlov over with it. Heshould reach you very shortly.''Does he know what the message is about?'81

'No, tovarisch. It was delivered in my personal code, and Idecoded and sealed it myself. Only you, Ramos and I will knowthe contents of this one.' Yezhov took momentary relief in beingable to report something positive before Stalin's next words shatteredhis short-lived complacency.'It seems to me, tovarisch general, that someone in your departmentis passing on sensitive information...'Yezhov could hear the cold steel in Stalin's tones and felt realfear. He could not stop the phone in his hand from shaking. 'I canassure you, tovarisch, that no one in my department could possibly...'Stalin cut him short. 'Nikolai, like every other group, yourservice is riddled with traitors. With recidivists. Trotsky's men areeverywhere. They give information to the marshal and he passesit to the damned Germans to make me look bad. I knew I shouldhave liquidated Trotsky, instead of just expelling him from theparty. Exiling him was just as useless.''Joseph, I'm sure that in this case no Trotskyite could possiblyhave intercepted this message.' Yezhov suddenly remembered theman on the telephone and his suspicion regarding Tukhachevsky,but he could not bring himself to go back on the statement he justmade. Stalin would have him shot, but he had to find some way towarn his leader. He stumbled over his words as he continued.'Marshal Tukhachevsky just rang. He was after information onSpain.' Stalin's silence encouraged Yezhov to carry on. 'He gotnothing out of me, of course. I told him you would probably givea briefing at tomorrow's meeting. But I think the marshal willhave to be closely watched.''Tukhachevsky! Everywhere I go, I hear of that man. He'smeddling in things that do not, or should not, concern him. I'llhave to look into this.'Yezhov nodded in dumb agreement, only too pleased to haveStalin's thoughts directed at some unfortunate soul. Anything,anybody but himself. He went on, 'Also, Joseph, our English birdhas arrived in Spain and will soon be singing.' Yezhov knew heshouldn't be talking about such matters over the phone, particularlyabout Philby, but he was desperately eager to please hismaster, to earn a few crumbs of gratitude.82

'That will be all, Yezhov: See me tonight at eight.''I'll look forw...' Yezhov realised he was talking into a deadphone and replaced the receiver. For an instant, he was almostsorry he had sent Orlov to blunt Stalin's wrath, but he couldn'tfault his motive – better him than me. Anyway, Orlov could handlehimself; he should almost be there by now. In the meantime, avodka would go down very well.It was only a ten-minute drive from NKVD headquarters tothe Kremlin, but it took Orlov another fifteen minutes to penetratethe ranks and bottlenecks of bodyguards and security checks toreach Stalin's office. He knew the senior men at each station personally,but he still had to show his pass, explain his purpose andsubmit to a body search at each point, albeit in his case a perfunctoryone.Finally, a hulking giant ushered him silently into the leader'soffice. Though he had been there several times before with Yezhov,the vast expanse of the office and the richness of its furnishingnever ceased to impress him. He had no time to do more thanglance around the room as he crossed the floor. Saluting, he stoodto attention in front of the most powerful man in Russia, JosephVissarionovich Stalin.'A delivery, tovarisch Stalin, from General Yezhov.'Stalin glanced at the officer standing ramrod-straight in frontof him. He made no comment, but extended his hand to take theoffered envelope. Raising it to within a short distance of his eyes,he scanned every millimetre of the envelope to ensure that it hadnot been tampered with, before opening it with an filigree silverletter opener. Although Orlov continued to stare straight ahead ata point some centimetres above Stalin's head, his peripheral visionpicked up the look of fury that crossed the leader's face,turning it beet red as he read the message.Finally, Stalin pushed himself upright from his chair andleant forward on clenched fists to stare straight at Orlov. When hespoke, his voice was a sibilant hiss, barely concealing the ragingfury within. 'So! No wonder Yezhov didn't come. You're Orlov,aren't you?'83

Orlov nodded but remained silent, sensing that Stalin reallydidn't need confirmation.Gradually, the rage within Stalin seemed to subside slightly,and he sank back in his chair. 'You may go, captain.''Yes, tovarisch.' Orlov saluted, spun on his heels, and quicklymarched to the door and let himself out.As he left the Kremlin, he remembered the stories about Stalin'sfury and realised just how close he had been. The man he hadjust left was in a killing rage; Orlov could not control his shakingas he climbed into his car and drove off, cursing the cowardlyYezhov.The shaking had subsided by the time he stopped some fifteenminutes later. He sat in his car outside a small, grimy, nondescriptdacha, typical of the hundreds scattered around Moscow.He waited until he was sure there were no other people on thestreet, then crossed the pavement and deposited material into adead letter box – a cavity in the wall of the dacha.On the way back, he stopped again and wrote the number 8on a tree only few blocks away from the German embassy. Orlov'sresident intelligence officer would pay a visit to that particulartree on his way home.Five minutes later, Orlov was turning the key to his apartment.Entering he removed his winter coat and tossed it carelesslyonto a nearby chair, then crossed to a tall glass-fronted cabinet inthe corner.Neatly stacked inside and obviously well cared for wereminiature cavalry figurines of the Napoleonic era. Thirty-six ofthem, beautifully detailed and coloured, were displayed on threeglass shelves. Though of little commercial value, they appealed toOrlov as a reminder of a past age when chivalry and comradeshipcounted for something. In a week, maybe two, another figurinewould mean that Gehlen had safely received the coded messageOrlov placed in the dead letter box, the one to be used only inemergencies. By now, the message should already be on its wayby courier to Germany, contained in a small envelope withGehlen's code name – Doctor Weber – on the front, and Orlov's –Kokoras – on the back. In the autumn of 1936, Captain Gehlenhad found out through Orlov that one of the marshal's closest84

friends, V.K. Putna, military attaché in Germany and later inGreat Britain, had been recalled from London and tortured byYezhov, the deputy chief of the NKVD. Gehlen knew the NKVDwould have obtained the confessions necessary to sealTukhachevsky's fate, whether or not he had participated in Trotsky'splan to overthrow Stalin. Gehlen had then devised his ownplan for deposing Tukhachevsky. He passed this idea on toReichsführer Heinrich Himmler of the SS, who, although impressed,declined to authorise it officially.Next, Gehlen planted damaging false information with WhiteGuard General Nikolai V. Skoblin, a major-general in commandof the Kormikov division at the age of twenty-nine. His wife, thefamous singer Nadezhda Plevitskaya, helped as a cover for herhusband, who was an OGPU agent in prominent émigré militarycircles in Paris. A double agent of both OGPU and the Nazi SDintelligence organisation, he readily supplied disinformation tothe head of the German SS, Reinhard Heydrich. In an attempt togain support for the overthrow of Stalin, Skoblin made a categoricalstatement that Tukhachevsky had been trying to contact Germanofficers. Heydrich was under the impression that it wasTukhachevsky, not Trotsky, who was leading the coup to oustStalin, but when Himmler heard Skoblin's story, he approvedGerman involvement in the plot.This clever manoeuvre by Gehlen, plus his by now solidnetwork of infiltrators in the NKVD, resulted in accelerated promotionfar beyond his own expectations.Stalin was back in the quietness of his office sanctuary. Thenews was bad. So bad, in fact, that it could mean his very life. Hemust think, must rearrange the plan to accommodate this newfactor; there had to be a way and, if there was, as always he wouldfind it. Already a hint of an idea was starting to form in his mind.His tense body began to relax a little as his agile mind plotted.There was still much to decide on, too many variables. He had tothink. Think...Stalin restlessly paced the carpeted expanse of his office. Hisoversized pipe was clenched rightly between gritted teeth andlarge puffs of evil-smelling smoke billowed from it. Constantly85

he stroked his bushy grizzled moustache, occasionally tugging furiouslyat it when some particularly infuriating thought crossedhis mind.A half-empty bottle of vodka stood on his desk. It had beenfull when he started. As his pacing took him near his desk, he removedhis pipe and, grabbing the bottle by its neck, took a largeswallow; Cursing expressively, he slammed the solid wood deskwith the thick open palm of his hand. His original plan had beenperfect, but the fools he employed to carry it out had failed him.People who failed Stalin rarely lived long enough to repeat theirmistakes. His copy of the message delivered by Orlov lay crumpledon his desk, squashed into a small ball during an earlier expressionof fury. He reached across and smoothed it out. Thewords had not changed. They jumped out of the paper at him,taunting him, exposing the frailty of the man. As he read them yetagain, the intercom at his elbow buzzed.For an instant, it seemed as if he was going to smash the machinewith his clenched fist, but instead he pressed the responsebutton and barked into the receiver. 'Yes?'The smooth tones of his secretary Olga came through to him.'You asked me to call you at seven-forty-five, tovarisch Stalin.General Yezhov will be here at eight.''I know. When he arrives, keep him waiting for fifteen minutes,but don't give any reason... then send him in. We are not tobe disturbed.''Yes, tovarisch.'Stalin released the button and his thoughts returned to Spain.He could not understand why the Republican army was not gettingthe support it should. The Spanish proletariat were subject topolitical persecution of the worst kind – even more, perhaps, thanthe Russian people. For them, the Inquisition had never ended.The working class was downtrodden, despised; thousands werebeing tortured and killed. Yet, in spite of this and the millions ofroubles Russia was spending to foment revolution, the stupidpeasants were not backing the Republican army.It confirmed Stalin's belief that the Spaniards, like the Italians,were an undisciplined bunch of petty criminals and thieves,easily cowed and kept in check by the all-pervasive Roman86

Catholic Church and its minions. He had given the Spaniards theInternational Brigade to boost their egos, to show the dedicatedfew in the country that they were not fighting alone, that they hadpowerful international friends. The ignorant peasants seemed determinedto destroy themselves by not joining in a general uprising.The bastards.Those other bastards, the POUM, had deeply infiltrated theCommunist Party and were responsible for the murder of many ofthe influential and prominent members of both the brigade andthe army. The only person left in Spain on whom he could relywas Ramos, who had spent five years in Russia with him when hefirst came to power. He needed to consolidate the many factionsof the Spanish Communist Party, a party which, instead of unitingwhen the hated Spanish king had abdicated, had torn itself apartin faction fighting. His only hope was that Ramos could unite theextreme left, then go on from there.The intercom buzzed again, and Stalin looked at his watch. Itwas exactly eight-fifteen. He activated the machine. 'Send him in.''Yes, tovarisch.'As the general entered, Stalin noted with grim amusementthat he was wearing the dress uniform of his rank, complete withmedals, including the prestigious Red Star and Golden Ribbon.Stalin guessed rightly that, in the forlorn hope of blunting theleader's anger, Yezhov wanted to remind him of his pastachievements. Stalin, however, was not impressed. Indeed, hisfirst thought was that it might be time to get rid of Yezhov...eventhough he had been such a good hatchet man.Stalin spoke first. 'You 've turned this into a fine mess of shit,Nikolai.' The blunt words startled Yezhov, the obscenity out ofplace in the refined office. 'Well, Joseph, we tried everything tostop him going. Didn't we?'Stalin noted the emphasis on 'we', The bastard was not goingto accept sole responsibility for the mess. He was going pass thebuck to his subordinates. 'You'll bring home to those responsiblethe penalty for undisciplined action, You'll ensure that they learnthe error of their ways – permanently. In particular, those assignedto protect Broz and monitor his movements. The overallblame, however, is yours. You selected the monitors and guards.87

You alone.' Stalin emphasised his last words by slamming thedesk with his hand.At each smash, Yezhov cringed deeper into his chair. 'Yes,Joseph. I've already started, but that still doesn't get us out of thismess,''Us, Nikolai?' Stalin's voice was menacing.'Well...you know...'Stalin stopped him with an abrupt gesture of his hand. He hadtired of the game. It was time to let Yezhov off the book. His nextwords were quieter, and Yezhov had to lead forward to hear. 'Iwarned that Yugoslav megalomaniac not to go to Spain, but thestupid shit went. Now, I have to clear up the mess. But I tell you,Nikolai, this is your last chance – if you fail, you know the consequences.'Yezhov could only nod. He knew exactly what those consequenceswere, and an icy sweat broke out all over his body. Stalin'swords implied he had a solution and, during the next fifteenminutes, as Stalin detailed his devised plan, Yezhov grew moreconfident. He was impressed once again at what a true master theman was. What Stalin was saying was mad... impossible. It justcould not work.Yet Yezhov knew that, against all the odds, Stalin wouldmake it work.The intercom buzzed again as Stalin was coming to the endof his monologue. For his secretary to disobey his instructions, heknew it would have to be very important, but that did nothing todiminish his irritation. 'What is it this time, Olga? ''Sorry, tovarisch Stalin, but Captain Orlov is on the line. Hesays he must speak to General Yezhov immediately. He insistedthat I interrupt you.' The disapproval in her voice was very obvious.Stalin looked at Yezhov, who shrugged, as much in the darkas Stalin was to why the captain should wish to speak to him,risking Stalin's cage to do so. Stalin held his anger in check.'Well, you had better put him through, Olga,' he said, motioningYezhov to the phone.'What the hell is it, Orlov?'88

Orlov steadied his voice to say, 'I was recalled to the office,tovarisch Yezhov, to accept a report that came in just after youleft.''So? What's so special about this report?''lt's from Spain, tovarisch, and signed by comrade Broz. Youleft orders that anything from Broz or about Broz was to bebrought to you immediately...'Yezhov and Stalin exchanged glances as Yezhov interrupted.'I know what my orders were. Bring it over. On the double.'As Yezhov laid the hand piece slowly into the cradle, wishinghe had more time to think, Stalin furiously raised his harshvoice. 'How does Orlov know the report was signed by Broz,Nikolai?''It's on my orders, tovarisch. I instigated the system to guardagainst the loss or mislaying of reports. As you know, that used tohappen frequently during Yagoda's period in command.''Ah, yes.' A fleeting smile crossed Stalin's face as he recalledan incident several years previously concerning one report that hehad asked Yagoda, the former chief of the OGPU, to forward tohim. It was, in fact, a report by Marshal Tukhachevsky on Russian-Polishrelations since the Polish defeat at Kiev in 1920.When Yagoda had informed Stalin the report was lost, it was thebeginning of the end for the department chief. Obviously, Yezhovdid not wish to go the same way.Twenty minutes later, Orlov marched into the room. He gaveStalin a respectful salute and resumed his, by now, accustomedposition at attention in the front of the desk.Before he could say anything, Stalin spoke in a harsher whisper.'Twice in one day, captain.'Orlov wondered if Stalin meant his being in the office twice,or his proximity to death twice. He rather feared the latter.Yezhov rose to snatch the report from Sergei, but Stalin anticipatedhim and extended his hand. 'Hand it over.'The captain moved closer to the desk, sensing Yezhov's aim,and handed the report to Stalin.'You may go,' ordered Yezhov, suspecting that Stalin mightfurther interrogate Orlov.89

Stalin's raised voice stopped Orlov as he was about to executean about-turn and leave. 'The report envelope is opened.Why?'Orlov looked to Yezhov for help, not realising Stalin alreadyknew the answer. 'Tovarisch Stalin, it's common practice for allreports to be opened by our record section and logged in, listed bysubject.' Orlov was amazed at how his voice sounded. Inwardly,he wished he were anywhere else but this office.Satisfied with Orlov's explanation, which confirmed Yezhov'sstatement, Stalin released the junior officer. 'That is all,Orlov. You may go now.'Orlov breathed an inaudible sigh of relief and left the office.For one horrible moment during Stalin's questioning, he thoughtthe Russian leader was staring straight through the fabric of histunic at the copy of the report in his pocket... a copy he wouldsoon pass to another NKVO officer for forwarding to Germany.For Orlov; the exchange could not come too soon.Meanwhile, back in his office, Stalin rapidly read the report,while the general sat silently cursing the fact that he had not hadthe opportunity to read it first, and hoping that it was not morebad news. However, a glance at Stalin's face showed Yezhov that,if anything, the news was good. Stalin's first comment confirmedit.'I have the bastard now.' He threw the report to Yezhov witha command to read it quickly, then rose from his chair and resumedhis pacing of the room. Now his restlessness was causedby nervous excitement – not rage.As Yezhov read the report, he understood the change in hisleader's mien. In the report Broz detailed the anonymous phonecall he had received in Paris and his follow-up actions in Switzerland,Norway, Barcelona and the Serge Valley. He listed theproof he had uncovered showing an indisputable link betweenTukhachevsky, through the Paris ambassador Potemkin, to LeonTrotsky. If the details were correct, and Stalin appeared ready toaccept them at face value, then it might be enough to allow Stalinto destroy the two men he most hated, Trotsky and Tukhachevsky.A chance to destroy them before they destroyed him.90

As soon as Yezhov had finished reading, Stalin, to the general'sgreat relief, motioned for him to help himself to the vodka.After filling a glass to the brim, he resisted the temptation to gulpit in one swallow.Finally, Stalin stopped his restless pacing, and returned to thedesk. 'First things first. To get back to our previous problem. Doyou have a man suitable for the job as I outlined it, Nikolai?'Yezhov reluctantly finished the last of the vodka and glancedtowards the home, hoping for another invitation to help himself. Itwas not forthcoming. 'Yes, tovarisch, I be1ieve I have. In Yugoslaviathere is man we can trust who knows Broz extremely well.His name is Mosa Pijade, and he's editor of the Yugoslav Tribune.He was with Broz for many years in Lepoglava. He'll be able tohelp us to select the person we require and can also help us totrain the, shall we say, successful candidate.''Good, very good.'Yezhov thought for a moment and said, 'Tovarisch, I believethe situation calls for a monitor for Pijade, someone to ensure thatcomrade Pijade does exactly as we command. There is a man inZagreb, Franjo Rukavina. He's head of the mokrie del section ofthe party in Yugoslavia. He would be only too pleased to lookafter Pijade, with no questions asked. He hates intellectuals.We've used him before with some success.'Stalin leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped on hisstomach. Finally, things were falling into place, and in truth thisrevised plan of his, though dangerous, had certain advantages. Ifonly Broz knew. 'What sort of person is this Pijade, and what arehis qualifications?'Yezhov was ready with his answer. 'He's a typical Jewish intellectual,with an exaggerated idea of his own importance. I methim in 1920 when I was a lieutenant in Cheka. He hated the rulingclass then, and even more so now. Occasionally he passes oninformation to us which he considers vital, but more often thannot it's only trivial. Usually it's something we've already receivedfrom other sources.' Yezhov was quiet for a moment while hecollected his thoughts. 'I think he's ideal for our purpose, not onlybecause of his knowledge of Broz, but also because when weoutline the plan to him it will appeal to his sense of self-91

importance. Also, he can be disposed of very easily should it berequired.'Stalin nodded as Yezhov continued.'I'll have him brought to Moscow immediately. Do you wishto see him, or will I handle everything?''I think I'd better see this Jew-boy as well and give him somewords of encouragement.' Stalin leaned forwards, staring intentlyat Yezhov; 'I don't want any stuff-ups because of your incompetence.'With a gesture, he cut off the words of protest that rose inYezhov's throat and leaned back. 'No, this time it's too importantto trust anyone else. I'll oversee the whole operation. You, however,will contact Rukavina and brief him. He is to receive nodetails of our intention. As far as he's concerned, he's to watchover Pijade and report directly to you.''Yes, tovarisch.''In fact, after our candidate is trained and ready to go, I suggestwe keep Pijade as our guest for some time, say at one of ourresorts in the Crimea, at least until the final phase is initiated.'It was the first time that Yezhov had heard of a final phaseand Stalin noted the questioning look. He smiled. 'You didn'tthink I was taking this interest in Broz just because I wanted himto lead the Brigade, did you?'Yezhov, who had in fact believed just that, smilingly replied.'Of course not.' Stalin went on. 'No, tovarisch Yezhov; I havegreater things in mind for our Broz. When things are ripe, I wantBroz to run for general secretary of the Yugoslav CommunistParty, and not only to run, tovarisch Yezhov, but to get the position.I think our friend Pijade could also help us there.''No doubt, tovarisch. What shall we tell Pijade when he arrivesin Moscow?' 'Not the truth. Not at first. We will outline ourconcern for Broz's safety and ask him, as an old friend of Broz's,what steps we should take. With the proper handling, I have nodoubt we can get the Jew to suggest the very idea we want. If hedoesn't... well, there are other methods.' Stalin helped himself to aglass of vodka, pointedly ignoring his security chief. 'You'll sendmy personal invitation to Pijade in Zagreb immediately,''Yes, tovarisch.'92

'Now to this other matter: Tukhachevsky. With Broz's report,we now have the basis for a fair and proper trial, and our friendthe marshal will be put up against a wall and shot. Those lackeyjournalists will have nothing to complain about.'Yezhov realised that the bad publicity against Stalin andRussia, generated by Hitler and reported widely in the Westernpress, had made the leader wary. He also saw an opportunity toimpress Stalin. 'I'll have Colonel Ivanovich set up a surveillanceprogram on Potemkin. Sooner or later, he'll give us further proofof the conspiracy.''Good, We can use every scrap of information available. ButI don't want any faked evidence. There will have to be an openshow trial. We must impress the Western powers with our fairnessin this matter. But I want Trotsky,'Yezhov leaned forward eagerly. 'You'll have him, tovarisch.When it comes out at the trial that the two of them were conspiringto overthrow the lawful government of this country, there isno way another government can intercede on their behalf, andthose old fools in the presidium will finally be convinced thatLeon is the traitor. Whether he's in Switzerland, Norway, Franceor at the South Pole, we'll get him.' Yezhov was deadly serious.His personal hatred of Trotsky lent emphasis to his words andStalin believed him.'Now, Nikolai, you must be off. Send your man with my letter.I'll have it ready for you in an hour. Remember – time is ofthe essence. Contact Ramos first. Impress on him the need for secrecy.Then the Yugoslavs, and then Paris.''Joseph, there'll be a lot of work in the next few weeks. May Iuse Orlov to help me?'Stalin gave the matter some thought. Although he wouldnever admit it, the captain had made a good impression on himduring both his visits that day. He must see what he could do tohelp the man. 'Yes, but he's not to be told anything about themaster plan or these recent developments. So far as he's concerned,he's a coordinator. You can also use him as liaison betweenthe two of us. Now go.''Right, Joseph. I'll start straight away.'93

Yezhov left the office, and Stalin settled back in his chair, thevodka bottle once again in his hand, the glasses discarded. Thingswere developing very nicely, he mused, but there were still a lotof obstacles to overcome. At least those dammed Germans weren'tinvolved and, with only a few people knowing the truth of thisnew project, his chances were that much greater. Also, he wasgetting closer to the elimination of Trotsky and the marshal.Stalin would have been very surprised to learn that a thousandmiles away in Berlin, Captain Reinhard Gehlen was havingsimilar thoughts about Marshal Tukhachevsky. He knew, throughOrlov, that Stalin was out to get Russia's most able marshal and,if he could contribute towards the liquidation of any senior RedArmy officers, he would be only too pleased to help.Gehlen was far-sighted enough to realise that, sooner or later,Hitler must lead Germany into a world war. It was inevitable. Justas it was also inevitable that some day Russia and Germanywould be enemies. When that day carne, Gehlen wanted the opposingarmy to be without as many of its upper-echelon leaders aspossible.He decided to use the Abwehr to gather, or manufacture ifneed be, the evidence needed to dispose of Tukhachevsky and hisconspirators, and pass it back through Orlov to Stalin.However, should Orlov be detected and eliminated beforehand,then there were always the Russian émigré organisations,completely infiltrated by the NKVD agents, who would pass theplanted information along. If he could get rid of Tukhachevsky, itwould look very good on his file. Yes, things were looking goodfor Reinhard Gehlen as he reminded himself of his personalmotto: 'To get to the top, one has to be one step ahead of one'sworst enemy, and two ahead of one's best friend.'Two powerful men, each directing his great intellect towardsthe destruction of a third. It could only be a matter of time beforethe great Marshal Nikolayevich Tukhachevsky was nothing but amemory.In May 1937, as a result of Gehlen's deceit, Tukhachevskywas relieved of his post as deputy people's commissar for the defenceof the USSR, and was made commander-in-chief of theVolga defence area. He was arrested on 26th May. The false evi-94

dence used by Yezhov was only circumstantial, so, to avoid anypossibility of Tukhachevsky's release and a public show trial asplanned, Stalin was forced to hold a trial in secret.On 11th June, the marshal was executed. With him perishedthe once-famous group of commanders in the October Revolution:Putna, Yakir, Uborevich, Feldman, Eideman, Kork and Primakov;To justify this slaughter, Stalin, at a session of the MilitarySoviet in June 1937, announced that a counter-revolutionary fascistmilitary organisation had been uncovered in the ranks of theRed Army. Gemarik, the new deputy people's commissar for defence,and chief of me political administration of the Red Army,was also branded as one of the principals in the fascist conspiracy.He committed suicide before he could be arrested. As a resultof Stalin's revenge on the Red Army echelons, three-quarters ofthe Supreme Military Soviet – thirteen army commanders and ahundred and ten divisional commanders – were eliminated.At the beginning of 1938, General Nikolai Yezhov disappeared,and Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria became the new chief of theNKVD, the organisation which would later change its name to theMGB, and finally to the KGB.95

964ZAGREB 1937Mosa Pijade, the editor of The Yugoslav Tribune, was sittingin the beer garden at the Zagorski Puran restaurant in FijanovaStreet in Zagreb. He was in the company of several intellectuals,mostly around his own age, all of whom shared his extreme-leftpolitical views. While they were debating things like the future ofthe capitalist world, the meteoric rise of Adolf Hitler and hiscreation of the Third Reich, comrade Mosa caught a fleetingglimpse of a vaguely familiar face through the grapevine partition.Someone was trying to attract his attention.To more easily identify the man, Mosa hurriedly changedspectacles. He always carried two pairs, one for reading and theother for distances. He made the changeover just in time to confirmthe identification before the man's face disappeared fromview. It had been Franjo Rukavina, but his table was now empty.No, wait a moment, it wasn't quite empty; resting on the white tablecloththere was a red handkerchief. Mosa frowned. It must besomething important for Franjo to use the signal of extreme urgency.Surreptitiously, he nodded, knowing that Franjo would bewatching, indicating to him that the signal had been intercepted.Mosa scowled to himself. Damn it! Why could he not share a fewdrinks with friends without these niggling interruptions? Especiallyfrom inferior, lower-caste members of the Yugoslav CommunistParty. They were only members of the outer cell; bloodyproletariat.Unfortunately, there was no alternative but to leave the company.He would have to ascertain the reason for the urgency, andit was obvious that Franjo was acting on somebody else's orders.Mosa jokingly excused himself, pleading a weak bladder, andmade his way from the table and into the street. Pausing in thedoorway, he glanced casually along Fijanova Street, purposelyignoring Franjo, who was standing on the opposite side of theroad.

As soon as Mosa's small frame appeared in the doorway ofthe restaurant, Franjo took off his perspiration-soaked hat andwiped his forehead with his right hand. Mosa froze. This was theagreed signal for extreme danger, and the use of the right handindicated that Mosa should proceed along the footpath in the directionof Maksimir Street, only a few hundred metres to Mosa'sright. Only a few people were about in Fijanova Street but, asMosa wandered slowly towards Maksimir Street, he scanned thewindows in nearby buildings. Eyes could be watching from anyof them. Maksimir Street was lined with oak trees, their thickbranches forming a beautiful crown which provided a lot ofshade; good protection during hot summer and cold winter alike.Today, the breeze was sufficient to make the summer heatmore bearable. Despite the hot summer, Maksimir Street was alwayscrowded, due to the numerous shops. There were also a fewcoffee shops where one could buy delicious ice cream and mostof them had garden settings for their customers. They were tremendouslypopular during summer, and some of them stayedopen almost twenty-four hours a day.Reaching Maksimir Street, Mosa mingled with the crowd,then pretended to window-shop, stopping occasionally to stare atthe scene reflected in the glass to check if Franjo was followinghim. He need not have worried. Franjo's eagle eyes had beenfixed on Mosa's fragile frame from the moment he entered MaksimirStreet. Franjo was one of the best surveillance experts in theZagreb district, and even the police had found on several occasionsthat he was very hard to follow;As Mosa stared into one of the windows, Franjo appeared besidehim, 'I have to see you alone for a few minutes,' he whispered.'Something very important has cropped up. Go at once toBoris's vestibule.'Hot and irritable, Mosa turned to reply angrily, but Franjohad already disappeared into the crowd. He ground his teeth impotently,ruefully thinking of the cold beer he had left behind, andchecked his surroundings in the window glass once more beforemoving off. Turning the corner into the street where Boris lived,Mosa glanced across at his apartment block. The doorway into thevestibule was barred by a heavy wooden gate. Strolling across the97

oadway, he mingled with a large family, the children all laughingand eating ice cream, and as they carne abreast of the doorway heeased the gate open and slipped quietly inside.It took a moment for his vision to readjust in the muted stillnessof the ill lit hallway, but he could see the outline of a tall figurestanding by the iron staircase. It was Franjo.He approached, speaking in a house whisper. 'We're safehere, comrade Mosa. No one will hear us. I have a very impor...'Mosa rounded on him savagely. 'Just what the hell do youmean by interrupting me when I'm with friends – important people?I have more to do with my...'Franjo raised his hand, interrupting him. There was a sneeron his face as he spoke. 'All right, Mister High and Mighty, listento me carefully... comrade intellectual. Tonight you will receive avery important letter from Moscow; Commit it to memory, thendestroy it immediately. It is essential that you are home by nineo'clock, and on the way check with Baricato make sure the coastis clear. If it is, then go to your apartment and draw one of thecurtains halfway across the smaller of your windows. At preciselynine-fifteen, someone will knock lightly on your door. Do notopen it, but wait until you see an envelope protruding underneath...'Infuriated, Mosa cut him short. 'I just can't understand theneed for such secrecy and for all this hurry, that's all.' Mosa wasabout to reprimand Franjo for his intrusion into the intellectualdiscussions at the restaurant, but Franjo interrupted him before hecould speak.'Listen, comrade Mosa,' he said, his face solemn, 'I don'tknow either, but I strongly advise you to follow the instructionsyou are...'Once again impatiently, Mosa interrupted. 'Me? Me followyour instructions! You've got to be kidding. Why do I have tocheck with that peasant Barica? Is she some sort of agent ofyours, or what?'Franjo swore softly to himself, but again decided to give theold man another chance. 'Don't be so stupid... You 're actingchildishly. This is a serious matter. Can't you understand that?'98

Mosa hated prolonging the conversation; he would muchrather be back with his friends, but he was not satisfied. 'Themore I talk to you, the less I understand, and that's half the trouble.Come on, then, tell me why on earth I have to see Baricafirst.''All right, if you insist. A few weeks ago we found that thepolice were checking on you again. Normally, we don't want totake unnecessary risks. When you see Barica, if she says the policehave been around since then, you must still go to your apartment...but draw both curtains across. That will be the signal tocall off the delivery.'Mosa shrugged impatiently. 'Look,' he said, 'I don't give adamn about delivery procedure. All I'm interested in is this letter.What happens to it if the delivery isn't made?'Franjo too was becoming impatient. Did this silly old foolnot have any appreciation of the need for safety precautions?Holding his anger in check, he answered, 'In that case I'll contactyou again .'Mosa cut him short. 'Don't get on my nerves. Let me ask yousomething. Why on earth can't I pick up the letter when it appearsfor the first time, comrade Franjo?''Simply because that's the way delivery is arranged. The couriermust be sure it was you who received it, as only you wouldknow the instructions. Is that all you want to know, comradeMosa?' Franjo could see from Mosa's expression that he wasready to continue the argument, so he grabbed his arm, squeezingit hard, and grated through his teeth, 'Make sure that you followour instructions, you...bloody intellectual.'Mosa went pale when the fingers bit painfully into the softflesh of his upper arm. At the sound of the harsh voice, all blusterleft him. He suddenly realised Franjo had reached his boilingpoint, and to argue further might provoke him to violence. Heopened his mouth weakly to protest but, before he could speak,Franjo disappeared into Maksimir Street.Mosa slumped weakly on to the staircase and mopped hisbrow. He had long suspected Franjo's connection with the NKVD.The dirty tricks department of the Yugoslav Communist Party99

which he led was similar to that of the mokrie del department inthe NKVD.Mosa shook his head in disbelief; surely Franjo would nothave the effrontery to use such abusive language to a CommunistParty organiser, and a much older comrade at that? Especiallysince he was the chief editor of the underground newspaperswhich were distributed throughout the entire country by Franjo'sdepartment. Franjo should know better than that. He sensed thatFranjo's animosity was due to his narrow-minded outlook towardsMosa's academic background. Maybe there was jealousy, too, becauseof Mosa's membership of the inner cell of the YugoslavCommunist Party. Very few realised that, academic qualificationsapart, his natural intelligence was superior to theirs.Chagrined at Franjo's lack of respect, Mosa returned to thecompany of his friends at the restaurant. They, he felt, were theonly people who recognised and respected his natural brilliance.The drinking and debating went on until five, then they decidedto play chess, their favourite pastime, their only real mentalrelaxation. Mosa always enjoyed it because he invariably receivedtheir admiration for his excellent play. He was good at the game –and he knew it. While they played, the others watched him surreptitiously.They could feel that since his return Mosa had notbeen quite himself, and they wondered why. What had he heard?Or done? The change in his behaviour was noticeable, and yet hischess supremacy was more assured than ever.It was almost seven when Mosa decided to have a smallmeal, accompanied by another Turkish coffee, before leaving hisheadquarters, as he laughingly called the Zagorski Puran restaurant.Not without reason. The owner fed him with provincial cuisine,wine and plenty of real Turkish coffee – all free of charge.Some might have thought the proprietor was overly generous, butthe man was no fool; he knew that Mosa attracted large audiencesand that his takings went up accordingly. He nodded at Mosa'sdiscreet signal and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a fewminutes later with a silver tray holding a copper dzezva of coffee,a bowl of sugar cubes and a glass of water.He bowed to Mosa as he placed the tray on the table. 'Theusual four-cup size, comrade?'100

Mosa beamed his pleasure. 'Excellent! Excellent, comrade.That will do nicely.'The others watched as Mosa poured a small cup of the thickishmuddy-looking coffee. Then, with the air of a ritual, he tookone of the sugar cubes and, sitting back, placed it delicately underhis tongue before drinking the hot liquid. He savoured the sweetmixture, a look of sheer bliss on his face, then swallowed andsighed happily.'That, my friends,' he said to the rapt spectators, 'is exactlythe way my Jewish ancestors – ah, they were from Jerusalem, Ibelieve – would have had their coffee.' He paused to pour a secondcup. 'They passed the secret down to me, of course.'His captive audience nodded silently.Mosa chuckled to himself inwardly. How surprised theywould be if they knew that he'd picked up the sugar trick in jail inMitrovica and in Lepoglava. The coffee there had not been of thisquality, of course. It was a thin, watery chicory ersatz fluid; onlythe sugar had made it drinkable at all. Still, prison had not beenall bad. For one thing, he had met Josip Broz there.One of Mosa's regular audience, Peter, knew where Mosahad acquired some of his unusual skills, like forging, printing andillegal entry. He leaned forward and said confidentially, 'I heardthat you and your comrade, Broz, enjoyed feather mattresses inLepoglava. Is that true, comrade Mosa?'Mosa knew Peter was trying to provoke him with these snidecomments, but he knew how to handle him. He gave a cynicallaugh. 'You must be joking, comrade Peter. There's no suchprivilege for hard-core Communists like us. I can assure you, ifyou were locked away for several years in those rotten holes,you'd be satisfied with even a straw mattress.'It appeared that Peter was hoping to hear something new.'That may be true, Mosa, but one has to consider that your brotherhood'spositive activity might have persuaded the prison governorto give to you preferential treatment. After all, we all knowthat Lepoglava prison is one of the worst on the Balkan Peninsulaand probably in the whole world, so how did you manage to surviveso long?'101

The emphasis on preferential treatment had not been lost onMosa, and only strengthened his suspicion that Peter was an informer.'You couldn't be further from the truth, comrade Peter. I…'Peter interrupted him again. 'Come on, you should be proudof that pack of yours who looked after their distressed members.'With a smile on his face, Mosa decided to go along with Peter'spretended interest in the Yugoslav prison system. 'I have toadmit that the arm of the underground is long enough to reach, ifnot God, because we don't believe in him, then certainly theprison governor...' – he paused a second and looked hard at Peter– '.. .as well as all those who work as informers.'The hint was enough for Peter to sense the danger, but Mosawas remembering how a number of governors had disappearedduring his stay in Mitrovica prison. When Mosa talked about theunderground, he was referring to an unpopular decision by theYugoslav King Alexander in 1929, during the proclamation of hisdictatorship, which outlawed the existence of the Communists byroyal decree.Finishing his coffee, Mosa arranged with his friends anothervenue for the next day. He had to move around to make the police'sjob harder. He and his friends split up into small groups,bade each other goodnight and left their headquarters for the day.Once again, Mosa headed towards Maksimir Street. His apartmentwas situated in the old city of Zagreb.Mosa felt privileged to live in Stari Grad, as citizens of lowerZagreb called it. He considered whether he should walk there,which would take at least half an hour, or go by tram. Although itwas one of the coldest nights so far that summer, Mosa opted forthe latter. He was surprised at the number of people on the tramand he knew immediately that this journey would take longer thanhe had anticipated, because the tram would have to pause at everystop. He got off in the centre of the city. Putting up the collar ofhis coat, he buried his hands deep in his pockets and, head down,made his way across Jelacic Square. From there, he walked northwestalong the upward slope of Radic Street.Radic Street was named after the father of Croatian democracy,Stjepan Radic, the founder of HSS, the Croatian Peasant102

Party, a group which was trying, peacefully if possible, to reestablishCroatia as a sovereign state. If necessary, they wouldagree at the beginning to its formation within a federation of otherYugoslav states. Its creation was planned by peaceful negotiations,rather than by the use of force proposed by the more militantextreme-right parties and the Communists. Although themajority of Serbian political parties supported the supreme poweralready exercised by King Alexander, who used the parliament ashis own tool, they were aiming for greater expansion. Many Serbiansrealised that they would not be able to suppress the idea ofan independent Croatia for an indefinite period; Croatia was moreindustrialised, more organised and, due to its geographical position,more inclined to the West. Even Moscow, for its own politicalreasons, encouraged Croatian secession.These progressive thinkers forced the government to inviteRadic to Belgrade so they could hear his proposals first-hand.Many Croatians disapproved of his trip to Belgrade, but Radic acceptedthe invitation, realising it was a unique opportunity for himto outline Croatian demands and to gauge Serbian reactions. Notlong before his arrival, some Serbian zealots – supporters of theGreater Serbia plan - decided to assassinate Radic. This, theyhoped, would eliminate the Croatian desire for a sovereign state.When Radic rose to speak in the chamber, one of the Serbiandelegates, Punisa Racic, drew a gun and fired several shots, fatallywounding Radic and killing three delegates from Croatia.The news spread all over the world.Thanks to the efforts of numerous doctors, Radic clung to lifefor several weeks, but in the end they could not save him. TheGreater Serbia plan survived.Mosa blinked and looked around. This would not do. He wasdaydreaming again.Radic Street led him into medieval Zagreb, surrounded by itshigh wall, with its streets illuminated at night by gas lamps. Mosaglanced at the Kamenita Vrata – stone gates – facing Radic Street;they would have been a short cut for him, but he dared not usethem at night. Inside the open archway of the stone gates, whichwere topped by a two-storey structure once used as a watchtower,103

there was a tunnel about eight metres long. At night, the tunnelwas lit by the flames of three hundred candles placed in a heavymetal structure which stood by a niche in the wall containing astatue of the Virgin Mary. Opposite the statue, its brilliant coloursof blue and gold gleaming in the flickering candlelight, there wasa small stand where visitors could buy candles or pictures of thesaints from the proprietor, an old woman named Barica.Despite her age, Barica had one outstanding talent: she couldremember all her customers, even those who paid a visit onlyonce or twice a year. She could remember not only their faces butalso their names, where they carne from, their occupations andany other little peculiarities. Because of her natural gift, and thereligious tendency of the Croatian population, the spot had becamevery popular – almost a tourist attraction. Thousands ofpeople visited her. So did the police.Mosa paused to mop his brow after his struggle against thesteep gradient of the street. If anyone knew whether the policewere showing interest in him, Barica would. It would not be thefirst time he had steered clear of his flat for a week or more due toher advice.He stood in the gateway, waiting until a visitor had completeda transaction for a religious picture, then approached theold woman. 'Good evening, Barica. Have you sold enough candiestoday... or do you wish me to buy some?''God bless you, Mister Pijade,' she said softly, her bright eyesglancing up quickly. 'Business is as usual, thank you.'Mosa, disturbed by the use of the words 'God' and 'Mister',raised his voice. 'How many times have I told you, Barica, not tomention God or to address me as Mister, but comrade?''I realise your concern, Mister Pijade. I must admit that weare equal in the eyes of God, but I could never address a gentlemanlike you as comrade.''Why not?' enquired Mosa, ignoring her reference to God.'Well, it's very simple. In Zagorje province, where I wasborn, I addressed as comrades only those people with whom Igrazed our cows and horses – people like myself – but no otherpeople.'104

Satisfied with Barica's answer, Mosa smiled and said, 'Thankyou for your simple explanation. As I wasn't a shepherd boy duringmy teens, I'll permit you to address me as Mister in the future.'Barica's serene face belied her inward satisfaction. Again shehad conned this highly respected intellectual. What sweet revengeon an atheist. Ah, if she only could persuade him to accept theexistence of God. Only God was her witness that she would giveanything away just to sort him out. Yet he was the only personwho ever tried to make her equal to him; others treated her as aninferior human being.Mosa interrupted her thoughts. 'Barica, may I ask you something?'The old woman nodded.'In which part of Zagorje province were you born? You nevertold me.'The old woman dropped her eyes and began to tidy her boxesof candies, giving her time to think. What was behind this seeminglyinnocent inquiry? She had an instinctive feeling that it wasnot as casual as it sounded, and her intuition had never failed herin the past. Lying was against all her Catholic principles, but herhatred of the destructive atheism of Communism was evenstronger so, when she raised her head to smile at Mosa, the lie didnot show in her eyes. She didn't want him to know she had beenborn in the same village as that atheist, Josip Broz, so she selectedanother one seven kilometres away. 'I was born in a small villagenamed Kumrovec, Mister Pijade.''Never heard of it. What's the name of the county?''The county is named after the largest village in the district –Klanjec. Do you know the area, Mister Pijade?''Oh, of course I know Klanjec,' said Mosa, hoping to showthat even intellectuals had some knowledge of the Croatian countrysideand that they were not as ignorant as many peoplethought. 'Many years ago I lodged there at a famous tavern. It wasthere that I first tasted plavicek,' he said, referring to a very mildslivovitz made in Zagorje.Barica suspected that Mosa was patronising her because shecame from one of the poorest provinces in Croatia, but she de-105

cided to check his story. 'What was the name of the tavern, MisterPijade?''If my memory serves me right, it was the Plavi Trnaci – theBlue Inn.'Barica nodded. 'I remember it. My father used to go therequite often.'Mosa looked at her quizzically. 'Isn't it a little too far fromyour village on foot?''Not really, because my father use to go there on market days,on his way home. Although we were poor, my father had awagon, and from Klanjec to Kumrovec is hardly seven kilometres.'Mosa steered the conversation in a more important direction.'By the way, Barica, has anybody been looking for me today?'Glancing at his watch, he calculated he still had about twentyminutes to spare before the expected delivery of the letter.'No, Mister Pijade. If someone had, I would have let youknow immediately I saw you. After all, regardless of our politicalbeliefs, we are all Christians, so we should look after each other,'Mosa looked hard at the old woman. Was there somethinglurking behind those twinkling brown eyes? He shrugged andreached for his coin purse. 'Would you like me to buy some ofyour candles? I know you have children to feed, regardless ofwhere your money comes from.'Barica had wondered about Mosa's religious persuasion. Henever appeared to be Roman Catholic, and she never saw him inthe nearby church, St Marko, or the cathedral, which was verypopular, especially at Christmas and Easter,'I know you're willing to buy my candles, but what's the use?Unless you believe in God, there's no reason to buy one.''Are you taking me on, Barica?' inquired Mosa. Although unashamedof his Jewish origins, he was not prepared to disclose hisatheism. Such a revelation could affect his source of information,and he was not prepared to take the risk. Grunting, he placed afew coins on the table. 'All right, then, let me have a few.'Barica looked at him askance. 'Something tells me, MisterPijade, you'll find it rather... difficult, shall I say?.. to light yourcandles.'106

He stared back at her. Was the old woman playing cat andmouse with him?Barica took several candles from a nearby box and placedthem in the first row of the wrought-iron holder – the only emptyrow available. Then, taking a box of matches from her pocket, sheoffered them to Mosa. 'Here, why not light them yourself?'He automatically reached for the box, then flinched back.'No, no, you go ahead and light them.'The old woman smiled, and Mosa moved about to watch her.Putting a match to a long taper, Barica lit the candles. They wentout almost immediately. Mosa pretended to be disappointed becauseshe had proved her point, but his close observation revealedthat the first row was vacant because it was exposed to a draught.He was amazed at the old woman's shrewdness, but he rememberedthat while he was in prison he had been equally amazed atJosip Broz's shrewdness, which he attributed to the hard life inZagorje province, where people were forced to improvise in orderto survive. Mosa partly blamed the Catholic Church, whosepriests encouraged families to have numerous children, eventhough their small farms could hardly provide enough food for allof them.People's illiteracy and their blind devotion to the RomanCatholic Church had been exploited by local priests in manyways. The peasants provided cheap labour for the Church's properties,which flourished despite the desperate shortage of foodelsewhere. Most of the well-fed priests had very little sympathyfor poor peasants, and it was Mosa who encouraged his lieutenantsto go to Zagorje province – to his mind an ideal breedingground for the Communist doctrine. His estimation proved rightyears later.Barica interrupted his thoughts. 'Will there be anything else,Mister Pijade?' He shook his head and bade her good evening.The crafty old witch – she thought she had hoodwinked him.Turning away, he started to walk, and his mind switched to themysterious letter and the complicated delivery precautions. Hewas trying desperately in his mind to determine the originator.Mosa was well aware that the royal secret service were tailinghim most of the time, but he had not spotted them tonight. He107

knew his life was in constant danger, and the danger heightenedhis perceptions, but he could not understand the reason for suchidiotic procedures. True, comrade Josip Broz did not communicatewith him on a regular basis but, even if a letter was on theway to him, Broz would not impose such ridiculous delivery instructions.Thinking about his first visit to Moscow in 1920, helonged for another VIP trip to Moscow.Mosa could hardly wait for nightfall; he was eager to learnabout the mysterious letter. Eventually, he reached 14 MarkovaStreet, where he had his first-floor flat. Climbing the stairs, hepaused from time to time to rest. He knew exactly how manystairs there were between street level and his entrance door, butnever tired of counting them. It always seemed to give him reliefonce he passed twenty and had only two more to go.His flat consisted of one enormous room, which his faithfulcomrades had helped him divide into three. The lounge area wassituated inside the entrance; on the right, behind a partition, therewas a small kitchenette. On the kitchen side he stored his cookware,while on the lounge side he displayed his valuable referencelibrary. There were books by Dante, Plato, Engels, Marx, Machiavelli,Voltaire, Tolstoy, Robespierre, Lenin and Ishutin, andeven Stalin's manual on proletarian revolution.The last section, on the left of the entrance, contained a sofawhich, while it could hardly be regarded as a comfortable bed forthe average person, was ideal for a man of Mosa's small stature.His diminutive size was very often the subject of local jokeswhich he hated so much. The jokes, however, were understandablesince, apart from being the only Jew, his one-point-threemetreframe made him noticeable among the members of theYugoslav Communist Party, most of whom were over one-pointeightmetres in height and a hundred kilos in weight.They might joke about him being an ideal jockey, but neverthelessthey had to give him credit for his ingenuity and intelligence,as well as his consideration, understanding and dedication.Above all, they admired his tremendous ability to organise. Hewas more than an asset; he was a mastermind of priceless value,though it was very seldom appreciated by his inferiors.108

The sofa was hidden by heavy rugs suspended from rails ametre below the ceiling. The rugs had been given to him byMoslems from Bosnia and, apart from his books, were his mostprecious treasures. Some of the rugs embodied Bosnian folk motifscovering battles against Turks, and others depicted the minaretsof famous Sarajevo mosques.The flat was clean enough, but somehow it always managedto look untidy. As Mosa took off his topcoat, he glanced at theold-fashioned clock ticking on the mantelshelf above the emptyfireplace. Time for a cop of coffee before his invisible postmanarrived.He filled the dzezva, then crossed to a seat by the circularcoffee table to wait while it brewed. Idly, he traced the outline ofthe cathedral of Zagreb on the embossed copper tabletop.What was that? Had he heard someone outside? He glancedtowards the door. Damn his partial deafness. What if the idiotonly tapped lightly and Mosa did not hear him? Getting up, hepoured coffee; then, after remembering to pull one of the windowblinds halfway down, he moved his chair close to the door andsettled down to wait.At nine-fifteen exactly, someone knocked very lightly and,by the time Mosa managed to get on his feet, an envelope had appearedunder his door. According to instructions, he pushed itback, then waited until it appeared the second time.Mosa slid it further in with the toe of his shoe, then went tothe window and pulled the blind all the way down before switchingoff the main light. Sitting down, he picked up his magnifyingglass and inspected the seal on the envelope. Satisfied that no onehad tried to open it, he opened the thick envelope with great care.There were two letters enclosed. As he straightened out thetop one, he-noticed the writing was in Russian. Picking it up, hebegan to read.Comrade Mosa,I realise this letter will come as a surprise to you, particularlysince I can't, at least at this stage, reveal myreasons for the request that follows. Suffice to say that109

they are of a sensitive and confidential nature. I wantyou to come to Moscow. I cannot stress enough the importanceof your presence here, not only to you personally,but to your own country. It is very important thatyou leave as soon you can make arrangements with comradeFranjo. We do not know how long you will be requiredto stay in Russia, but you can anticipate at leastnine to twelve months, depending on the circumstancesat that time. I wish you a safe journey and hope to seeyou soon. You will find instructions enclosed, and it is ofgreat importance that you follow them to the letter.In struggle for the freedom of the proletariat,Joseph Vissarionovich StalinMesmerised, Mosa stared at the signature: Stalin. The greatman himself!Unconsciously, he sat erect and felt an urge to spring to hisfeet. Before reading the second letter, he reread Stalin's secondparagraph but, the longer he looked at it, the less he could decipherthe meaning behind it. The other letter was addressed by adifferent hand, one which he did not recognise until he read thesignature.Comrade Mosa,Information received from Yugoslavia reveals that theroyal Yugoslav secret service is using you as bait. It isvery important, therefore, that no one, not even yourclose associates, should know of your final destination.The entire success of your trip depends on its total secrecy.Money for your trip has been forwarded, and youshould now contact comrade Nikola Pajic, who will organisea new passport and a new identity for you. Toelude those who have a keen interest in your affairs, youshould travel to Karlove Vary – a thermal spring inCzechoslovakia. As an excuse, you can always plead youare going for a rest which you need so badly after havingbeen in prison for so long. Comrades Franjo and110

Nikola are the only members who will have been informedthat you have received this invitation. Once youreceive your travelling documents, Franjo will look afterall requirements until you cross the Yugoslav border.Once in Vienna, disguise yourself and stay there for afew days, until Franjo contacts you to continue with yourjourney to Paris. On your arrival in Paris, you'll be metby a comrade Peter Denisovich, who will make furtherarrangements.Good luck,In our struggle for freedom,General Nikolai YezhovMosa sat back and whistled silently through pursed lips. Nowhe understood the importance of the delivery, and the hidden implicationswhich could have prevented him from organising orparticipating in worthwhile actions in the territory of Yugoslavia.He read both letters once again, memorising every detail. How hewould love to preserve those pages, and yet he had to destroythem. What a pity! The letters could prove his importance toMoscow and the Yugoslav Communist Party. If he could keepthem for the future, they would serve as proof that his serviceswere important at a time when the internal struggle for leadershiphad claimed the lives of so many valuable members. Still, heknew also how cold it would be in Siberia if someone foundthem, and the thought sent shivers down his spine.He looked longingly at the two sheets of paper, then, sighing,rose and walked into the lounge. Placing a saucer on the coffeetable, he burned the letters, then flushed the ashes.Without delay, Mosa began to pack possessions into hismountaineer-type knapsack, throwing in a few books to read onhis way to Moscow. Near the fireplace, he lifted a nearly camouflagedsection of flooring and removed a metal biscuit box – apresent from comrade Broz. The box, stuffed with money be-111

longing to the Zagreb Communist Party cell, would be handedover before his departure.He divided the money into three bundles; one bundle of fourhundred dinars, a lot of money in those days, he deposited in hisspare boots, which he filled afterwards with old newspapers tokeep their shape intact. A second bundle, containing two hundreddinars, he halved to buy a ticket to Vienna, while the rest heplaced in his spare trousers before rolling them to stuff into theknapsack. The remaining bundle, approximately three thousanddinars, he wrapped in an old newspaper and placed in the biscuitbox. Satisfied, he left the flat through the backyard in case he wasunder observation. He would go straight to the home of anothermember of the inner cell, Nikola Pajic, where he would leave hiskeys and the biscuit box. Pajic would use the money to financethe Yugoslav Tribune during Mosa's absence.He moved off in the opposite direction to Radic Street toreach Ilica Street, forty-five metres below the upper town level,on his way to Nikola's house. On the way down, he had to crossthe square dominated by St Marko's Church. Being an atheist, henaturally hated the sight of holy places like St Marko's. Not becauseof its peculiar design or its historical significance, but forwhat it represented domination by Rome.Mosa reached the popular Strossmayer Promenade, whichoverlooked the Lower Town. There, he paused to make his nextmove. He had a choice: either he could walk down the long, tiringCapucine staircase, where he could ensure that no one observedhis hurried departure, or he could travel by now almost desertedfunicular connecting the Upper Town with Ilica Street, one of themain arteries of Zagreb. Mosa did not need long to decide. In fact,his amply-padded stomach made the decision for him.The funicular ride lasted only a few minutes, but long enoughfor him to appreciate Zagreb's beauty at night. The numerousstreet lights and colourful signs were quite different from thosethat illuminated the Upper Town, where the narrow streets of themedieval city were dimly lit by gas lanterns.Ilica Street was striking. It glittered with numerous shoplights, which drew a huge crowd like magic. The entire length,some two kilometres, was always busy, except perhaps in the112

early morning when the cleaning gangs would appear, draggingtheir huge hose wheel.From Ilica Street, Mosa took a short cut to Frankopan Street,named after the Croatian nobleman, Marquis Fran KrstoFrankopan. There, he caught a tram to the main railway station.Situated opposite a large park, the station was an impressivebuilding in the architectural style used on so many public andeven private buildings in Zagreb. Oak trees lined the park perimeter,and shrubs and flower beds broke up the continuity ofmanicured lawns. The park was a sanctuary for young lovers andelderly citizens, while birds of all sizes and descriptions used thewater in the large fountain for refreshment and the occasionalbath during the hot summers.The northern side of the park was occupied by an art gallery,its cupola dominating the main entrance. The contents of its mainhall were the gems of Croatian culture, not only priceless invalue, but important reminders of a national existence. Oppositethe main railway station, the park's southern end was dominatedby the monument to King Tomislav, showing the monarchmounted on his horse.What a giant compared to people in real life, Mosa thought.Tomislav's sceptre looked so heavy, yet the king was holding itoutstretched single-handed. Mosa grinned, wryly rememberinghis ancestor's discontent, which was recorded in his thick volumes.He always used the writings in arguments with thickskulledCroatian intellectuals in Zagreb. Their short-sightednessand failure to recognise the significance of the Croatian king – anobleman who had succeeded in uniting Croatian lands and itsdiscordant dukes, noblemen who finally accepted his tremendousdrive and, in 925, crowned him Croatia's first king.Mosa, Serbian through and through, was appalled by the indifferencedemonstrated by those who constantly denied properrecognition to a man who had laid the foundations of the Croatiansovereign state. Sadly, the king's successors had failed to preservethe Croatian kingdom; the eighteen years of hard work, numerousbattles and extensive diplomacy which led to the establishment ofa united' Croatia had been destroyed forever.113

He pointed out in his arguments that this piece of Croatianhistory should have taught them, when the Austro-Hungarian empirefell, to go it alone, instead of accepting the Serbian king.Now that the Serbian king had been manipulated by the designersof the Greater Serbia policy, it was too late to cry over spilt milk.As a devoted Communist, he was sure it was just this kind of indifferencewhich would enable Communism to fill the vacuumcreated by this bunch of shortsighted individuals. The masses,lacking the right breed of leadership, would be easy prey toCommunist propaganda, and ultimately Communist control,which Mosa believed would take place in the event of the warthat loomed.Mosa reached the main railway building but, instead of takingthe overpass, he chose the side track normally used by therailwaymen.Nikola's house was several blocks away from the main stationin an area known as radnicka cetvrt, labourer's quarters, oneof the poorest in the city of Zagreb. Only those who worked forthe railway and had large families were allowed to live there. Thearea was also known to be a breeding ground and stronghold ofthe Yugoslav Communist Party. Zagreb was virtually crime-free,but very rarely would a policeman on his own visit this part ofZagreb, not even during the day. The citizens, a poor but honestlot, were recognised as a tight-knit community whose memberswould help each other against any outside influence or pressure.Nikola, a railway employee, was much better off than theothers, mainly because he was a qualified cabinetmaker. As such,he enjoyed many privileges, which were envied by some and respectedby others. Nikola could easily have afforded to live insome better-off part of Zagreb but, being a staunch supporter ofthe Communist Party, he believed that he had to share the plightof his co-workers. He was a popular man, both at work and athome with his family, and was regarded as an asset within theparty cell at the railway workshop. Only those who knew himwell knew the real reason why he chose to live in this grubbyneighbourhood – the valuable hobby which remained his bestguarded secret. Even his next-door neighbours did not suspect hiscunning profession.114

Nikola's wife Francika opened the door to Mosa's knock andgreeted their unexpected guest of honour. Being an intellectual,Mosa always received VIP treatment from the country peoplewho had now made their new home in Zagreb.Nikola already knew of Mosa's trip, but was surprised to seehim so soon. He had received his instructions just a few hours agoand had not yet had time to consider them. 'So soon, comrade?' hesaid, ushering in his visitor.'I'm sorry if I've inconvenienced you, comrade Nikola,but I thought it would be better to leave the flat at night ratherthan in the morning.'Nikola nodded, 'You're right,' then turned to his wife. 'Bringus some slivovitz, Francika. You know the one – for specialguests.'Under normal circumstances, they would have continueddrinking until midnight, but tonight was different – they had toprepare the documents for Mosa's trip. After a few drinks, Nikolasuggested it was time to pay a visit to the special workshop in hisbackyard. From the outside, it looked like the usual shelter whichmost of the railwaymen had for stating firewood. There was anarea allocated for splitting, cutting and storing. During the long,cold winters, the firewood would be protected from harshweather. Because of Nikola's trade as a cabinetmaker, it was naturalthat he should have a large shelter to store his wood. He alsohad an engine saw which was used extensively by his neighbours.No one, however, was aware of the workshop under the shed.Nikola never allowed anyone to snoop around the woodshedwithout his supervision, his excuse being, 'There's a lot of expensivetools in there.'The underground space (which he laughingly referred to asthe passport branch) was stocked with photographic equipment,Yugoslav currency, a printing press, a small arsenal of arms andoffice stationery. The fresh-air supply, which could be regulatedas required, was ingeniously built into a cavity which ran thewhole length of the space between false walls.As they entered the carpentry shop, Mosa stopped and turnedaround slowly, disappointment obvious on his face. 'Oddlyenough, Nikola, I thought your workshop would be better115

equipped.' He gazed from the engine saw to the wood lathe halfobscuredby numerous belts.Nikola smiled enigmatically, showing two rows of yellowedteeth. 'I couldn't have operated this long if it were displayed asopenly as you expected.'Forestalling any further queries, Nikola operated a hiddenlever, and a primitive-type wood lathe of enormous size, poweredby a small electric motor with an array of criss-cross pulleys andbelts, moved slowly from its position in the corner towards themiddle of the shelter. Mosa watched, fascinated. The solid appearanceof the lathe and its sheer size would have fooled anyone.They would never dream that it could move so easily. As it slidsilently to a halt, Mosa could see that there was a large cavity underthe lathe's original position. He glanced up to see Nikola grinningat him, obviously enjoying his amazement.Once in the basement, Mosa glanced quickly around but, tohis surprise, nothing revealed its extraordinary function. Therewere numerous pigeonholes full of nuts, bolts, washers, screwsand nails of all sizes and descriptions. There was nothing to suggestthe basement was a sophisticated workshop used by theCommunist Party. In the middle stood Nikola's working table,covered by a sheet.Removing the cover, Nikola said, 'And now, comrade Mosa,let's get to work.'Mosa took a look in Nikola's direction and noticed anothertable. Its top was half-covered with green felt, almost like a billiardstable, while the other half had a hard wooden top. This sectionhad once had a highly polished surface, but the shine wasdulled – obviously due to frequent use.Nikola nodded towards a corner. 'You'll find everything youneed over there: razor, mirror, basin. Get that moustache off first.'Mosa stared at him. 'My mous... Ah, come on, Nikola. I'vehad it so long.''Damn it, Mosa. Stop wasting time and get on with it. Surelyyou realise your photo will be at every exit from Yugoslavia. I'lleven have to dye your hair. Once you're safe, you can grow yourmoustache back, but there's no way you can keep it now.''But without it I feel naked, comrade Nikola.'116

Nikola nodded and continued with his preparations to colourMosa's hair.By the end of the second day, Mosa had put the finishingtouches to his new passport; passport forgery was the one art hehad learned well in prison. The only genuine part of it was aCzechoslovakian entry visa. The Yugoslav entry and exit visaswere perfect forgeries, as were his new face in the photograph andhis doctored personal details.Although no longer on the wanted list, there was no way hecould leave Yugoslavia by legal means, not with his prison record.Also, on this occasion he had to play safe not only on hisown account, but also for comrade Broz. The new passportshowed him as Hans Steiniger, an Austrian businessman. If questioned,he was travelling through Yugoslavia on a fact-findingmission. Personally, he objected to the extravagant spending hewould have to indulge in, but the underground had insisted that helive up to the image and had provided him with good quality, expensiveclothes and luggage. He was forced to agree that a successfulforeign businessman would seem out of place carrying hisbattered knapsack.As Nikola had put it to him, 'We want you to travel in style.After all, how many Communists receive an invitation from thefather of our struggle himself?'The last leg of his top to the Yugoslav border, Mosa was told,would be monitored by his bodyguard – a man who would joinhim at Ljubljana. The bodyguard would ensure that he got acrossthe border safely. Mosa had been provided with Austrian currency,cigarettes and matches. The name tags on all his clotheswere those of Viennese tailors. His entry visa to Czechoslovakiahad been obtained through their contact at the consulate inZagreb.Prior to his departure, Mosa made arrangements with Nikolafor someone to look after his mail; he was still counting on comradeBroz's letter and he did not like the idea of police reading itfirst. One of the least-known members of the underground, aBosnian visiting Zagreb, would be sent to see Barica and shewould be told that Mister Pijade had accepted his doctor's advice117

to seek treatment at the thermal springs in Tuheljske Toplice, torecover from the effects of his prolonged stay in prison.To complete the cover-up, the underground had also arrangedfor Mosa's decoy, comrade Branko Lukic from Hercegovina, totravel to Tuheljske Toplice and check in under Mosa's name. Aftera few weeks at the thermal springs, to confuse the police evenfurther, he would travel to Bosnia, where he would disappear untilMosa's return.There was a good chance that, even if he were recognised onhis way out of Yugoslavia, Mosa would be able to elude the police.It was essential that he do so. He could not risk being followedall the way to Paris by the royal Yugoslav secret service. Itwould endanger the life of Josip Broz, whose movements aroundthe French capital were guarded with the utmost secrecy.A few friends joined Nikola and his family to see Mosa off,but only Nikola and Franjo were aware of his true destination. Onhis way back to the central railway station, he again took a shortcut, which led him this time into one of the underpasses. Walkingalong the platform, he found a seat occupied by a middleagedwoman. Leaving his suitcase in her care, he mingled with a crowdof travellers. From time to time, he would ask in German aboutthe time of the train's arrival from Belgrade. The train was late, asusual – typical Balkan inefficiency, thought Mosa. They had atotal lack of responsibility when it came to transport. Most travellerswere accustomed to unnecessary delays. Inwardly, theywere angry, of course, but very few ever complained or lodged aformal protest. Instead, they would abuse the poor attendants, oreven the stationmaster's assistant if he was in sight.When the train eventually arrived, the travellers crammed theentry doors.Mosa, having retrieved his suitcase, joined them. It was hardto find a vacant seat but, thanks to his distinguished appearance,his small frame and his seemingly advanced age, the peasants accommodatedhim without much trouble.As Mosa squeezed gratefully into the restricted space of thethird-class carriage, he smiled gratefully at the other occupants.'Danke schön,' he said.118

The other travellers looked up in surprise. Most foreign touriststravelled either first- or second-class. Also, they were puzzledby his appearance; it seemed out of place in third-class, wherethere was little privacy and even less comfort.He was amused at their veiled guesses, never rude, as to whathis business was – a topic which kept them occupied for at leastan hour. They also showed surprise when he proceeded to smokea local brand of cigarettes, known to use cheap paper and evencheaper tobacco.Mosa's had chosen third class because, once at the border, theguards would want to check the third-class coaches as quickly aspossible: they were known in Yugoslavia not only as the cheapestway to travel, but also for their polluted stale air, contaminated asit was by the smell of cheap tobacco, garlic and poultry manure.The local peasants, though reasonably clean, used third class as ameans of transport for their chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys andeven puppies. The noise from these animals alone was enough toprevent Mosa, tired as he was, from catching a few hours' sleep.The trip to Ljubljana, the capital city of Slovenia, proved tobe without incident, though Mosa felt sick in his stomach fromthe heavily polluted air. His unsettled stomach may have beenpartly due to the unexpected excitement of receiving an invitationfrom Moscow. His greatest disappointment was that he could notparticipate in the conversation: he had to pretend that he could notunderstand the loud conversation held in Croatian, Hungarian,Macedonian and Serbian. At Ljubljana station, he had to transferto another train which would take him to Graz.His bodyguard joined him for the last part of his trip insideYugoslavia. Mosa recognised the brute easily; his clothes barelyhid his weapon. Mosa, now surrounded by a new set of travellers,gave a signal to the bodyguard, who was sitting opposite him.The bodyguard addressed him in Croatian. 'Da li imatesibice, gospodine? Do you have some matches, sir?'Mosa pretended that he could not understand the language.The bodyguard repeated the question in Italian, but Mosa remainedunmoved.'Sprechen Sie Deutsch?''Ja,' answered Mosa.119

During the rest of journey they spoke in German, but, awarethat some travellers might understand what they were talkingabout, Mosa talked mostly about his impressions of Yugoslavia.From time to time, his bodyguard would translate Mosa's impressions.To impress his fellow-passengers, Mosa occasionallypraised either the Slovenians or Croatians for their industrial progress.He purposely kept silent about the bad management whichprevailed in Yugoslavia at that time.As they talked, the train was getting close to the border. Suddenlyit came to a halt. Shortly afterwards, border guards enteredthe train, walking along from first class to third. As the guards inspectedthe carriages, Mosa quickly realised that something waswrong. While first- and second-class passengers were being givenonly a token check, the procedure with third class was the reverseof what he had expected. The guards checked the passengers,their passports, luggage, and goods leaving the country, thenmade inquiries as to their destinations.When they finally reached Mosa, who had deliberately chosena seat adjacent to the window, the officer in charge looked athim, his face expressionless. 'Pasos molim! Passport, please.'Mosa remained cool, looking bluntly back at the official, hisface a picture of incomprehension.The officer frowned irritably but, before he could repeat hisrequest, one of the passengers forestalled him. 'On Vas ne razumije,gospodine oficire. He doesn't understand, officer.''Kako Ti to znades? How do you know?''Well, this gentleman,' he said, pointing to Mosa's bodyguard,'...couldn't make himself understood until he tried in German.'The guard, whose knowledge of German was limited, neverthelessliked a chance to make himself sound very important. Heknew many passengers joked about the illiteracy of the borderguards and liked to make run of them behind their backs. He hadheard them say the reason why guards were always seen in pairswas because one of them could only read, and the other couldonly write. Here, thought the officer, was an opportunity to demonstratehis knowledge, no matter how limited. These peasantswould not be likely to know the difference, anyway; they would-120

n't notice how proficient, or otherwise, he really was. He clickedhis heels and bowed briefly to Mosa. 'Reisepass, bitte!'Only then did Mosa react. He smiled and, looking straightinto the officer's eyes, produced his passport. 'Of course. It's mypleasure.'Ignoring Mosa, the guard silently and carefully inspected thepassport. Mosa tried to look unconcerned, but he did not miss thesarcasm in the guard's voice when he finally spoke.'My God, this is the first time since I came here that I've seena brand-new passport.' He looked up to stare at Mosa. 'How didyou enjoy your stay in Yugoslavia, Herr Steiniger?'Mosa ignored the sarcasm. 'Well... being my first time inyour fascinating country, it only confirmed what I'd already heardbefore I left Austria. Your hospitable people and their excellentfood made my stay a memorable one. The thing which struck memost was that travelling through Yugoslavia was like travellingthrough several different countries.'The officer's eyes narrowed. 'What do you mean by that?'Mosa could see that he had made a faux pas, but he wasquick to rectify the slip. 'Well, let me put it this way: while I wastravelling through Slovenia, I noticed that they had similar architecture,and even landscape, to ours in Austria. Although theirstandard of living seemed slightly lower, they proved themselvescapable of improvising and providing reasonable standards. WhenI saw Croatia, and its Adriatic towns like Dubrovnik, Split, Zadaror the beautiful Boka Kotorska, it fascinated me with its leisurelyway of life and the people's air of contentment. Quite the oppositefrom Mostar or Sarajevo, where I traced the influence of theTurkish invasion and the Islamic religion. The country thereseems to have adopted a lot of their customs, which are also expressedin the sadness of their beautiful songs.'The officer relaxed a little, realising that he might have misinterpretedMosa's comment. 'Ah, so that's what you meant whenyou taled about several different countries?''Yes, naturally, officer. What else?'The officer smiled. 'Of course, of course. How come youdidn't mention Serbia?'121

Mosa looked back at him, all wide-eyed innocence. 'Oh...didn't I?' He settled back comfortably in his seat. 'Well, if youhave the time to discuss it, I'd be delighted to tell you some of myexperiences in Serbia. I stayed at this lovely little...'The officer proffered the passport to Mosa, coughing politely.'Ah...er...yes, yes, I'd love to hear about it, Herr Steiniger,but I'm afraid we must conclude our inspection.' He smiled deprecatingly.'You know how it is...there's no rest for officials of thestate.'Mosa nodded understandingly.The officer saluted smartly and, with an arrogant stare at theother passengers, backed out of the compartment.Mosa turned to stare at the window as the officer left. Hisface stared back at him, the expression relaxed and at ease. It beliedhis innermost feelings. He had a niggling impression that theofficer, despite his respectful departure, had suspected something.If only this damned train would move, would leave Sentilj, beforethe officer returned, having thought up some questions that mightprove unanswerable. Mosa frowned at his reflection. Why was heso worried? Surely he had convinced the guard? There was noreason why any official should worry about just another foreigner.A whistle sounded, and the train suddenly lurched forward.As it left the station, the last outpost on the Yugoslav border,Mosa sighed with relief. He glanced at his faithful bodyguard.Throughout the entire conversation he had never taken his handout of his pocket. Mosa turned to the window as the train crossedthrough no-man'sland. When he looked back, the bodyguard haddisappeared.The border guard, a thoughtful look on his face, watched asthe train disappeared in the darkness, and turned to enter theguard's post. As he pushed the door open, he was mumbling tohimself.His superior officer looked up from his desk. 'What kept youso long, Lieutenant Stambolic?''Same old story, major...the usual smugglers – leather and tobacco...and... other odd things...'122

Major Cvetkovic sensed something was on the lieutenant'smind. He sighed, setting down his coffee cup – his break was shotto hell anyway. 'What's wrong with you tonight?''Nothing much.''Come on. I know you better than that. You can't fool me, Alexander.'The lieutenant shook his head. He sensed there bad beensomething wrong on the train, but he couldn't find the words toexpress his suspicion. Anyway, on many previous occasions hehad not been given credit for his ability to sense things. 'Why areyou so persistent, major?''Alexander...when I smell something wrong, I have to be persistent.Anyway... am I the commanding officer here or not?Come on, let's have it, son. Believe me, I won't be satisfied untilI've found out, so no half-answers, please.'The lieutenant stared back at the major for a moment,weighing up whether he should voice his suspicion or not. Thenhe shrugged and started to explain. 'I'm not certain... perhaps it'snothing at all...but I saw a man on the train. According to hispassport his name was Hans Steiniger, but I'm sure I've seen hispicture somewhere before...and he wasn't called Steiniger.'The major raised his eyebrows. 'In that case, Alexander, nexttime you must think more quickly. There's no bloody use tellingme now, when the damned train has already left the station.'The lieutenant nodded, then went into another room, wherethe records of criminals and political offenders were kept. Slowly,he flicked through them, examining each photograph in detail.The records were compiled by the royal security services, a specialbranch of the ministry of police, and were distributed to allmain exits from the country. Some, he knew, were outdated, buthe was confident he would find what he was looking for. Finally,he spotted the photograph of a man whose face resembled Steiniger's.There were slight differences, and the print was of verypoor quality, but there was no doubt in Stambolic's mind: this wasthe man. Triumphantly he called out for Major Cvetkovic to comeand have a look.While he awaited his superior's arrival, the lieutenant read thebrief history of the man, whose name was Mosa Pijade. He found123

the records very interesting... and very comprehensive. The mysteriousman was a notorious Communist and was described as avery dangerous revolutionary, who had spent most of his life engineeringterrorist activities against the Austro-Hungarian empireand the Habsburg royal family... and later, the Yugoslav royalfamily. What exclusive tastes, thought the lieutenant. Interestinglyenough, although he was no longer on the wanted list, theministry of police wanted to know Mosa's whereabouts.The lieutenant turned as the major entered. 'Why do the policeno longer pursue people like Pijade, even though his historyshows that he's considered dangerous?''Simple, lieutenant. Once he's blown his cover, he could bepicked up at will. But, on the other hand, he just might lead thepolice to others who are probably every bit as dangerous as he is,if not more.'The lieutenant thought for a moment. 'Yes...I see...but nowwe've lost track of him.''Not really. Possibly he was followed by one of our secretagents.'The major sounded unperturbed, but the lieutenant was notsure his complacency was genuine. After all, if there was not anagent following him, then they would both be in trouble if someonefound out that Pijade was travelling on a false passport.The major affected a bored look and turned to return to hisoffice. He spoke over his shoulder as he departed. 'Let's not getourselves involved in laborious report-writing, my boy. I'm gladyou can see I'm right. However, it's your duty to observe everysingle detail. It's possible that, if you'd recognised him at the time,you might have spoiled another man's business. Anyway, this Pijadehas to return sooner or later, so we can pick him up then.Okey? But next time...no mistakes!''Yes, Major Cvetkovic.'Although Cvetkovic had gently reprimanded his junior officer,he was quite prepared to overlook this unfortunate incident.Hopefully, its outcome would not spoil his retirement prospects.He glanced up as the lieutenant followed him into the office.124

Stambolic paused by the desk, shaking his head. 'It.. .it's justthat I couldn't imagine how this little fellow could be so dangerous.He seemed so insignificant. He looked harmless.'The major nodded. 'That's half the problem. You know ourold proverb? The pen is much sharper and deadlier than thesword.'The lieutenant smothered a grin. 'You must be joking. Whaton the earth can he do with his pen, major?''Don't underestimate our little friend, lieutenant. These intellectualsare like a plague. Look at Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin.Do you realise what those characters created with their pens?Only the seeds of the Bolshevik Revolution, that's all. Their oratorycaused so much damage in Russia that it will take a hundredyears, at least, to repair it. That's only the beginning. Can youimagine how things will finish up if Stalin decides to export hisdestabilisation program to the rest of Europe, or even the entireworld?'Stambolic looked stunned. 'My God!' he said. 'I didn't eventhink of that.''That's all right, Alexander. We're soldiers, not politicians. It'sthe duty of our politicians to think about these things. Perhapsnow you can understand why our King Peter firmly supportsAdolf Hitler?''But, sir, our king is only a child and his uncle Paul, the regent,can't consolidate power in Peter's name – not only becauseof his Russian origin but because of the Croatian opposition. TheCroatian leaders have been given tremendous support by theirpeople, especially after Radic's assassination, and I doubt if we'llever be able to suppress their fighting spirit.'Stambolic's reference to the unfortunate incident in Belgradedid not escape the major's notice. Certainly, it was not exactly hisown stand on that particular issue, but then the lieutenant did notsuspect his membership of the Black Hand organisation.'Don't burden yourself with all these political developments,lieutenant. They're out of our control, anyway. Our police forcesare determined to keep a firm grip on all revolutionaries, particularlythe Communists.''But why do we single out the Communists?'125

'Simply because they're international, and that makes themvery dangerous.' Not really satisfied with the explanation, Stambolicwas determined to explore very angle of this complicatedproblem. 'What about the Croatian Peasant Party then – or thefascists?''There's no danger from them. They can attract only a portionof the Croatian population. The Communists, on the other hand,could muster the support of all nationalities within Yugoslavia,and that makes them a dangerous, power-hungry lot.'Satisfied, the lieutenant nodded, then remembered they hadnot finalised the other matter. 'But what we are going to do aboutPijade, major?'The major assumed a look of deep concern. 'Well, let's see...what does it all boil down to? This Mosa Pijade has travelled interstatewith a faked passport... right? According to our laws,then, he is guilty of a criminal offence, not a political one, regardlessof what the ministry of police may think of him. However,next time...' – he paused to emphasise his junior officer's responsibility– 'you'd better think carefully before releasing a passportfrom your custody.'Lieutenant Stambolic snapped to attention. 'Yes, sir.'As a member of the Black Hand, Cvetkovic was concernedthat the day would come when the military would take their placeat the helm of this country. When they did so, there would be agreat need for properly indoctrinated junior officers to carry outtheir orders. Young Stambolic would be good material for such apost.'Do you realise, lieutenant, that to be an efficient soldier andan officer in any army, one has to be ready to play a role in politics?We are created by a political system which needs our services.To fulfil that role, we ought to understand that we're actuallya tool in their hands, albeit a willing one. To be able to take theirplaces one day, when they prove incapable of governing thecountry, we must understand the political system and its functions.And now, since we have discussed... and disposed of... allthe implications of your...er... minor mistake, let me tell you whatyou must do.' The major paused, ostensibly to pour a coffee, butin reality to give himself time to mink. 'First of all, you'll send a126

telegram to Belgrade telling them that we believe Pijade haspassed through the border here, but that we didn't detain himsince he is no longer wanted by the ministry of police for questioning.Mention too that you believe he was tailed by one of ouragents. On no account must you say anything about his falsepassport. To do so would jeopardise not only your job, but mineas well. You could, in fact, be courtmartialled for it.''I understand, sir. I'll attend to it right away.' Stambolic satdown and began to write, relieved that the incident had passedwithout a demotion or a court-martial. How lucky he was, hethought, to have such an understanding commanding officer.127

1285VIENNA 1938On his way to Vienna, Mosa had to change trains at Graz.Travel through Austria proved to be more comfortable than inYugoslavia and, importantly, was without incident. Once in Vienna,he put his luggage in a locker at the railway station andwent straight to his Austrian contact, the man who would supplyhim with a new passport – and a new identity. Mosa, in the guiseof Lech Borovintzsky, would be a Polish art teacher on his way toParis to attend a number of art exhibitions. Hopefully, his newidentity would put the royal Yugoslav secret service off his track.With the Germans occupying Austria, Mosa had been warnedto maintain a low profile during his time in Vienna. Having twodays to kill, he decided to visit his old friend, Doctor Otto vonTauber. One of the outstanding oculists in Europe, Tauber hadspent the first years of his practice in France and Germany beforedevoting himself to the care of underprivileged people in Bulgaria,Romania, Hungary and Yugoslavia. His efforts, he believed,might alleviate the suffering caused by the ignorance ofthe Austro-Hungarian ruling class. In his lessons, he encouragedlocal oculists to conduct their own research into the causes of thevarious eye diseases prevalent in those countries. For convenience,he had decided to make Zagreb his home base. As a distinguishedvisitor who had chosen to live in Zagreb, he was acceptedby Zagreb's nobility and was now a much sought-after guest.During the twenty-minute tram ride to Tauber's residence atMarie Terese Strasse, Mosa's memory took him back to the beginningof his friendship with the doctor. Long before he actuallymet him, Mosa had heard many comments about the newly establishedresident from Vienna. As a bachelor in his mid-thirties,Doctor Tauber was looked on as a good catch particularly for thespoiled daughters of families lacking any background of nobility.These girls, of course, would be accompanied by a hefty dowry –even for the son of an almost penniless aristocrat. The most importantfactor to the parents was Tauber's heritage, not his present

financial position, or even his profession. As the only son of anAustrian nobleman, Count William von Tauber, the doctor wasdescended from the Habsburg dynasty.The rapacious young women, however, were doomed to disappointment.Instead of fulfilling their dreams and high expectations,Tauber shocked them by announcing, in the local newspapers,his engagement to the daughter of a wealthy Jewish merchant.His fiancée, Irene Neumann, although much younger thanhe, had been educated at the Sorbonne and Venice University,and her art exhibitions were now drawing huge crowds. It hadbeen at one of her exhibitions that Mosa had first met DoctorTauber, and they soon discovered they had an immediate rapport.The engagement was shock enough for the local sirens, butwhat ruffled the sensibilities of the local parents even more wasthe fact that Miss Neumann had an infant son, Zlatko, who hadbeen born out of wedlock. Unlike the locals, Mosa had agreedwith Otto's choice; not only because she was Jewish but also becauseof the unfortunate results of her youthful naivety – the babyboy. Despite Irene's youth, Otto obtained their parents' blessingand the wedding date was set for 30th June 1928 – the anniversaryof their first meeting.Setting the date was the easy part. Arranging the receptionwas another thing altogether. Otto's father, Count William vonTauber, wanted it in Vienna, with all the pageantry expected froman illustrious old family; unfortunately, his bank balance did notmatch his expectations. He was virtually bankrupt. Otto, on theother hand, wanted the wedding to be in Zagreb, since it was thewealthy people of that city who made his research possible. Notthat he was paid for his services – they of course, were free – butthe cost of the medicine, the nurses and the hospital were allborne by those who supported him. They did it not only as a novelty;there were other sentimental reasons tied in with the Austrianmonarchy, which in the past had enabled them to accumulateenormous wealth. Also, they had great respect for his father who,single-handedly, had supported the Croatian cause against theHungarians – the gypsies, as he had called them.The biggest problem about the reception was the venue; atthat time, Zagreb lacked a hall big enough to accommodate a129

thousand guests. Then Irene's father had an idea. Why not holdthe reception in the open? It was decided to hold it in TuskanacPark, an area occupied by the Croatian aristocracy. Their splendidvillas surrounded the beautiful park, which could accommodatethousands of people, but it was used solely for recreation – bywealthy individuals.Mosa smiled to himself as the tramcar rocked around yetMother corner. It had all taken place ten years ago, but he couldremember the occasion as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday.He could hardly wait for the occasion, he recalled; he hadbeen looking forward to what he believed would be a memorablewedding. Being something of a gourmet, he enjoyed dining withthe rich, though he preferred the company of people interested inmore intellectual pursuits.He smiled bitterly. Oh, yes, he would remember the receptionas long he lived – despite the fact that he had never attended it.He had been arrested that year, but only after the date set for thewedding had been postponed.On 20th June 1928, ten days before their wedding was to takeplace, the Croatian leader, Stjepan Radic, was mortally woundedin the Belgrade parliament. As the recognised godfather of Croatiandemocracy, all Croatians mourned his death for months.Mosa, equally resentful of such atrocities, could understand thetremendous impact that this cold-blooded murder would have hadon Irene and Otto. Accepted by the Croatian people as two oftheir own, Irene and Otto had no choice but to postpone theirwedding. They were both shocked by the dreadful event, but neitherof them realised how important it would be. It was to affecttheir future as much as that of the Croatian nation, if not more.Months after the assassination, an incredible event tookplace, which initiated the most rewarding period in Otto's career.Tauber had always regarded the question of Croatian selfdeterminationas the most important ingredient in the stability ofthe Balkan Peninsula, despite Mosa's many arguments to the contrary.Tauber always had the courage of his convictions evenwhen he was conversing with King Alexander, who invited himto Belgrade as a guest of honour prior to the establishment of achair of oculism at Belgrade University. Otto's public statements130

shocked the Serbian hierarchy, who denied any involvement inthe assassination of Radic as a means of promoting the GreaterSerbia design and denied using their king as a tool in their bloodyhands.Tauber's stoic attitude and his fearless stand against theirthreats merely confirmed their beliefs about his father who, in thedays of the Austro-Hungarian empire, had pursued a similar lineagainst the Hungarians, who even then were denying the existenceof a Croatian language. Although his father had been reprimandedby the old Austrian king, Franz Joseph I, the count hadremained one of the chief spokesmen, and the sole nobleman inthe king's court who knew the history of Croatia in full detail. Hehad learned it well during his governorship. His strongest argumentwas that it was thanks to the bravery of the Croatian soldierswho fought against them that the Turkish army had never reachedVienna, despite their ferocity and the enormous size of theirforces.Some Serbians, those who recognised Tauber's honesty, decidedto support his appointment to Belgrade University. Theywere hoping that they would be able thereby to convince him thatnot all Serbians were alike. Tauber's outstanding success in thetreatment and arrest of eye diseases was another reason which influencedthe young doctor to stay in Yugoslavia, even if he decidedagainst taking up the university appointment. It was knownthat numerous countries in Europe, including Great Britain, wereseeking his expertise.Once the Croatian public learned about Otto's stoical stand inBelgrade, they pursued Zagreb's aldermen to secure his services.The aldermen, however, used delaying tactics in case they mighthave to face persecution from Belgrade, and even the loss of theirsoft jobs. But now that Otto had postponed his wedding as a markof respect for Croatian mourning, there was no alternative forZagreb's aldermen but to go ahead with Tauber's appointment. .To show their appreciation, the Croatian people built a memorialhospital and named it in Tauber's honour. For the firsttime, the doctor felt as though he really was part of this beautifulcountry, whose people applauded his stand against their archenemy,the Serbs. To express his gratitude, he became even more131

dedicated to his work, visiting almost every area of Croatia, Bosnia,Hercegovina and Dalmatia, even the more inaccessible parts.Many individuals suffered from eye diseases of one kind or anotherbut, being illiterate at the same time, they were left to thevillage healers, whose preventive procedures very seldom producedany results.Otto Tauber was fighting not only disease, but also prejudice,backwardness and, above all, the innate suspicion of these unfortunatesouls who so desperately needed his help. His determination,however, won him a place in the history of those countries.Later, many other doctors tried to follow his approach as a way ofimproving their image. His devotion helped thousands of children,poor peasants and the prisoners who volunteered for his researchprogram. As a reward, the prisoners would either be released,if sentenced for lesser comes, or their sentences would beshortened.Irene and Otto set another date for their marriage but, insteadof waiting for another summer, they decided to marry on 6thJanuary 1929, realising only later that they had beaten yet anotherdisaster by a few hours, thanks to their friends. While their weddingwas in full swing on that Saturday afternoon, a very importantannouncement was made, but it was kept secret from themand their guests until midnight. When he did finally hear thenews, Otto was furious.King Alexander had proclaimed a royal dictatorship. Otto'sface grew scarlet as he read the king's proclamation. 'Bastard!' hewhispered. 'He should be punished.' He was not to know that hiswish would come true – but at a terrible cost.Mosa jerked back to the present when the tramcar shudderedto a standstill. Rising, he jumped to the roadway, calling goodmorning to the driver.When he reached Doctor Tauber's residence, he was receivedwith warm hospitality; not only by Otto, but also by Irene, herailing father Joakim and, to Mosa's surprise, Tauber's adoptedson, Zlatko, now fifteen. It was a wonderful reunion. This time itwas Mosa who was the foreigner, but oddly enough he did notfeel like one at all. His stay with them was memorable, not onlybecause of their splendid hospitality, the first-class Jewish cuisine132

and the imported French wines, but also because they shared somany memories.After spending two days in their company, Mosa was sorry tohave to leave. On the eve of his departure, while Mosa was sittingwith the family in Otto's study, he looked around the room for thelast time. It was stacked with hundreds of books, mostly medical,and the walls were covered with expensive paintings some byIrene and others by European masters. For someone of his intellectualcalibre the room was extremely stimulating.Mosa was eager to find out why Otto had left Zagreb so suddenly.Tauber explained that, after the proclamation of the royaldictatorship, he left Yugoslavia on his honeymoon trip to Niceand Corsica. On his return, he had decided to carry on temporarily,but he needed to go back to Vienna because of his father'sailing health. His father had invited him to Vienna several timeswith the aim of him staying there permanently, but Otto's concernfor the poor had been too strong. Then Josip Broz's escape fromMaribor prison had forced Otto to leave Yugoslavia in haste.'Once I learned about the assassination of King Alexander inMarseilles, I was convinced my days in Zagreb were numbered. Irealised that Prince Paul would start a witch hunt, and, consideringmy political views, I was certain he'd try to harm my family.''I'm sorry I wasn't able to see you before you left,' said Mosa.'That's why I decided to see you on my way to Karlove Vary.'Otto smiled. 'That's very nice of you, Mosa. I always rememberyou – and our mutual friend, Broz. By the way, where is henow?'Mosa knew he shouldn't tell Otto everything but, on the otherhand, he thought, what was the use of hiding it from him? Hewould find out about it anyway, from the Austrian press. 'Well,he's still somewhere in France, or maybe even Spain, doing awonderful job in the struggle of the working class against capitalistslavery;''Do you mean he's actually involved with the InternationalBrigade?''Yes, he is.'Otto nodded slowly. 'Yes...I can still remember him in thearmy...truly a remarkable man. I was deeply sorry to hear of his133

imprisonment by the Russians. He must be a very able organiser,Mosa.''Of course,' said Mosa with a smile, 'otherwise he wouldn't bein France. I think, in the long run, that his organising ability willbenefit our country, too.'Glancing at Otto, Mosa could sense something was botheringhis friend. 'Somehow I have the feeling part of you isn't here tonight,Otto. What is it?'Tauber was preoccupied with fear of Adolf Hitler and hisanti-Semitic crusade, which had been gaining momentum sincethe occupation of Austria. With the Anschluss, Otto had to considervery seriously the future of his wife and her elderly father.They could be exposed to harsh treatment, or even death, just becausethey were Jews. Irene had been born in Zagreb, but herfamily had retained the Jewish customs which he, too, accepted ashis own. Since their return to Austria, a few years before theGerman occupation, his father-in-law, Joakim, had become aprominent, outspoken figure among Jewish communitiesthroughout the nation. Despite his age, Joakim had found enoughstrength to travel, openly displaying his distaste for Hitler. Suchoutbursts were kept in check by Otto and Irene, who impressedupon him the precarious position of their son, Zlatko.The very thought of the old man's stubbornness was enoughto send shivers down Otto's spine. Young Zlatko had an exceptionalgift for languages and art, already a gift which had beennoticed by the education authorities in Vienna. He had a brightfuture but, with the present occupation, his future could be jeopardisedforever.Otto raised his eyes to meet those of his friend. 'My mainanxiety, dear Mosa, is Hitler's occupation of Austria...which couldprove to be disastrous.'Mosa shrugged. 'Don't worry about that lunatic. If you reallyfeel so insecure, why not seek sanctuary in Zagreb?''I have considered it, my friend, but how can you be sure thatYugoslavia won't go the same way as Austria and end up an inferno?'Mosa disagreed; mainly, he explained, he was counting onGreat Britain's involvement.134

'What makes you sure that Great Britain will try to protectYugoslavia when, in their own country, there are many influentialpeople who quite openly support Adolf Hitler?'Mosa thought for a moment. 'There are several reasons whyBritain will take an interest in protecting Yugoslavia. One of themis King Alexander's family ties with the British crown and withother monarchies in Europe. The most important factor, of course,is that the Serbs were Britain's allies during the Great War. Beingin full command of Yugoslavia, the Serbs will ask the British tointervene. Another thing, too: Hitler must take into considerationthe size of the Yugoslav army, even though it may be illprepared.'Mosa nodded thoughtfully. 'Yes, Otto, I think it wouldbe much safer for you and your family to go back to Yugoslavia –not necessarily to Zagreb – but I'm quite sure that a number ofpeople back home would be prepared to look after you, and ournumerous convents would provide ideal sanctuary for Irene andher father.'During Mosa's deliberations, Otto had been musing over thepossibility of moving again. Mosa could see the indecision onOtto's face, so he stressed that, in the event of war with Yugoslavia,the underground would flourish. Their strength plus that ofthe resistance network would withstand any force, no matter howlarge.Otto shook his bead, declining the offer.Then, as Otto watched, Mosa unbuttoned his shirt to expose agolden chain around his neck. Suspended from the chain therewas a large medallion. 'This medallion,' he said, in a tremblingvoice, 'belonged to my father...' Overcome, Mosa paused for afew seconds before continuing, 'But I never ever saw him. Hegave it to my mother, who promised it would be given to mewhen I became an adult.' Playing with it between his fingers,Mosa regained enough composure to finish his story. 'And nowthat I have to leave in the morning, I'd like you to accept it.''Why me?''In my opinion, you 're dedicated to the Jewish cause, andthat's good enough for me.'Otto's father-in-law moved closer to the medallion, whichMosa still held in his hands.135

'Before I let you have it, let me tell you briefly its origin, thenI hope you'll realise its significance.' He paused again, to take asip of wine, then turned back to his friends. 'Before my motherpassed away, she left this medallion at my bedside. She spokesomething in Hebrew, but I didn't understand...'Joakim Neumann interrupted Mosa's story. 'I apologise forinterrupting, Mister Pijade, but can you remember what she said?''Yes, I can. She said, "Mif'alot Elohim".' Mosa stumbled overthe pronunciation.'Do you know what it means, Mosa?''No. I've never repeated those words to anyone, and I'venever asked.''It simply means "work of God",' explained Joakim. The oldman reached forward. 'May I hold it for a moment?''Yes, of course. As you can see...' – he pointed at the face ofthe medallion – ...it shows the Temple of Jerusalem and, on thereverse, the inscription in Hebrew is "SDS". The initials are thoseof three Jewish kings: Saul, David and his son Solomon.'As Mosa described the other side of the medallion, Joakimturned it over on his palm so that Otto, Irene and Zlatko could seethe initials.'According to legend,' continued Mosa, 'Saul and David wereinvolved in savage mutual destruction. Just how viciously theyfought against each other was best expressed in the book by Samuel,the prophet who recorded this for future generations: "Saulhath slain his thousands, and David his ten of thousands." Davidwas followed by his son Salomon, who was wise, wealthy and pious.With his wealth, he built the Temple of Jerusalem, where hehoped his people would be able to find peace, thus remedying thetragedy perpetrated by his father. Building the temple involvednumerous tradesmen, craftsmen and artisans, so Solomon appointedhis most faithful and trusted lieutenants to supervise thelabourers.'To distinguish these special lieutenants from the rest, hegave each of them one of these medallions. Each medallion wasworn as a form of regalia to emphasise their elevated rank. Due tothe vast number of labourers employed, the number of medallionsincreased as the Temple of Jerusalem took final share. Made of136

solid gold by Phoenician artificers, in today's terms the medallionsare priceless.'Each of the wearers was initiated at a special ceremony,where he learned a secret recognition signal, known only to thebearer of the gold medallions. In 1754, near Jerusalem, RabbiAbraham Isaac discovered a trunk containing two thousand medallionshidden in an uninhabited cave. Presumably they had beentaken away from the recipients by force. After studying Jewishhistory, the rabbi discovered the origin of the medallions. As result,he became obsessed with the belief that the Jews would establishtheir homeland once again – but not until they had paid theprice for their ancestors' bloodshed.'Mosa paused for another sip of wine. His audience did notmove. They were transfixed.'So, armed with all this gold, he gathered a small group ofJews to help him decide what to do with it all. After prolongeddeliberations, they finally came to a decision. The rabbi was instructedto visit every Jewish community in the world, and to distributethe medallions to each community – the number of medallionsto each group depending on their size. Each recipient had toattend a sacred ceremony and dedicate his life to the service ofless fortunate Jews, and to the Jewish cause in general. The ceremonywas a secret gathering so that no one from the outsideworld could abuse or take advantage of it, if in possession of amedallion. The recipients were scattered around the world, butthey kept in constant touch with at least thirteen others. By doingso, they created a network which enabled them to look after eachother more effectively, and in such a way as to atone for their ancestors'stupidity. Their contact was like a human chain where amissing link could be replaced instantly.'In their belief, each recipient handed down his medallion tohis son, or next of kin, or even a good friend, as long it was approvedby the other thirteen votes. Their dedication and supportearned them trustworthy positions in various professions. Beingable to educate themselves, they adopted a very peculiar way oflife and, through this, acquired enormous wealth. To eliminate thepossibility of using that enormous wealth for themselves, they137

were forced to keep records of every coin on their books, and howit was spent on the education of selected candidates.'When my father died, he left the medallion to my mother, tokeep for me until I reach the age of understanding, so that I toocould be groomed as a candidate. My mother, however, died prematurely,and I was never initiated into the secrets of the legend.Nevertheless, being a recipient has helped me not only to survivebut also to obtain an education that many others could only dreamof.'As a result of my mother's death, I was left with a Jewishrelative who intended to give me a proper education, but my medallionwas spotted by a visiting French businessman – a Jew, ofcourse. From that moment, everything in my life became magical.I was sent to the Sorbonne, where I majored in languages, law,political science and economics. During my studies, I came underthe influence of Marx and Engels. Then later, while in prison, Imissed the effects of the Great Depression. I became a staunchsupporter of Communism. Naturally, when I became a Communistbeliever, possession of the medallion became rather awkward,especially having to wear it in front of my illiterate andequally atheist friends.'Mosa explained to Otto that, since he was now a recipient, ifone of his relatives or friends ever needed assistance of any kind,all they had to do was contact another holder of the medallion.Then, asking Joakim for the medallion, Mosa pressed a hiddenpin on the rim. The medallion opened to reveal a list of the otherthirteen contacts, their addresses and professions. Joakim wasfascinated by the paper on which the list was written; he hadnever seen paper of such quality.Looking at the list, Otto was amazed at its worldwide distribution;one of them was in America, and another, in Germany,was a high official of the Third Reich. Bemused, Otto looked athis friend. 'But how can I accept this, without even being introducedto or accepted by the others?''Don't worry about that, Otto. I already have their verbal approval.I've had it since January of this year. It was just a matterof our meeting, that's all,' lied Mosa.'But how am I going to thank you for it, dear friend?'138

Mosa placed his hand gently on Otto's shoulder. 'Don't burdenyourself. I believe it's I who should express my thanks to you.This medallion is only a token in return for what you have donefor me. I owe you my life. Without your help in Lopoglava, Iwould probably have died of malnutrition or some other disease.Thanks to you, I was released before my term was up. Then comradeBroz managed to leave, and you placed your life in greatjeopardy.' Mosa had deliberately used the word 'leave' with regardto Broz's departure; he did not want the others to know that Ottohad actually taken part in Broz's escape. If Otto wanted to confidethe details to his family, that was his own concern.Seeing the tears in Irene's eyes, Otto could hardly speak, butMosa could read the gratitude on their faces. Otto, too, waspleased that his efforts, and the danger to which he had exposedhimself in risking his own life, were appreciated. He looked at hiswife again. 'It's a great feeling to know that we still have friendsin Yugoslavia, dear Irene, isn't it?'Stifling a soh, Irene said, 'Yes, my dear.'Before anyone could grasp the full significance of this unusualmeeting, Otto rose from his chair and walked towards hisadopted son. Zlatko rose uncertainly as his father approached, themedallion in his outstretched hands.'Now that we have received this splendid gift from our friend,let me bestow it upon you. I'm quite sure that those who agreed totrust me will trust you even more. After all, you are what I'm not– a Jew. Look after it, my dear son, because you never knowwhen you may need it.'Zlatko was not prepared to argue, but he spoke before hecould stop himself.'But Mister Pijade gave it to you, father.''I know, my son, but it is you who will need it most.'Without further argument, Zlatko bowed his head, and Ottobestowed the beautiful medallion on its golden chain. At thetouch of gold, Zlatko's skin almost froze and his body trembledbeyond control. Irene, Joakim and Mosa witnessed the emotionalmoment between father and son.The huge mantelpiece clock began to strike, and only thendid they realise that it was midnight.139

Irene spoke. 'Don't you think it's time for bed? I'm sure ourguest, Herr Pijade, would like to have a good night's sleep beforehe goes to Karlove Vary.''All right, darling. Let's finish our drinks. Then we'll be onour way.'Sharing a few drinks after the others had left the study, Ottoand Mosa were silent, each occupied by his own thoughts: Ottoby the occupation of Austria, and fear of possible war; and Mosaby his forthcoming meeting with Stalin.Suddenly Otto rose, bade Mosa goodnight and left the study.Mosa remained for a few minutes, considering the bestmethod of departure the following morning. He did not intend tolet them escort him to the railway station. No matter how closetheir friendship was, they must not learn his true destination.While Mosa was wrestling with his problem, Zlatko was sittingin his bedroom. He could not stop shivering, despite thewarmth of his room. The presentation of his unusual gift, the medallion,had had a tremendous effect on him, but he could not figureout just what it was. Was it because it had been given to himby his father, whom he loved so much? Or was there some significancein the medallion itself? Lying on his bed, he reasoned,'Perhaps one day I'll find out.'Mosa woke early next morning. Cheerfully, he looked forwardto a new experience. His hostess, already in the kitchen preparinghis breakfast, did not even notice his arrival.'Good morning, Irene"'Good morning, Herr Pijade. Did you sleep well?''Terrifically well, thank you.'As they all sat around the table, Otto told Mosa about theirplan to accompany him to Vienna's main railway station.Despite Otto's insistence, Mosa declined his offer politely.'You may have overlooked one most important thing: Yugoslaviahas a lot of agents in Vienna. Your city is a breeding ground forCroatian revolutionaries, Can you imagine what might happen toyou if they saw you in my company? It will be far better if wepart here in your home. Can you imagine how I'd feel if I heardthat you'd been intimidated because of me? They might even tryto use you to get me. Do you understand?'140

Otto, who had been listening impatiently to Mosa's explanation,interrupted him before he could continue. 'We don't careabout that. This is Austria. Even under occupation. It's far betterthan bloody rotten Yugoslavia.''I agree, but, believe me. It's much better this way for yourown sake, as well as mine,'This time, Irene interrupted, 'I think Herr Pijade is right, dear.Surely he knows them better than you.'Having Irene on his side, it was easier for Mosa to persuadeOtto. He would make a formidable opponent, Mosa thought. Itwould be great if he could have him on his side. Nevertheless, hemustn't weaken now; Stalin's letter had been explicit about theneed for complete secrecy. He could not afford to trust anyone.His Austrian passport had been burnt and the ashes properly disposedof – flushed into the Austrian sewage system.His journey to Paris alone was a real joy for Mosa. Whiletravelling second-class, he was able to engage in conversationwith other travellers, a pleasure denied to him in his own country.He mentioned his Polish origin to his companion and theFrenchman acknowledged his superb command of the Frenchlanguage, but Mosa never mentioned his studies at the Sorbonne.On his arrival in Paris, Mosa was greeted by Major PeterDenisovich. Their meeting was cordial, and Mosa was given VIPtreatment.Once in Peter's spacious apartment, furnished with expensiveantique furniture, Mosa could hardly hide his astonishment. Hewondered immediately about the difference in taste betweenworking-class people and the bourgeoisie.His astonishment did not escape Peter. 'Don't be surprised atthe luxury. The French foreign office organise these apartmentsfor all diplomatic personnel.''I see,' was Mosa's only comment. He was more concernedabout his meeting with Josip Broz, but so far nothing had beenmentioned. It seemed wiser to wait a little longer and ask Peterabout it at a more convenient moment.Peter talked mostly about Mosa's projected top to Moscow,and the possibility of him making a longer stay.141

In response to Peter's casual inquiries about arrangements inZagreb, Mosa assured him that everything had been taken care of.'Where's Josip? Am I going to see him tonight, or tomorrow?''It's not that simple, comrade Mosa. He was summoned aweek ago to Roussillon. Some very important business had to beattended to.'That's rather odd, thought Mosa. He had received a letterseveral months ago, in which Broz wrote that he had to stay inParis mainly because of Yugoslav and Spanish secret service activities.Now Broz was close to the lion's den – there on theSpanish border.'Is he going to stay there long, or can I wait for him?''There's no need, comrade Pijade, because it's hard to tell. Ipresume it will take a couple of weeks. He has a lot to settle.'Sensing something big, since Moscow seemed to have reversedits original plan and allowed Broz to get so close to theSpanish border, Mosa decided not to inquire further. 'How is theInternational Brigade?''Oh...you know, much the same as usual. Always problems.Now that the war's in full swing, we hope to be able to iron outmost of them.' Peter's tone suggested to Mosa an unusual concern,but he did not elaborate at this stage.'Can I do anything to help?''As a matter of fact, I believe your help will be necessaryonce you reach Moscow. As you can imagine, it's the responsibilityof our headquarters to brief you about what kind of assistancethey'll require from you.' His mysterious tone suggested that Peterknew more than he was telling.Mosa was disappointed that his erstwhile prison-mate andcomrade-in-arms had not even bothered to leave a note – a wordof greeting, at least. 'It's rather strange that comrade Broz didn'tleave a message if he knew about my arrival before he departed.Don't you think so, comrade Peter?''I'm sure he would have left you a note if he'd known of yourarrival. His departure was so sudden that even I found a lot of histasks unfinished,' pretended Peter, still furious about Broz's disappearance.142

Only partly satisfied with Peter's explanation, Mosa now regrettedhis prolonged stay in Vienna, because of which, it seemed,he had missed seeing his very dear friend. 'May I leave a messagefor Josip?''Yes, of course, comrade Mosa.'Mosa took the proffered fountain pen and a sheet of paperfrom Peter, and began to scribble.Comrade Josip,I am on my way to Moscow, but I don't know how longI'll be staying there. In any case, I’ll write to you againas soon as I settle. At the moment, our country is in apolitical shambles, and your presence is badly neededmore than ever. Our general secretary, comrade Gorkic,lacks your dynamism. Your challenge for leadershipwould definitely foster greater support for our cause.Everybody is scared of another war, but, believe me, itwould be a blessing to us. Through revolution we'll beable to consolidate our power once for all.With much regard, your comrade in the struggle forproletarian freedom,MosaMosa's trip to Moscow took longer than he anticipated. Duringhis journey, he switched from one train to another, which lefthardly enough time for anything else. Passing across so manyfrontiers, he noticed that the scenery changed at each crossing.The architecture varied and even the countryside was different.After several days of continuous travelling, his first majorstop in Russia was Kiev. His first impression of the city was itsdrab and filthy streets filled with the smell of cabbages and rottenpotatoes. Although he was now quite hungry, the smell was so revoltinghe lost his appetite. Nostalgically, he recalled his lavishmeals at the Zagorski Puran restaurant in Zagreb but he soon realisedthat no such establishment existed in Kiev.143

People were in rugs, their faces expressionless, matching thegreyish colour of Kiev's buildings. Posters of Stalin were displayedall over the city, most notably on street corners. Breakingthe grey monotony were red stars, and golden hammers and sickles,the symbols of the workers' paradise. Looking at an underfeddog nearby which was in the process of discharging its dailyfluid, it occurred to Mosa how conveniently the posters wereplaced, safely out of reach of the poor depressed-looking animal.The grey appearance of one of the most famous cities in Russiadampened Mosa's spirits and even his own face seemed to takeon the same greyish appearance. He was appalled by the city'sgrimness mainly because he thought that the new workers' committeeswould have introduced a restoration program. He had expectedthat at least on the eve of the forthcoming tenth anniversaryof the Bolshevik Revolution the city would look more impressive.As he entered one of the newer shops, his disappointmentworsened. He felt that nobody really wanted him as a customer. Ittook him almost half an hour just to buy a piece of soap, whichturned out to be a lump of greyish-looking stuff wrapped in oldnewspaper. And what stuff it was. Its poor quality was apparent,but its enormous size made it awkward to stuff it into his briefcase,not to mention its terrible smell, which really put him off.What Mosa could not comprehend was how on earth someonecould wash himself with stuff like this. He was assured by theshop assistant that the soap would do all his washing – not just hisbody, but his clothes as well.When he asked for a toothbrush, they looked at him as if hehad arrived from the unknown. The funniest part was how clumsythe salesgirls were, while their approach to the customers was soindifferent, so rude. He succeeded in talking to one of them,whilst being served, and soon realised that their indifference waspossibly the result of their working conditions – low pay and longhours with little rest.On the other hand, could it be lack of initiative or typicalRussian indolence? Whatever it was, thought Mosa, he had toadmit it could in the long term seriously undermine the very existenceof the proletarian government. At that stage, Mosa prom-144

ised himself that if and when the Communist Party of Yugoslaviacarne into power he would make sure as far as possible that situationssuch as those he experienced in Russia did not occur in hisown country. Though he realised that such thinking might beclassified as wishful, he was determined to work hard to provethat human efficiency was totally dependent on encouragementand proper reward.Once on the train again, Mosa engaged himself in conversationwith some local travellers but again he was deeply disappointed,chiefly by what he considered to be their parrot reaction.Whenever he asked a Russian about almost anything at all, hewould receive a stereotyped answer, identical regardless of howmany people he asked or how many times he rephrased his questions.He wondered if this type of reaction was regional or nationwide.He hoped to find out much more once he arrived inMoscow – the capital of the workers' paradise.On arrival in Moscow, he was greeted by Colonel BorisZubov, assistant to Lavrenti Beria. It was the first time Mosa hadfelt really important since he left Yugoslavia. The welcome wascordial enough and Mosa soon discovered that the new chief ofthe NKVD had a sense of humour, far more than his predecessor,General Yezhov; He did not ask directly about Yezhov's fate. Asa member of the inner cell of the Yugoslav Communist Party, hehad heard a few rumours which supported his suspicion that Yezhov'ssudden disappearance from the political stage was connectedto the recent Tukhachevsky trial.Instead of being given time to rest, he was immediately accompaniedto the Kremlin, where he was ushered directly intoStalin's office. The almost deserted corridors and empty waitingrooms suggested to Mosa that he was to be the sole visitor of thegreat world leader of the workers' struggle for freedom.Stalin greeted him with three beat hugs and kisses on thecheek – the sincere Russian welcome. 'Welcome, comrade Pijade!It's our great privilege to offer you our hospitality. It's also ourhope that you'll treasure this moment as a precious one.''Thank you very much, tovarisch Stalin. It is, indeed, a greatpleasure to see you again in such good health. And, believe me,your hospitality is truly appreciated. Let me take this opportunity145

to extend to you fraternal greetings on behalf of the YugoslavCommunist Party. We're looking forward to greater cooperationbetween the Communist brotherhood.'Stalin studied comrade Pijade's small frame and was instantlyimpressed that such an insignificant person could have such areputation as a shrewd and clever party member. Mosa was also askilled orator, as he had demonstrated by his tactful approachduring his first few moments.As Mosa's arrival was to be honoured with a dinner at theKremlin, he was ushered into the reception hall once the formalintroductions had been completed. The usually crowded receptionhall was now almost empty. Under the main chandelier, a solitarytable was set for only four people.Mosa was a little concerned with this small reception, sensingsomething unusual, something sinister and foreboding. Thecustomary vodka was offered. Mosa accepted it eagerly. Hethought a few drinks might alleviate his fatigue from the longjourney. He was right. The vodka immediately revived him andsoon he was as sharp as ever.Mosa was then introduced to Major Sergei Orlov; dressed inthe splendid uniform of a Kremlin guards office. He, according toStalin's instructions, was going to be Mosa's permanent escortduring his stay in the Russian capital. The third man was ColonelOleg Penkovsky, the chief of the intelligence academy at Gorky.Dinner was presented in typical Kremlin fashion. Mosa'seyes glanced hungrily at the serving table. The variety of dishesastonished even Mosa's epicurean tastes. He had always enviedthe extravagance of the Yugoslav aristocracy. On this occasion, itwas equalled by the Kremlin's sumptuous presentation of dishesfor which the Russians were famous – red and black caviarwashed down with French champagne. .Mosa knew that during dinner there would be no discussionof the real purpose of his presence in Moscow, so he decidedto enjoy the delicious meal.The several-course meal reminded Mosa of the life whichCroatian nobles had enjoyed back in the eighteenth century. Nowit was different; now the working class were the ones who enjoyedsuch privilege.146

During dinner, topics such as the political situation in Germany,the occupation of Austria and the possibility of anotherworld war were discussed, but Mosa also managed to learn thathis stay in Moscow would be a very short affair. He was to beshown several interesting spots around the Kremlin, such as RedSquare and Lenin's mausoleum, escorted of course, and then hewould be on his way again. His new destination: Gorky!After drinks and the customary cigars – Turkish, of course –they settled in Stalin's study, but only Stalin and Major Orlovwere present. Colonel Penkovsky promised to see Mosa the followingnight, when he would be the guest of honour at the MoscowOpera, where Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake was to be performedby the Bolshoi Ballet. He looked forward to it.Stalin spoke first and Mosa was quick to notice that as usualthe Russian leader did not come straight to the point. Mosa knewthat he, himself, would have to discern the trend of the conversation.'I presume that our invitation was a surprise, so I'm going totell you why we asked you. Several months ago, our Intelligenceorganisation penetrated the royal Yugoslav secret service. As aresult, we were able to intercept numerous messages. One of themconcerns us: the safety of comrade Josip Broz. Through the interception,we learned about a plot initiated by the Yugoslavs to assassinateBroz. It's important to stress that we have to find moreappropriate measures to implement increased safety precautionsfor comrade Broz and thus prevent any chance of their plot succeeding.Our service in Paris is doing everything humanly possibleto achieve this. Unless we confuse them with a more convincingcounterplot, they may well, in the end, achieve their goal.The main problem is that we don't know how long this bloodywar in Spain will go on.'Stalin then paused, deliberately giving Mosa enough time tothink how to solve the problem. While Stalin continued to elaborateon the complexity of the problem, Mosa 's mind raced off inanother direction. During Stalin's elaboration, Mosa learned howMajor Peter Denisovich had substituted Broz's photos for those ofa dead man, and that gave him an idea. He spoke out.147

Stalin listened to Mosa's salvage operation proposal. He wassatisfied. This little Jew proved to be worth his weight in gold,but Stalin remained silent for what seemed to Mosa a long time.'Excellent idea, comrade Pijade. It hadn't occurred to me,'Stalin finally said. He continued, 'I have to admit it is quite ingenious.It might possibly work better than anything else.' Herubbed his hands with obvious satisfaction.Mosa, in turn, was overwhelmed by Stalin's approval, butsomehow something did not seem to fit. Why were they in such ahurry?Stalin's foxy eyes noticed a slight shadow on Pijade's facebut, instead of trying to find the reason for it, he continued, 'Inthat case, we can proceed with selecting a candidate. You shouldtrain him in every aspect you consider necessary for the position.All our graduates are military- and intelligence-trained, but ColonelPenkovsky will be able to assist you in your selection, as he'sin charge of the academy. Once the candidate is selected, you'll berequired to send a fortnightly report addressed to Major Orlov.The conclusive test will be arranged as soon we receive a final reportwhich will confirm the candidate's readiness to take hisplace. It's of the utmost importance that neither you nor the selectedcandidate discuss the purpose or aim of the training.''Not even Colonel Penkovsky, tovarisch Stalin?''I said no one should know except us three.''I understand, tovarisch Stalin.' It had not escaped Mosa's attentionthat during Stalin's address Orlov exchanged several subversiveglances with him. Mosa was wandering, Is it my wildimagination or are they up to something sinister? He hoped thatby the time he left he would understand their mysterious behaviour.While he was thinking about it, Orlov interrupted. 'As tovarischStalin said, we want you to choose the best-looking one.By having the most suitable candidate, we'll be able to proceedwith our plan. On no account must you ever reveal his identity toothers. Therefore, we must have your word that whatever we decidehere will remain secret forever – whatever might happen inthe future.'148

'I give you my solemn word I'll never repeat our conversationand that I'll never reveal the truth, so long as I live,' said Mosa.Satisfied with Mosa's obvious sincerity, Orlov continued withfurther instructions. Despite the very elaborate information hewas given, Mosa was as puzzled now as he had been at the beginningof the conversation. All the time, Stalin was sipping vodkaand reading what Mosa presumed were very important documents.After a week in Moscow, Mosa was finally on his way toGorky. Instead of choosing a candidate straightaway, he had insistedon seeing photos and particulars of all the candidates first,and then reading reports about them. After reading numerousfiles, he decided to see only two candidates, not five as suggestedby Colonel Penkovsky. An interview with each candidate was arrangedand lasted approximately an hour. Mosa's final choice wasTadeusz Lubitczky – the only son of a Polish nobleman who wentbankrupt long before the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917. Highlyeducated at the Sorbonne in Paris, he was an accomplished linguistand, to Mosa's delight, an excellent musician.Mosa took an intense interest in the candidate's training at theacademy. Their day started at six in the morning, when theywould take a stroll around campus, and after breakfast the trainingbegan in full swing. Tadeusz's progress was beyond Mosa's expectations,and Mosa's reports every fortnight were full of praisefor his new-found student. As they spent most of each day together,their friendship developed a human bond which neitherwould ever forget.One day, Tadeusz suggested to Mosa that he join him in hisliving quarters, mainly because Mosa's spartan dormitory wasfifteen minutes' walk from Tadeusz's place and would, during thecoming winter, be a very uncomfortable walk. Being so closeboth day and night, Mosa used the opportunity to reach Tadeuszhow to play chess. Although Tadeusz was a beginner, he soonimproved his game and learned numerous openings at an incrediblespeed. By the time Mosa was ready to leave, Tadeusz had becomea first-class chess player.One thing threatened to spoil their friendship. It wasTadeusz's lifestyle, love of luxury and love for antique furniture.149

Tadeusz sensed Mosa's rejection of his bourgeois appetite. Hetried to explain it was the way he had been raised in a familywhich lacked nothing. He told him his father used to own a studfarm – he would dearly like to have one day – a palace in Warsaw,a forest and hunting lodges near Gdansk, and a prosperousporcelain factory in Vienna, the products of which were highlysought after in Europe.'Now I understand why you speak German with a slight Vienneseaccent, Tadeusz.''That's right. I spent a lot of time in dad's factory. Porcelainmakingfascinated me.'Mosa accepted his explanation, but pointed out that now,being a member of the Communist Party, he couldn't continuewith such a lavish lifestyle – he had to relinquish it. He evenforced Tadeusz to sell a number of his most expensive antiquepieces at knock-down prices to local party officials. Tadeusz,though not happy about this, felt it would prove to Mosa that hevalued his friendship, but he was not sure he would be able tosuppress his tastes forever.In their teacher-student relationship, Tadeusz learned a lot ofthings, not only about Yugoslavia and its horrible jails but manyintimate details of Mosa's life. Tadeusz soon realised that thedelicate nature of Mosa's revelations could allow him to blackmailthe man at any time – if he chose to, of course. At the sametime, Tadeusz was astonished that the little Jew was such a highrankingofficer in the Yugoslav Communist Party. He knew alsothat such an intelligent individual would never succeed in Russia,no matter how exceptional, due to his Jewish origin.Nine months later, Tadeusz was ready for his final exam. Hepassed with flying colours. At the same time, Mosa was asked byStalin to invent a code name for Josip Broz. The code namewhich Mosa chose was derived from the Croatian language: TITO– Tajna Internacionalna Teroristicka Organizacija, Secret InternationalTerrorist Organisation. The name would be used officiallyin all future correspondence relating to Josip Broz.The night before Mosa's departure, Tadeusz, ColonelPenkovsky, Major Orlov and Mosa were celebrating the completionof their complex assignment. While Mosa and Penkovsky re-150

garded it as a routine assignment, similar to previous ones,Tadeusz saw it as a crossroads in his life, one that certainly offeredthe prospect of living in splendour once again. However,Major Orlov knew Tadeusz would serve as a pivot in Stalin's planand was to be known to his master – Captain Gehlen. Tadeusz, onthe other hand, knew that to reach his final goal would take time,probably far more than expected. He was prepared to wait. Ninemonths of intensive study had passed so quickly that another yearor two would be easier, now that he was aware of what wasahead.One evening after dinner, Tadeusz felt the old yearning toplay again some of his favourite compositions by Tchaikovsky,Rimsky-Korsakov and Chopin, the countryman whom he admiredso much. Once again, he sat down at the piano. His standard ofplaying had improved daily. It surprised Colonel Penkovsky, andMajor Orlov, who had heard of Tadeusz's ability but never hadthe chance to listen to him until that night. Being himself a musician,Orlov could see Tadeusz's potential – a real concert artist ifhe pursued his practice. He even suggested that Tadeusz volunteerto play at state occasions, but Tadeusz replied meekly, teasinghim, 'How could I waste my precious time on such a mundaneactivity? My expectations are much higher than just being an unpaidentertainer. When you're able and qualified, it's natural tocultivate nobler aspirations.'Though Mosa and Penkovsky agreed, they did not suspectwhat was on Tadeusz's mind. Both nodded agreeably, not beingsurprised by this much younger fellow who radiated strength, determinationand, above all, an appetite for bourgeois living whichhe had not fully suppressed. Without comment, they all continuedto listen to Tadeusz's natural gift for music, which he demonstratedin his superb command of the piano. Many complicatedpassages were stored in Tadeusz's head. He played effortlessly,without glancing at the music. Quite remarkable, thought Orlov.It's a pity that some party officials fail to recognise such talent –talent which could advance Russia's image overseas and bringfame to an artist with such an exceptional gift. The sound ofTadeusz's piano spread throughout the campus and the open win-151

dows of the dormitories, where students applauded at the end ofeach piece.Mosa noticed Orlov's distractedness, but right now he wasoverwhelmed by such extraordinary emotions that he knew hewould never forget this moment as long he lived. Though he wasaware of Tadeusz's admiration, it was confirmed now and forever,as they embraced each other at the finale. It was a rather comicsight for Colonel Penkovsky and Major Orlov. They could notstop themselves from laughing, despite the tears in the eyes oftheir companions. Mosa, being such a small man, hardly reachedthe shoulders of the taller and more solidly built Tadeusz.The following morning, Mosa was once again on the train,this time heading for the Krym peninsula – Crimea. His final destinationin Russia was the Livadiya palace at Yalta – once asummer retreat of the Russian Tsar Nicholas II. Part of the palacehad been converted into a resort for officials of the RussianCommunist Party. Those who were granted holidays for their effortsin promoting the Communist gospel among the Russianpeasantry, as well as city-dwellers, would travel on their own,while grudging wives would stay behind. Most of the palace staffwere girls selected from every part of Russia, but the most popularwere beauties from Mongolia. They were there to look afterthe guests in every possible way. The guests, who alone knew thereal reason for the gathering, were to be treated as officials onholiday.Mosa's initial two weeks' holiday was extended another weekbefore he left Yalta on a small fishing boat on his way to Sevastopol.From there, he boarded a liner bound for the port of Varnain Bulgaria.BELGRADE 1940By the beginning of 1940, Mosa had reached Belgrade. Heimmediately got to work. With the help of several party officials,he started to move against the cronies of general secretary Gorkic,an old-fashioned Communist who, with his outdated views, wasstanding in the way of the expanding Yugoslav Communist Party.152

Comrade Franjo Rukavina informed Mosa that Gorkic haddisappeared several months after Mosa's departure from Yugoslavia,but he was determined to find him; when he did, Mosa knewwhat that meant – cold-blooded murder.At the same time, in Zagreb, Franjo Rukavina initiated newmoves requested by Lavrenti Beria. With these attacks, Gorkic'sfriends' days were numbered, and the fate of Gorkic himself virtuallysealed. Many Yugoslav Communists who were Gorkic'senemies believed rumours about Gorkic's involvement with Trotsky,and his personal responsibility for Mosa's and Broz's imprisonment.By this time, such negative propaganda was having itsfull impact on Gorkic, who realised it would be better to resign asgeneral secretary and flee, at least until he could reorganise hisdefences.The road to the highest office in the Yugoslav CommunistParty was now clear for Tito.153

1546ZAGREB 1941Cold weather accompanied by a thickly clouded sky was almostperfect camouflage for those who were organising illegalgatherings on 9th April 1941. It was not a typical night. Zagreb'susual quietness was occasionally broken by late trams rumblingthrough the city, while in the distance the thunder of heavy gunsannounced the beginning of war in Yugoslavia.German forces were on their way to Zagreb, possibly by nowonly seventy or eighty kilometres away. The Third Reich's OperationPunishment was in full swing. Their three-pronged blitzkrieginto Yugoslavia was met by the enormous size of the RoyalYugoslav Army – one million men. Given the sheer size of thearmy and the home-ground terrain it was reasonable to expectformidable resistance to the German assault. However, those whowere more informed predicted only two weeks of resistance, ifnot less. The previous month's political turmoil had destabilisedthe army, the government and the morale of the citizens.On 25th March, Prince Paul, King Peter's regent, reluctantlyyielded to German arm-twisting by signing the Tripartite Pact(Berlin-Rome-Tokyo). The pact angered nearly everyone inYugoslavia, but especially the Serbs. Their reaction was quite understandable,because it was their own king who had subjectedthem to political humiliation, destroying the centuries-old dreamof a Greater Serbia. As a result of the pact, the Serbian populationparaded through Belgrade's streets shouting, 'Better death than apact, better a grave than slavery.' Their message was loud andclear.If the Serbs had been the only nation in Yugoslavia whichrepudiated their king's submission, it would have been a simplematter to extinguish the political fervour, but the echoes of theSerbian revolt spread throughout Yugoslavia. For the first time,all nationalities found a common language, although for differentreasons. To the Croatian nation, the Serbian revolt seemed toopen the gate to freedom. On this tidal wave of patriotic fury,

some officers of the Belgrade garrison carried out a coup d'etat asa last resort to preserve the Greater Serbia dream. Supported bysections of several Serbian political parties, the Serbian OrthodoxChurch and the Serbian cultural clubs, it was a quicksand decision.Practically insane with cage, Hitler, who looked upon southSlavs as low-caste humans, postponed the invasion of Russia andordered Operation Punishment, to teach the Balkan peasants howsuperior his Aryans were. Thus 9th April was very important tothe Croatian people, who had never witnessed an occupation oftheir beloved city of Zagreb.The night was also crucial to a number of individuals: VlatkoMacek, the elected premier of Croatia; Ante Pavelic, the head ofthe infamous terrorist organisation, Ustashe; and Tito, generalsecretary of the Yugoslav Communist Party.Vlatko Macek was born in Kupinec, a small Croatian village,and received his law degree in 1903 from the University ofZagreb. He was closely associated with Antun and Stjepan Radic,the founders of the Croatian Peasant Party. After the dissolutionof the Habsburg empire, Croatia became part of the new kingdomof Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, and the Croatian Peasant Partyemerged as one of the strongest political factions. Elected to theBelgrade constituent assembly in 1920, Macek became leader ofthe party when Stjepan Radic was assassinated in 1928. But whenKing Alexander established a personal dictatorship the followingyear, Macek was imprisoned until after the king himself was assassinatedin 1934. During the latter half of the decade, the CroatianPeasant Party associated and cooperated with several Serbianparties and, despite rigged elections, the combined oppositionnearly ousted the government in 1938. As the premier of Croatia(Croatia had been granted substantial autonomy) Macek becamedeputy prime minister in the Belgrade parliament. Recognised bythe Third Reich as the legitimate leader of Croatia, he was approachedabout the creation of an independent state of Croatia.This particular night, Macek held a secret meeting at UpperTown in Zagreb, with Edmund Weesenmayer, a special negotiatorappointed by the Third Reich's minister for foreign affairs,155

Joachim von Ribbentrop. Their final meeting, on the eve of theoccupation, put a lot of strain on Macek's hard-line approach, metequally by the unyielding stand of the German special emissary.Macek knew after the meeting that there would be no more decisions,so he earnestly attempted to resolve the deadlock, but hisdetermination was a one-sided affair.The stumbling block was Croatian sovereignty, limited by aset of conditions which were totally unacceptable. The ThirdReich insisted that the leader of Croatia proclaim the independentstate of Croatia. Hitler believed that, by creating a separate statewithin Yugoslavia, the Germans could leave the Croatians toserve as their watchdogs for the entire Balkan Peninsula.Macek was seeking freedom for his people. He was not preparedto submit to Hitler's demands. Weesenmayer held the upperhand at the talks, and the thunder of the German artillery was aconvincing trump card. Macek, on the other hand, resisted theGerman pressure with stubbornness, although his position wasdesperate. At that moment, he may have asked himself whetherhe was right or not. If the thought did cross his mind, then itwould haunt him for the rest of his life.Ante Pavelic was born in a small Bosnian village, Bradina,and also received his law degree in 1913 from the University ofZagreb. As a student, he joined the Nationalist Croatian Party ofRights and became its secretary. In 1920, he was elected city andcountry alderman in Zagreb. Seven years later, he became a deputyto the Belgrade constituent assembly but opposed the government'samalgamation policy.In January 1929, when King Alexander established his dictatorship,abolishing both Communists and Fascists, Pavelic escapedfirst to Hungary and later to Italy. There, he organised arevolutionary Croatian nacionalist movement, the Ustashe – insurgents.It was this group that organised the assassination ofKing Alexander in Marseilles on 9th October 1934. Pavelic wasdetermined to liquidate the man who stood in the way of the establishmentof an independent state of Croatia. He failed to realisethat it was Josip Broz who had infiltrated his movement, stagedthe assassination and left Pavelic to take the blame.156

Now waiting eagerly in jail in Bari, protected by GeneralissimoBenito Mussolini's regime, Pavelic hoped Macek's talkswould have a negative outcome. Their failure would leave theway open for him to become the leader of Croatia – a leaderwhose elevation to the highest post would be achieved by thesupport of the German occupying forces rather than by democraticelections, elections which he knew he would never winwithout the support of people he regarded as inferior – the countrypeople.Thinking about the many years he had spent in exile, huntedlike a common criminal, first in Hungary and then in Italy, alwayswith his head on the chopping block, he was convinced of hisright to the leadership. The failure of the talks would give him anopportunity to liquidate, without mercy, all his enemies and thosewho would object to his methods of governing a 'free' Croatia.Not far from Upper Town – Stari Grad – on the southern outskirtsof Zagreb, the Pescenica district was receiving numerousvisitors who all disappeared into a large barn situated in the middleof an orchard. Their meeting was a well-guarded secret. Theyarrived either by late trams, or by cars, bicycles, carts or horsedrawncarriages. Those who arrived on the scene by their owntransport were instructed to disperse their vehicles among themarket gardens and orchards for which Pescenica was famous.Not far from the nondescript large barn was a small cottageoccupied not only by its residents, but also by a group of CommunistParty officials awaiting news from Stari Grad. The newswould arrive by a special courier travelling by motorbike. Itwould be some time before they received it. Meanwhile, thoseentering the barn were ordered to produce identification cards,and a password had to be whispered before they were allowed toenter. The man in charge of security was comrade Franjo Rukavina,whose huge frame towered over the delegates. His largesize and savage expression would scare away anyone who mightpoke their noses in or try, uninvited, to enter the barn.Inside the barn already was a large audience whose voices,though hushed, were easily audible from outside. Some sat on haypiled in stacks around the walls, while the rest were seated in the157

middle, huddled together to keep warm. Their number was closeto two thousand, including delegates from almost every part ofCroatia. As time passed, the audience, which did not know thereason for the large gathering, become restless.The atmosphere filled up with the thick smell of cheap tobacco,and garlic added ill-feeling to some city delegates whowere mingling with country people for the first time. Their chattingwas interrupted occasionally by an official who tried to keeptheir voices down.One of the officials became impatient, realising that it wouldnot be possible to keep the delegates waiting any longer withouttelling them the reason for their secret meeting. He suggested tothe man in command that he should do something. 'ComradeMarko, go to that bloody window and ask them when can westart. You can see that people are shivering from the cold.'Marko rose without answering and picked up the lantern nearhis feet. As he approached the window, it occurred to him howcomrade Ivan had emphasised 'them'. It appeared to him that comradeIvan possibly envied all those in the inner cell of the YugoslavCommunist Party, who were gathering in the warm cottagenot far away from the barn. Or was the comrade fed up with aCommunist hierarchy which could leave them waiting for solong?Waiting for a signal from the cottage, Marko observed thedelegates dressed in warm clothes while he, unable to move,having sat in the place for almost an hour, could feel the coldcreeping over him, against his cheeks as well as hands and legs,not to mention his very large feet.Having had no answer from the cottage, Marko raised hisbattered lantern to repeat the signal. What efficiency, thoughtMarko. What would happen in the war if he had to repeat a simplemessage three times? While he was sending the prearrangedsignals, all eyes were on him, and it was only then that the delegatesrealised somebody else was present. It was obvious somewere suspicious, while others were wondering what it was allabout. At that moment, Marko felt very important, as he was theonly one in the barn who understood the signals. Being a sailor,formerly employed by a small merchant firm which operated on158

the Adriatic coast, he was accustomed to signals of all kinds, internationaland local.The signal which appeared at the other end of the marketgardens informed him that the executive had finally reachedagreement and that they would be in the barn shortly.Marko left his post satisfied at having received a positive answer.'Comrade Ivan, they will arrive in ten minutes.'Without delay, Ivan rose from the wooden crate he used for aseat, raised his hands and shouted, 'Silence. Silence, please!'Only a few sitting in the vicinity of the speaker's table tookany notice of Ivan's shouting.Marko realised that only the whistle suspended from his lanyardwould attract enough attention. Three sharp, high-pitchedblasts pierced the thick air and silenced the people in the barnwhile comrade Ivan slammed a carpenter's hammer on the top ofthe makeshift table, which almost collapsed. Delegates got themessage from the hammer rather than from the shouting. Thosewho knew Ivan intimately were keenly aware of his aggressivenature and the possibility that he might use the hammer on someone'sskull.While some took their scats, Ivan continued shouting. 'Comradedelegates, be seated!'Most delegates responded to his second call as they noticedRukavina's fierce expression, which suggested they had bettercarry out the order.The complete silence which suddenly fell allowed Ivan toaddress the audience in a lower-pitched voice. 'We have receiveda message, comrades. Comrade General Secretary Tito will arriveshortly, accompanied by comrades Mosa Pijade, Lala Ribar andEdvard Kardelj, to address this meeting. Now that you know, Iwould like to ask you to welcome them when they appear.'At that moment, the big barn doors moved slowly outwards,just enough to allow one person at the time to pass through. Tito,followed by his most trusted executives, appeared in the entrance,while the delegates rose at once and welcomed their overdue arrivalwith ovations and slogans. 'Zivio drug Tito, Zivjela Partija.Long live comrade Tito, long live the party.'159

Tito and his companions took seats around a makeshift tablein order of rank, while Mosa walked towards the lectern, raisingboth hands, giving the signal to stop the spontaneous ovation.'Comrades, we're here tonight to decide not only our future,but also the future of our country. As many of you are aware, ourcountry is in a shambles, thanks to a lack of a proper leadershipand the shortsightness of Prince Paul, King Peter and all those officerswho were involved in the coup d'etat. Their irresponsibleacts have dealt a fatal blow to negotiations between Croats andSerbs...' Mosa stalled deliberately for a few seconds to see the reactionto this utter lie, which implied that there was such a possibility,then continued, 'and the very existence of Yugoslavia. As aresult, Hitler's army is approaching our cities, Belgrade, Sarajevoand Zagreb.’'There is no way the Yugoslav army will last longer than afortnight. It may be even less. The Yugoslav army is totally unprepared,although their strength is in our favour. Our intelligencereports confirm that our country has been invaded by fatty divisionsof the German army – four hundred thousand soldiersarmed with modern weapons. Their main strength is several tankdivisions and superior artillery, part of twenty-three German, nineItalian, five Bulgarian and three Hungarian divisions.’'Some of you might ask, aren't one million soldiers superiorto four hundred thousand invaders? Though the difference appearsto be in our favour, our obsolete guns, lack of morale andunity and the absence of tanks make us no match even for asmaller army. The animosities between the Yugoslav states havecreated a weak link – a link which can be crushed at will, mainlybecause of equally weak leadership. It's our duty to fight the enemyand we're ready to provide a strong and constructive leadership.A number of our executives were militarily trained andgained various ranks within the Austro-Hungarian army, whilemany of you also fought bravely in Spain. Our fight is going to bebased on merit rather than regional differences. There will be noprejudice regarding any nationality, religion or culture. Most important,we have to be united against the common enemy.’'Now permit me to invite our comrade, Edvard Kardelj, tobriefly outline our historical position.'160

Edvard Kardelj rose and cross ed towards the lectern. Halfway,he met Pijade, shook his hand and continued to the lectern.Slightly taller than Mosa, but with a solidly built frame andwearing gold-rimmed spectacles, comrade Kardelj inspired tremendousrespect. A Slovenc, and a first-class orator, he took hisposition at the lantern, raised his hands and motioned to the audiencefor instant silence.Many delegates recognised him as the father of the YugoslavCommunist movement, while others even called him the Marx ofYugoslavia.'Comrade delegates, I'm not going to elaborate on the reasonfor tonight's meeting. This will be done by our beloved generalsecretary, comrade Tito.' Interrupted for a few seconds by theaudience's ovation for Tito, Kardelj continued, 'What I'm going totalk about is a very complicated subject which I'll try to translateinto simple language, and that is our turbulent history, which isrepeating itself once again, only in a different form and share. It'snecessary to inform you about our past as I know that many ofyou did not learn about it in school. Not to learn about your historyis not to be aware of the heritage for which our ancestorsfought while their spilt blood was paving the way to freedom. Unfortunately,the history books were rewritten, so we can't takepride in our history, which could easily show us the direction wemust take to pursue our freedom. The roots of your existence tiein the chapters of our glorious past. Therefore, let me tell you -'Suddenly the barn door burst open and a youth entered. Kardeljimmediately ceased his address, which had been deliberatelychosen by Tito to fill the time and warm up the audience. Nowthat the crucial moment had arrived, he waited for the outcome ofthis expected, though long overdue, visit. Kardelj immediatelyrecognised comrade Smiljan Pecjak, Tito's personal courier. Theyoung man crossed the floor and handed Tito a paper which hepulled out of his courier bag. Kardelj regarded his speech as avery important warm-up, not just a time-filling event, so he decidedto continue as Tito read to himself the contents of the message.At that moment, Tito signalled for Kardelj to abandon his tirade.Tito raised his slim body from his seat but, instead of going161

to the lectern, he spoke from where he stood. 'Comrades, we havejust received news from Upper Town but, before I disclose thecontents, let me state my reasons for convening this very importantmeeting. No matter how you may feel about what I'm goingto say, it's necessary to reach a conclusive decision tonight. Yourdecision will affect not only your lives, but the lives of your childrenas well as millions of people in Yugoslavia.’'Now let me tell you the news. As some of you are aware,Macek, the premier of Croatia, has been engaged since yesterdayin final negotiations with the Third Reich. After prolonged deliberations,Macek has refused their demands and the conditions imposedby the Third Reich concerning the proclamation of the independentstate of Croatia.'Tito deliberately paused for a moment to let the inferencesink in about Macek's concern for Croatia, indicating his admirationfor the Croatian leader, though he regarded him as a bushlawyer, hardly leadership material. Tito had to leave the countrypeople, mostly admirers of Macek, with the impression that heagreed with the premier.'If he had accepted, Yugoslavia would have been dividedbetween our enemies, Italy and Hungary, possibly Bulgaria, andhe would have been installed as the watchdog of German imperialism.We all know what that would have meant for the very existenceof Yugoslavia. Even if he had accepted the Germanproposition, he had no guarantee the Third Reich would honour it.One condition was the complete subordination of our newly establishedstate to the Third Reich, which would mean safe passagefor German troops through our territory, unlimited suppliesof road, war material and full board provisions. In return, ThirdReich troops would protect and guard the very existence of theindependent state until such time as its own army could look afterthe state's affairs. The entire cost would be home by the Croatianpeople, and at the end of war it would be repaid, in the currencyruling at that time, as reparations. In the mean time, Macek wouldhave been able to run our country as he chose. The premier rejectedthe request although he recognised the desires of the Croatianpeople, who have longed for a free and democratically governedstate since the coronation of the first Croatian King To-162

mislav in AD 925.' Tito paused for a moment, hoping this historicalreminder would influence the delegates in his favour.'This historical fact inspired the premier to reject the ThirdReich's request. What he had in mind was probably simple. Hisacceptance would have been justified only if he had become theleader of the first united state of Croatia since Tomislav's time.But he said, "I refuse to be a servant in my own house.'"The delegates burst into applause, shouting, 'Long liveMacek, long live Tito, long live Croatia.'The omission of 'Long live the Yugoslav Communist Party'did not worry Tito right then. He intended to conceal his real motivesuntil he had consolidated his position. Interrupting thespontaneous ovation, Tito continued, 'As a result of his statement,Macek was put under house arrest, and Slavko Kvaternik, a formerAustro-Hungarian army lieutenant colonel, in collusion withthe German High Command, is going proclaim a new regime:Nezavisnu Drzavu Hrvatsku, the Independent State of Croatia.The proclamation will be made tomorrow, 10th April.'Tito was bluffing the audience with his categorical statementabout Macek's imprisonment. It was device to hasten their decision.He knew this particular moment was crucial not only for theYugoslav Communist Party but also for his own still unstable positionwithin the ranks of the executive cadres.'According to our intelligence reports from Serbia, GeneralNedic, former Yugoslav minister for the army and navy, willform a new government. King Peter has already fled Yugoslaviaon his way to England via Cairo. The German occupying forceswill divide the rest of Yugoslavia among their allies who haveparticipated in the onslaught on the country. There will no longerbe a Yugoslavia nor a proper Croatia. The entire Adriatic coastwill be taken over by the Italians. Therefore, I'm urging you tosupport the organisation of the National Liberation Front, a resistancemovement. The movement I have in mind will fight ourcommon enemy by guerrilla tactics until we gain enough strengthto fight them in the open. I realise that among you there might bea number who will ask, Isn't it too early to organise a resistancemovement? To all those, let me tell you something: tomorrow itwill be too late. I believe you all know our old proverb, "You163

should mould the steel while it is red hot", and that it is rightnow;' Tito raised his fist.The whole audience burst into applause again. They followedTito's example and raised their fists, which protruded above theirheads like red tulips – cold air was taking its toll. There wasunanimous approval for Tito's request.So, with this meeting, the National Liberation Front, theYugoslav resistance movement, was born. Many participantswould say years later that the creation of the NLF was a take-overby the Yugoslav Communist Party. They were wrong. Any revolutionor resistance movement does not necessarily serve itsoriginal aim, and the NLF was no exception. Tito, Kardelj, Djilas,Ivo Lala Ribar, Rankovic, Pijade and others were conditioningtheir prey, brainwashing even their own members for their ownends. They were aware that, by the time the resistance began tofunction, all who had joined because of their nacionalist idealswould be trapped in their web.Political commissars appointed by the Yugoslav CommunistParty inner cell were given the task of converting those who haddoubts about Communism. Any who disagreed were sent out onpatrols or assignments with no hope of return. From among theconverts, the political commissars organised a special branch ofguerrillas – partisans who occasionally exchanged drab clotheswith Germans, the Ustashe or even Chetniks to convince theCroatian or Serbian population of the necessity of joining theNLF.Communists worked very hard on their way up and, by theend of 1942, they had consolidated absolute power within theNLF, but for political reasons they concealed this until the beginningof 1944. Understandably enough, the Ustashe and Chetniks,with their mass slaughter of Croatians and Serbians, drovecountless individuals into Tito's open arms.The delegates dispersed among the market gardens and orchards,searching in the dark, by lanterns or candles, for their vehicles.One remarked, 'How am I going to organise the resistancemovement in my village when the village elders will suspectCommunist involvement, which they loathe so much?'164

Another replied, 'It's simple: shoot them. They're no good forthe resistance movement regardless of who's organising it.'Astonished by such a cold-blooded answer, the first said, 'Ifthat's the case, I can forget it all together. Who'll ever know I washere tonight, comrade?'The other man smiled, enjoying his final blow. 'It seems tome, comrade, you forget that we all signed the attendance roll. Ifinformation like that were supplied to the Nazi police, it couldearn you a bullet.'The first man opened his eyes, suddenly realising he wastrapped for life.With the proclamation of the NDH on 10th April 1941, theCroatian population witnessed the creation of a new state, withGerman occupation forces marching through Zagreb. Their appearance,although expected, was received with mixed feelings.The country people rejected the proclamation with silence. It wasrepudiated by workers and middle-class people, but the intelligentsia,and people of dubious interests, gave it their full support.Many of their fellow countrymen were slaughtered as a result.On the tenth day after the proclamation of the independentstate of Croatia, Ante Pavelic arrived in Zagreb from the Italianzone of occupation. He was escorted by two hundred well-armedand rigorously disciplined members of the Ustashe. With their arrival,a dictatorship of the worst kind began to emerge.Although Tito had been bluffing his audience on the previousnight, he was right on target about Macek's destiny. On the day ofthe proclamation, two SS officers escorted Macek to the office ofSlavko Kvaternik, a Croat and former Austro-Hungarian colonel,who had been invested with full powers until Pavelic's arrival.Macek was asked to surrender the leadership of HSS, the CroatianPeasant Party, and the Croatian people. As a former premier ofCroatia, he knew he was not the owner of the HSS or the Croatianpeople. He stated that the confidence shown in him by the Croatianpeople could only be revoked by the people, not by himself.Colonel Kvaternik was not satisfied. He knew this country lawyerwas trying to buy time and he was not going to accommodatehim. Then Kvaternik demanded from Macek a written direction to165

the Croatian people that they should accept their new masterspeacefully. Macek recognised the importance of such a direction.If he declined, it would mean bloodshed, and he would do anythingto avoid that.Upon Macek's written submission, he was escorted to Kupinecon the morning of 11th April, and remained there until 15thOctober 1941, when he was officially arrested. On that date,Doctor Vlatko Macek, former premier of Croatia, joined a fewJewish prisoners at the concentration camp in Jasenovac. Thebiggest surprise for Macek was the arrival of Vladimir Singer, aUstashe police commissioner, a new prisoner in Jasenovac, whoshared the first Christmas festivity with Macek. Six months later,on the orders of General Luburic, Macek was transferred back toKupinec village, where he remained until the end of war, togetherwith his wife and children. In the spring of 1943, the NLF occupiedthe area and Macek came under the protection of GeneralTito.In his maiden speech, Pavelic told the citizens of his newlycreatedstate what kind of regime it was to be. 'I'm not going torun this country with rubber but steel bullets...' He immediatelyinstalled himself as supreme head, Poglavnik.Pavelic's political background and experience were modest.His main political education and contribution could be reduced tothe fact that he was the chief of a secret terrorist organisation supportedby Italian and Hungarian authorities. It did not take longfor him to acquire another title, Butcher of the Balkans, a nicknamegiven years later to another megalomaniac.Pavelic's running of the country meant many dead men,women, children and, above all, old people. All who were considereda burden to his dynamic approach to a New World Orderwere eliminated. With his complete subservience to his sponsors,Hitler and Mussolini, and by his own initiatives in introducingpolitical terrorism as a system of government, Pavelic's dictatorshipbecame one of the darkest chapters in Croatian history.Concentration camps popped up like thorns on a crookedrose bush. His ruthlessness made him the idol of people whochose to settle arguments by spilt blood. Even after he declaredwar on the USA, they remained devoted supporters. Two of the166

most respected men in his clique, Ante Vokic, minister of defence,and Mladen Lorkovic, minister of police, instigated a secretmeeting with British officials in Switzerland because theyknew what the result would be of Pavelic's blind devotion to Hitler.Thanks to Tito, who infiltrated the Ustashe, and Philby, whoinformed Tito from the British side about the secret meetings, theinformation was passed on to Pavelic, who ordered their execution.To express his personal gratitude for having been givensanctuary in Italy, Pavelic gave away part of the Adriatic coast tothe Italian king, Emanuel III. Only illness prevented Emanuel IIIfrom being crowned as king of that part of Croatian territory.This dark chapter in Croatia's turbulent history also meant thegenocide of the Jews. Pavelic ordered them to wear the yellowStar of David, and local children were encouraged to stone themand spit on them. This was a prelude to confiscating their propertyand throwing them into concentration camps.That is what an independent Croatia really meant, at least sofar as Pavelic was concerned. The tragedy was that Pavelic's inhumanedrive was not reserved for Jews; on the contrary, even hisown people were subjected to the same harsh treatment. All theseatrocities created a fertile ground for Tito's National LiberationFront.To achieve his lifetime dream, to lead his countrymen tovictory, Tito needed a powerful ally. The choice in 1942 was limitedand yet important not only to Tito but to countries throughoutEurope. Russia was a natural choice, but Tito's inside knowledge,supported by his experience of almost a decade spent in Russia,suggested it would be virtually impossible to reverse Russian foreignpolicy, which denied autonomy to a single state in the BalkanPeninsula.Since 1912, the Orthodox Church hierarchy had urged TsarNicholas II to push for a policy based on the creation of separatestates – a policy based on theological grounds, which meant thepreservation, free from Roman Catholic influence, of the Orthodoxreligion and its heritage. With the political change in Russiaafter 1917, the Tsarist policy might have changed: yet in 1924 a167

plan to separate unions was adopted by Stalin too. His thinking,however, was mainly based on political and strategical necessitiesother than religion. Stalin's plan was simple: Yugoslavia shouldbe divided into two separate unions: a union between the Catholicstates – Croatia, Slovenia, Hercegovina and part of Bosnia – and aunion of the Orthodox states – Serbia, Macedonia, Crna Gora(Montenegro) and the remaining part of Bosnia. His main argumentwas the preservation of Orthodox culture, which in hisopinion was somewhat similar to the Communist gospel, far moreso than Roman Catholic theology. On the other hand, interferencefrom Rome, if Yugoslavia remained one state, would be disseminatedthrough the Orthodox population. It would be very difficultfor Moscow to tackle this interference. It could ultimately dissolvethe Orthodox political supremacy on the Balkan Peninsula.The establishment of such a union would enable Stalin topursue his own brand of Communist teaching, as the Orthodoxunion would adopt his intervention without question. In the eventof military conflict between West and East, Stalin would be ableto pursue a hard line in the southern flank of Europe – Albania,Greece, Italy and even Turkey – Russia's Achilles heel. This arrangementwould also enable him to have easy access to the warmwater ports of Crna Gora and ultimately the control of the Adriaticand Mediterranean seas. Gibraltar would become a burdenrather than an asset for the British. Such control would serve hislong-range plans for the destabilisation of northern African andsouthern European states.The other choice for Tito was mighty Great Britain, with itsparliamentary monarchy, though it was totally alien to him. Heloathed kings, as he saw in them a restriction on proletarian expansion.With its tradition, stable government and prosperouseconomy, England would hardly be easy prey to Communistdoctrine. As a matter of fact, it could prove to be the bulwark ofWestern democracy. Tito, who regarded himself as an extremehardliner with a deep contempt for Western standards, couldscarcely be expected to align himself with Great Britain, at leastunder normal circumstances. How could he? The British systembred capitalism, a free-enterprise society. The British politicalsystem was Tito's arch-enemy. But in a war like this, how could168

he ignore such a possible association? Of course, he could not.Things were different now. He always believed that, to survive,one might have to side with the devil. Considering the odds ofthis possible but strange relationship, it seemed natural to him, inspite of his personal dislike for England, to seek its help. After all,he had no option. If Stalin found Great Britain to be beneficial toRussia, then he too could justify the importance of Britain toYugoslavia.To persuade would-be allies to accept this seemingly absurdproposal, Tito sent to Russia a delegation led by Smiljan Pecjak,his personal courier, whose intelligence, youth, wit and devotionto the Communist cause might alone influence the mind of themuch older man and seasoned statesman – Joseph Stalin.However, without Tito's knowledge, Franjo Rukavina,Pecjak's security adviser, insisted on splitting the delegation intothree groups. His reasoning was natural under the circumstances:it would be much easier for smaller groups to reach their destinationthan a single group of a dozen men. As it contravened theoriginal plan, some objected to the idea – though not openly, ofcourse, as they knew the consequences of such objection.It was Rukavina, however, who persuaded them to changetheir minds. Their plan to reach Moscow by different routespassing through vast areas of Germanheld territory appeared analmost impossible task, and Rukavina's high-handed approach resultedin the last five delegates abandoning the trip, again withoutTito's knowledge. It would be many years before Tito learned oftheir fate, but by then he had discovered a very important truth –who his real friends were. Of the remaining seven delegates, onlyPecjak and Rukavina reached their destination. As for the rest, theNKVD was the only agency with any knowledge of their fate.To woo Great Britain was a different matter. Tito realised hisdelegate should be a person who possessed diplomatic skills ofthe highest order – a person who understood not only the languagebut the British way of life, its people and, above all, itspoliticians inside the House of Commons, regardless of their politicalpersuasion. His choice was his most trusted lieutenant, anEnglish-speaking diplomat, Colonel Vladimir Velebit. He wasrecognised as one of the most experienced negotiators, a ladies'169

man, who would employ ingenious methods to achieve his goals–- even reading other gentlemen's mail, if necessary. His main jobwas to concentrate on Churchill, to convince him of the need notonly for British military support but for the political endorsementof Tito, which would ensure the consolidation of his power in thewar-torn Balkans at the end of the conflict. In return, Tito wouldkeep forty divisions of German troops occupied so they would notbe able to leave Yugoslav territory to march against England.Such a contrived undertaking influenced Churchill's thinking,but his position was not that simple. The implications were numerous,no matter how wholeheartedly he tried to shift the patternalready established by the British Foreign Office. It was naturalfor the Foreign Office's upper-class advisers, exclusively educatedand of noble background, to evaluate British overseas interestsfrom a different angle. Taking into account the family relationshipsbetween the British monarchy and the Yugoslav royalfamily, it was normal for them to advise the Westminster governmentabout the necessity to support King Peter's minister ofwar, the Serbian general, Draza Mihajlovic. It was well-knownthat Serbia had fought alongside Britain against Germany in theGreat War.Churchill, on the other hand, was pragmatic. In his view,General Mihajlovic represented a narrow field of military operationsusing only Serbs, and it would not take the Germans long todefeat him. What he would like to see was a resistance movementwhich embraced all nationalities and would thus be difficult forthe Germans to suppress. In his meetings with Velebit, Churchillstressed the importance of evidence which would force the ForeignOffice mandarins to succumb to this pragmatic arrangement.After his promising meeting with the British prime minister,Velebit dispatched a request for General Tito to come up withsome sort of miracle. His suggestion to provide evidence whichcould persuade the British government to change its foreign policyin regard to Yugoslavia … was such a strongly worded documentthat Tito virtually had no option but to comply.Having been trained in Russia and having experienced theSpanish Civil War at first-hand, Tito and Mosa threw themselvesinto devising a plan which would provide hard evidence of Miha-170

jlovic's collaboration with the Germans. Their ingenious plot washatched to sway Churchill's faith and seal Mihajlovic's destinyforever. With its promulgation, Tito was able to kill two birdswith one stone.Accordingly, Tito arranged, at the request of the British, ameeting with General Mihajlovic, but only after his intelligencenetwork had reported Mihajlovic's desperate need for more gunsand ammunition. Their meeting was arranged on neutral groundwith the aim of greater cooperation between them against theircommon enemy, the Germans.Tito knew beforehand that their meeting would fail. He wasnot prepared to share the spoils of war. Tito instructed his partisansto collect stolen German arms, taken in battle or gatheredthrough partisan connections. Instead of pilling them in a heap, heordered them to be stacked into two neat rows so they could beeasily recognised. They were cleaned beforehand and doctored insuch a way that they would be useless to anyone.The ammunition boxes were filled with gravel or rocks undera top layer of ammunition. Their weight was identical to boxesfilled with bullets, so no one would prematurely spoil the givingaway ceremony. When the Chetniks arrived, they were impressedwith the partisans' discipline, organisation and, above all, thewide range of German arms, neatly stacked into groups withneatly laid boxes of ready-to-use ammunition. The Chetniksthought the gift of arms was a positive sign of Tito's approval.They were confused and dismayed when they were forced, atgunpoint, to rose behind the stacks of arms before Tito's photographer– Mosa Pijade. Some were dressed in German uniformsand wore Iron Cross medals. No one knew the real reason for thealmost comic gathering, except Tito and Mosa, of course.What an impressive picture. Many partisans thought that Titowas only trying to humiliate the Chetniks. While one copy ofeach photograph was reserved for a special dispatch to Cairo addressedto the Special Operations Executive office, the othercopies were put into the partisans' archives to be used at the endof war as trial evidence against war criminals. Again, two birdswith one stone.171

The rigged photographs were received by SOE and Velebit inLondon. The Chetniks were shown receiving arms and ammunitionin the company of high ranking German officers. The conclusionwas inevitable, but Churchill was still not satisfied. Hesensed a possible setup. To reassure himself, he sent a team toYugoslavia - a delegation led by a military man who would assessthe situation from a military point of view rather than a politicalone.172

7MONTENEGRO 1943At dusk, on 27th May 1943, alone Halifax bomber of theRoyal Air Force took off from the air base at Derna – TripoliTania – in North Africa. The half-dozen occupants of the planewere strange characters, at least as far their appearance was concerned.Dressed in combat uniforms, their faces and hands werestained with shoe polish. Their heads were covered by woollencaps. Being armed with small-calibre guns and sophisticated radiosets, one would assume that, due to nonexistent heavy armamentand the size of their unit, their role would be far from being anordinary combat mission.The air crew, mainly New Zealanders, could easily bethought to be inexperienced youngsters, quite a contrast to theBritish contingent, who appeared to be a seasoned lot. The NewZealanders' competence, however, quickly dismissed any falseimpressions. They executed their duties with a military precisionwhich fully compensated for their youth.The pilot, hardly twenty, only a sergeant by rank, proved tobe as skilled as any captain. However, his nervousness was quiteobvious. It was his second trip on the same course, and he waswondering if he would be able, this time, to discharge his preciouscargo. The engine noise, and the altitude of the bomber,prevented him and the other occupants from any real conversation.Bad weather, and the German fighter base at Heraklion onCrete, were not the only obstacles to their operation, code-namedTypical, which was a closely guarded secret. The participantsguessed their mission was vital, but they were not fully aware ofhow important it really was. The anxiety showed on their faces,despite the thin layer of shoe polish.After crossing the Mediterranean, and flying over the frontierbetween Greece and Yugoslavia, the pilot indicated to the leaderthat he should come to the cockpit. Leaning against the pilot's173

seat, the leader lowered his head closer to the pilot, who issued alast-minute briefing.The aim of Operation Typical was to parachute into thehighlands of Crna Gora at Durmitor mountain. It was partly infestedby small units of Chetniks, whose undisciplined lieutenantscertainly would not lay out a red carpet for the first military delegationto Yugoslavia, and there were also German forces to consider.They encircled the barren stricken mountains, preparing forthe final assault to destroy Tito's stronghold and thus make theBritish landing extremely difficult. Its timing and the actuallanding represented the beginning of the reversal of the Britishgovernment's policy.As the official representatives of the British government, themilitary contingent was being sent to Yugoslavia to ascertain towhom British military support should be given – to General Tito,the leader of the resistance movement, otherwise known as theNational Liberation Front; or to General Draza Mibajlovic, theleader of the Chetniks and the minister of war appointed by theroyal Yugoslav regime in exile. The fact-finding expedition wasled by Colonel Deakin and Captain Stuart, the only officers familiarwith every aspect of their mission. While they werechecking their positions and issuing last-minute orders to thecompany, its two radio operators, Sergeants Wroughton and Rosenberg,were checking their valuable equipment, the latest inarmy portable field radio sets. Deakin knew that once on theground he would be depending entirely on Stuart, who was fluentin both Croatian and Serbian.Captain Stuart was aware of the history of the people livingin the Balkans and knew King Alexander's reasons for calling twoentirely different languages by the single name Serbo-Croatian.The animosities between Croats and Serbs had been the king'smain worry. His belief and hope were that a common languagewould wipe out Croatian nationalism, and thus gradually help tobury, forever, the differences between the se arch-enemies. Thecenturies-old enemies of Yugoslav unity were Western-orientedCroats, predominantly Roman Catholics, and Eastern-orientedSerbs, mostly Orthodox.174

Before his landing, his knowledge worried Stuart quite a lot.He didn't want to stir up ill-feeling and disturb the fragile unity ofthe partisans. It did not take him long to find out that Tito, too,had adopted a similar approach for almost identical reasons.As the Halifax bomber approached its designated rendezvous,lit by small bonfires in dense darkness, the plane's captainpressed a button, and a green light appeared over the exit of theaircraft. Two thousand feet below, in the wildest part of CrnaGora, lay the partisan headquarters of General Tito.The arrival of the official representatives of the British GHQfrom the Middle East was received with great satisfaction. Theirreport overwhelmingly provided the lengthy evidence which finallyconvinced Churchill to recognise the resistance movementthat he now considered would pave the way to unity among thevarious nations in the Balkan Peninsula. As part of Churchill's decision,it was determined to send yet another delegation, this timeled by a man who would, throughout the war, become Tito'smilitary adviser, friend and, above all, lifetime admirer. With hissupport, Tito would succeed not only militarily but politically aswell. Their friendship would become a bond between men of differentculture and origin, but of equal intelligence and with similartastes in luxurious living.With Stuart's tragic death during a German air raid, easycommunication with Tito was suddenly terminated. ColonelDeakin, however, was not worried about Serbo-Croatian, whichhe always referred to when talking about Stuart's linguistic ability.Why should he be? So long as he could communicate withTito in German, he was happy. To his surprise, Tito spoke it witha Viennese accent. Deakin was puzzled, initially, mainly becausehe knew that Tito had spent only a short spell in the Austro-Hungarian army, hardly long enough to pick up a Viennese accent.Tito, to Deakin's knowledge, had been captured by theTsar's army in Russia, in 1916, and imprisoned until the OctoberRevolution in 1917. How, then, could he have acquired a Vienneseaccent? Given the fact that Tito spent almost a decade inRussia, it would have been far more natural if he had spokenGerman with a Russian or soft Slav accent.175

War, its hardship, fatalities, constant movements and day-todayinterruptions prevented Deakin from making any further enquiries.By the time the second delegation arrived on 17 December1943, Tito was, if necessary, able to communicate his basicneeds in English. However, this positive start was hampered bythe arrival of Brigadier Fitzroy Maclean, whose vocabulary, toTito, seemed to belong to the upper-class. So, from then on, Titomostly relied on his professional interpreter, comrade Olga Nincic,a daughter of Momcilo Nincic, the foreign minister of theroyal Yugoslav government in exile in London.Olga, educated in England, understood the brigadier's vocabulary.Her superb command of English impressed every memberof the British delegation. Spoiled in her early childhood, beingfrom a well-to-do family, Olga became disillusioned duringher early student days in Belgrade University. Her open criticismof the ruling class surrounding King Alexander's court was noticedby the police, who may have suggested to her father that hereprimand her severely or send her away. As the result of pressurefrom some members of her own family, Olga found herself isolated,but not for long. She quickly found new friends, youngpeople, who were very serious and determined to change the fabricof the existing society which she loathed so much. It was thenthat she substituted her family love for the Communist gospel,and as a result she enlisted in the Omladina, the Communist youthorganisation.Those in charge of brainwashing succeeded in converting herto a total devotee of Communist ideology. Possibly out of embarrassment,her father sent her to England, to Cambridge University.Her stay in England cemented her devotion. She met a numberof young Englishmen who shared her political views. Amongthem was Kim Philby, who, without her knowledge, closelystudied the young girl from the Balkans.On her return to Yugoslavia, she married a young Moslem,who became one of the most feared and prominent leaders of theparty machine and the underground's covert operations in Bosnia.It was quite natural for her husband's activities to be scrutinisedand later on monitored by the local authorities through their networkof informers which kept a tab on most revolutionaries.176

Through his activities, Olga too, was suspect, regardless of herlow profile, which was the result of her state rather than her ability.She was finally caught by a Ustashe black shirt officer.Being pregnant at the time, she was taken under heavy escortto the hospital in Sarajevo. Her husband, having been notified ofher enforced hospitalisation, staged her escape and, after the birthof her child, she took a more secure sanctuary in the forest atTito's headquarters.The arrival of Brigadier Maclean, a personal friend ofWinston Churchill's, marked a new era in British foreign policytowards Tito. Despite the initial language barrier, he and Titostruck up a liking for each other and a lasting friendship. Thebrigadier's presence gave a lot of satisfaction to the leaders of theNational Liberation Front. The delegation was extremely importantto Tito in providing a link to regular British war supplies andin creating the possibility of paving the way for political endorsementof the Yugoslav Communist Party as the sole partyentrusted to govern post-war Yugoslavia.Maclean's stay in Jajce, the medieval capital of Bosnia, was ashort affair. A month after his arrival, accompanied by his chiefof staff, Colonel Street, he left to inspect the Adriatic coast – thelifeline of British war supplies – while Major James Klugmanremained in Jajce to look after General Tito.Jajce, situated on the Pliva river, made a tremendous impacton most visitors. The picturesque appearance of its buildings wasenhanced by the influence of Turkish architecture. Its streets werenarrow, mostly steep, and cobblestones covered the walkwayswhich on Sundays were mainly used by old people taking a leisurelystroll; during the week they became crowded with heavilyveiledMoslem women on their way to market. Their path wouldoccasionally be obstructed by firewood traders and heavily ladendonkeys. Before sundown, the walkways would again becrowded. This time, Moslem menfolk were rushing down to theirdaily prayer, guided by the echo of a chanting voice from theminaret of a nearby mosque.Jajce's inhabitants were hard-working people whose wordwas respected more than any written contract. The city's turbulenthistory had been coloured by the occupation of the entire area by177

Turkish forces led by the bloodthirsty Mehmed II, The Conqueror.Because of this, the people of Jajce had become a tightknit,tight-lipped community. No force in the world could evermake them talk. The city's altitude, fresh air and folk songs full ofsevdah, sad lyrics, created an unusual atmosphere for the visitingEnglishmen. Confronting them when they landed on PetrovoPolje, Peter's Plateau, was the idyllic setting of the Pliva Falls,often referred to by the locals as the Niagara Falls of Bosnia.Those who knew the history of the Turkish invasion and theprolonged agony resulting from it could easily understand the sadlyrics of the Bosnian folk songs. During the Turkish occupation,infants of Bosnia were of ten taken away from their mother'sbreasts by force and shipped to Istanbul. The Turks used sheep'smilk to raise the motherless children into fearless mercenaries,who were sent back to Bosnia. Being at the same time able linguists,it was hard for the Bosnians to hide anything from thesemerciless killers. Dressed in sheepskin clothes regardless ofweather conditions, they stank in summer, and Bosnian peoplegave them the nickname Janjicari, sheepskin warriors. Rape,murder and looting were their speciality, and their savage handlingof the locals was met by equally savage reprisals.Soon, Mohamed II realised that even these harsh methodswere failing to subdue the Bosnians, and in fact their retributionhad become a great burden to the occupying forces. As the Turkishinfluence started to decline, the pressure on Bosnia's peoplebecame less and less, but it left a permanent stay – sevdah.On his walks at sunset, Major Klugman would familiarisehimself with the tragic history of this part of Bosnia, which onceagain had become a battleground: the Germans, the Chetniks andthe Ustashe forces versus the partisans. His sympathies, however,were with the partisans, not only because he was a member of theBritish delegation, but also because secretly he was a member ofthe British Communist Party.Although only a major, Klugman's importance to Tito wasenormous. His connection with the officer of SIS Section V, KimPhilby, saved Tito from disaster, and yet at the same time gavethe NKVD the background to set up a spy at Tito's headquarters.178

One late autumn night, Klugman was sitting around the campfire with visiting members of the British parliament. He was explaininghis impressions of the situation in this rugged countryside,emphasising the lack of properly trained nurses, a hospitaland after-care facilities. He had witnessed many times a reverse ina patient's recovery due to the lack of properly trained personnel.At the same time, he praised the morale, the discipline andcomradeship he observed, and acknowledged the suffering thatpartisans went through each day of their struggle against thecommon enemy - both the German occupying forces and the localUstashe units. He also described how he had witnessed the amputationof a soldier's leg, cut off by a carpenter's small-toothedsaw, the operation being performed at a village vet.When asked what could be done, Klugman shrugged. 'I don'tthink anything can be done constructively unless it's done on amassive scale.' He pretended extraordinary concern while hisvoice trembled due to the cold weather, and continued, 'I'm sure ifwe could arrange for at least one woman to go to England andqualify as a nurse, she would be able to pass on her knowledge toher countrymen. The partisans would greatly appreciate such agesture on our part more than you can imagine.'Those present around the camp fire looked at cach other,waiting for a volunteer. 'Do you have anybody in mind? askedone.'Yes, I do. If you like, I can talk to her and let you know:'One of them spoke, 'Then it's settled... providing the commandingofficer agrees.'One leader agreed with the proposal in principle, but he wasnot prepared to rush into it. He wanted to make absolutely surethat the candidate would be suitable for studies in England, andthat approval would be forthcoming:Next day, Major Klugman went to see a young girl, DusankaRadovan. She was attractive and her wicked mind was just whatKlugman was looking for. His powers of persuasion failed, however,the minute he outlined his plan. When he told her aboutLondon boutiques where she would be able to buy more attractivegarments instead of plain grubby partisan uniforms, her eyessparkled, but it was still not enough inducement. Anticipating her179

worship of Tito, common to most girls, he mentioned that,dressed in real ladies' dresses, she would definitely catch Tito'seye, possibly more than Olga. Klugman couldn't believe it himself,but merely mentioning Tito's name and her competitionworked like magic. Dusanka was more than pleased to go toEngland and try to gain nursing qualifications.During the entire conversation, Klugman was probing thisinexperienced girl from the Yugoslav countryside, but it was bysheer luck that Dusanka revealed her tightly guarded secret. Hewas sure the revelation would please Lavrenti Beria.180

8LONDON 1943A few weeks later, when the British parliamentary delegationleft Yugoslavia, the additional passenger on their plane, DusankaRadovan, sadly said farewell to her homeland. To ensure herproper reception in England, Klugman sent an open cable toPhilby, who by now was on the ladder to the top post in MI6.Philby had enjoyed quick promotion from war correspondent inSpain to a cushy job in one of the best intelligence organisationsin the Western world, whose headquarters at Praed Green warmedhis return to London, Washington and, ultimately, to Moscow.Klugman's message read,Dear friend,Our bird is on her way to your mother's nest. She is sucha unique and rate bird that it has to be mated with thebest kind. Make the best of it, no matter how much herupkeep costs.Lots of luck,FalconSeveral weeks later, Klugman received confirmation ofPhilby's success.The sound of a softly spoken voice with an English upperclassaccent was still present in Dusanka's ears, although the conversationhad finished almost an hour ago. Though a total strangerto her, the caller sounded like a highly educated man, but obviouslyhad a peculiar way of arranging a dinner invitation. Thinkingseriously about the call and the invitation, Dusanka asked herselfa number of questions. What did he really want? Why hadshe been invited? How had he found out that she was in England?181

Many thoughts crossed Dusanka's mind and yet, the longer shethought, the less she understood.Her confusion and anxiety became even greater when she realisedthat even her comrades in Yugoslavia did not know herwhereabouts. She had had no chance to communicate with them.Yet this mysterious Englishman, somehow out of nowhere, hadlearned about her presence in England. Very intriguing, thoughtDusanka. Unable to continue reading, she wondered why she hadnot refused his invitation in the first place. After all, she had aperfect excuse: the caller was a complete stranger to her, eventhough he introduced himself during the conversation. What surprisedher even more was her agreement to another call at lunchtimethe following day.Being of a quite different upbringing, she would probably,under normal circumstances, have accepted the invitation, possiblyout of curiosity more than anything else – providing, ofcourse, that she had been invited in her own country, where therewas no such strict code of behaviour. Here in England, where shewas alone in a foreign country, it was quite another matter.The noisy arrival of her girlfriend and room-mate, BarbaraFellow, who was several years older than Dusanka and a qualifiednurse, did not interrupt Dusanka's thoughts. Barbara, however,immediately noticed Dusanka's preoccupation as soon she walkedinto their dormitory. Even her deliberate laughter and louder thanusual greetings fell on Dusanka's deaf ears. Taking off her nurse'scloak and her shoes, she deliberately dropped them on the polishedfloor. The hollow sound finally attracted Dusanka's attention.'Oh, I'm terribly sorry,' apologised Barbara, with a cheekysmile on her face.Turning her head in Barbara's direction, and absently glancingat her wrist watch, Dusanka raised her head, moving her eyeswell above her friend's head, and said, 'I didn't realise you werealready here.'Barbara was in a real mood to disturb Dusanka's silence, andshe knew the best way to do it. 'It seems to me you're far away tonight,Dusanka. I presume you've left a handsome partisan backin Yugoslavia, or should I say, a broken heart. Did you?'182

Despite her lack of attentiveness, Dusanka did pick up thesarcasm in her girlfriend's teasing tone, but she was not in themood for an argument. Her mind was still occupied, at leastpartly, with the mysterious nature of the Englishman's phone call.Dusanka's mood, however, did not stop her confronting Barbara'sconstant teasing, which, in Dusanka's opinion, if left unchallenged,would encourage her to establish a pattern. Instead ofindulging in one of her usual Balkan emotional outbursts, Dusankadeliberately stalled for a few seconds to regain control overher feelings. 'I don't know what's happening to you lately, Barbara.Always thinking about some handsome man.''Isn't it natural for a girl of my age?' inquired Barbara, plainlyimplying her ripe age and her hopes of getting married before shereached thirty.'Of course it's not, but you must understand my position. Ihave so many other things to think about...'The sudden outburst of laughter interrupted Dusanka's seriousdeliberation, and the pause caused by Barbara's laugh gaveher an opportunity to tease her girlfriend even further. 'Oh, comeon, Dusanka. That's a load of claptrap. What's more importantthan getting married and raising a family and living happily everafter?'Disturbed by the continuous teasing and the trace of cynicismin Barbara's voice, Dusanka became irritated but more determinedto be polite no matter how hard it was to control herself. 'To me,my country, the resistance movement, my comrades and ultimatelymy return to Yugoslavia are the most important things inlife.' The seriousness in her voice emphasised her meaning while,with a slight smile on her face, she tried to soften the harshness ofher words and make Barbara understand and accept her opinions.But even her smile could not hide her state of mind, and Barbararealised that, in the end, continuous teasing would only upset Dusanka.Barbara profoundly apologised and began to get ready to takeher evening bath, but Dusanka said, 'I'd like to ask you a personalquestion, Barbara.' She waited a few seconds, took a deep breathand then continued, 'It's rather hypothetical, but important nevertheless.What would you do if someone invited you to dinner?'183

Closely scanning Barbara's face, Dusanka hoped to hear a positiveanswer, mainly seeking approval for her own sake.Barbara, on the other hand, took a serious look at her friend.'Well, it depends entirely on the circumstances. If I know thegentleman, and he's handsome, then I'd seriously consider his invitationbefore I said no...'Impatiently, Dusanka interrupted. 'But what would you say ifyou didn't know him?'Barbara was rather surprised by this proposition and sensedsomething unusual. 'I'd definitely say no. In England we do havea custom of being properly introduced before we accept an invitation.'Not quite defeated by this categorical statement, but sensingshe was being reminded once again of her different background,Dusanka decided to end the conversation in spite of her hurtfeelings. She knew it would be hard to hide it if she went outwithout notifying either Barbara or the matron. Sooner or later,she would have to tell Barbara. After all, Barbara was her solefriend in this foreign country and, more importantly, her immediatecustodian.At this point, Dusanka hesitated. She was not sure if it wasthe right moment. Could she tell Barbara without making a foolof herself? Realising that her reliance on Barbara left her withouta choice, she said, 'You're probably wondering why I'm askingyou all these questions. About an hour ago, I received an invitationfrom one of your countrymen, whom I have never met, butwho, during our conversation, told me something which indicatedthat he's genuine. He knows, quite well, a number of my immediatecomrades in Yugoslavia.''Are you sure, Dusanka? asked Barbara suspiciously.Although Dusanka could sense Barbara's genuine concern,she assumed it was attributed mainly to an improper invitationrather than any possible danger. 'Yes, I am.''I hate to appear curious but, knowing your background, itwould be wise to be on your guard. After all, what makes yousure he knows your immediate friends? What kind of proof haveyou got?' Barbara deliberately skipped Dusanka's habit of callingher friends comrades. To Barbara, personally, it seemed out of184

place among girls, especially those at Guy's Hospital. She had toadmit it was not Dusanka who had made her aware of the word.She had heard it for the first time in Spain in 1937, during thecivil war. Her musing upon the past was interrupted by Dusanka.'As we concluded our conversation, he said a few words inSerbian. I was surprised, as you can imagine. Amazingly enough,'continued Dusanka, 'his command of Serbian was so good that hecould easily pass for a countryman. At the end of our short conversation,he even bade me goodnight with so much warmth that Icouldn't resist the temptation to allow him to call again. It wouldbe impossible for me to describe to you now how I really felt atthat moment...'She stalled for a second, hoping her further elaborationwould finally convince her friend to overlook the British way ofdoing things, at least in her case. 'Can you imagine how it feltwhen I heard my mother tongue being spoken so far from home?'A slight pause gave Dusanka enough time to think aboutOlga, the name mentioned by her mysterious caller. Thinkingabout her was enough to blow her mind. While she was here inEngland, Olga, her rival, was near Tito, her idol.Barbara too was preoccupied. She could understand how Dusankahad felt when she heard her own language. Thoughts ofSpain returned. She remembered her visit to Madrid with BritishRed Cross volunteers in 1937. She was then about Dusanka's age.Street fights at night accompanied by the rattle of machine-gunswould horrify any young girl, but not Barbara. Her Anglo-Saxonnature, sometimes referred to by others as being cold-blooded,easily overcame any fears and, despite the many dangers, shewould go out and help wounded soldiers regardless of their origin.Her secret bravery in the dark nights of Madrid earned herthe reputation of a rare human who was concerned with the plightof suffering victims of an inhumane war. On the other hand, beingfully aware what kind of person she really was, her superiorswere proud to have her on their staff.However, one night she became separated from her medicalteam and was quickly surrounded by a bunch of ill-fed, ill-cladbut very determined guerrillas.185

They blindfolded her and dragged her away from the bloodyscene and, though she could hardly understand a word, she wasfully convinced she had become a hostage. She did not understandthe purpose of her abduction but, soon enough, through herordeal, she realised how close death really was, so she did not resist.After hiding her during the day and travelling all night, sheand her abductors arrived at the Communist forces' hideout.The operation began almost immediately after she arrivedand she discovered that all the preparations had already beenmade in anticipation of her arrival. The chief of the 'Communistforces – whose name, she found out, was Ramos – told her inbroken English that he had arranged her abduction. He also guaranteedher safe passage back to Madrid if she cooperated. Barbaraagreed. She had no choice, but it appeared to her that the patient –no doubt some important political figure or perhaps a highrankingofficer – was far more important than she had been givento believe.Before they began, the doctor who was to perform the operationtried to calm her down and said in perfect English, 'Don'tworry, Miss Fellow. Everything will be all right. As soon we finishthis hopeless operation, you'll return to Barcelona.'Puzzled by the doctor's explanation, Barbara asked, 'WhyBarcelona, doctor? I was abducted in Madrid.''Very simple. Your team leaves the day after tomorrow forBarcelona, so it's no use your going to Madrid.'Glancing at Barbara's badly torn uniform and worn shoes, thedoctor ordered replacements. Barbara had finally found someonewho could communicate with her. She was surprised at how wellinformed he was. 'Could you possibly tell me where I am?' sheasked ingenuously.'I could, but for your own sake it's better if you don't knowme or this location. You'll be interrogated no doubt by the Spanishintelligence people to explain your absence or, should I say,sudden disappearance. It would be very dangerous for you toknow. As I said before, you'll be freed unharmed. You'll be safeproviding you keep quiet. If you do reveal any details, I can assureyou it'll lead you to certain death.'186

From the way the doctor emphasised the last part of his sentence,Barbara realised that any further questioning would be metby silence. His warning was clearly more than an empty threat.Unfortunately, their patient died because he had lost so muchblood and because of the prolonged wait for medical help. Hisbullet-riddled back prevented Barbara from seeing his face at thebeginning of the operation. It appeared to her that she was not theonly person prevented from seeing the patient's face.The other assistants were ushered out as soon the patientdied, and the only reason she remained in the makeshift theatrewas on Doctor Stuart's insistence. He gave a signal to the armedguerrillas to leave them until he finished his final job – anautopsy. As she was taking her mask from her face in the theatre,she managed at last to see the patient's face. It was to haunt herfor years. She remembered she had been puzzled at the time butsoon forgot about it. Now she recollected that distant incident.She remembered something she had never thought about before.Just before the patient was given anaesthetic he murmured,'Polka,' and then other names which were strange to her, but sheguessed they must have been those of his wife and child. Thenames still rang in her ears, and on her return to England she realisedthe patient had not been a Spaniard nor an Italian. A secondname, Zarko, was definitely of Slav origin, too.During Barbara's musing, Dusanka had patiently waited, underthe impression that Barbara was seeking some acceptable solution.Her light cough reminded Barbara of her presence and herproblem.Thinking about it, Barbara had to admit that Dusanka was ina different position. She had not been captured or kidnapped.Strictly speaking, she was under the protection of His MajestyKing George VI's government, and no one in England would takeany chances that might jeopardise Dusanka's safety. 'Did you acceptthe invitation, Dusanka?''No, I wasn't sure what to do,' Dusanka lied. She knew thereal reason why she had left an open door for Philby. Once he hadmentioned his acquittance with Olga Nincic, Dusanka had no option.The fact that Olga remained in Tito's vicinity while she was187

here in England mattered to Dusanka more than anything. Afterall, Olga might secretly love Tito, too. 'I asked him to give meanother call tomorrow at lunchtime. My excuse was that I mightbe on duty tomorrow; though I knew I wasn't. 'Studying Dusanka's broad but attractive Slav face, Barbarahad to admit that despite her age she was not only pretty but alsoa very shrewd and intelligent person. 'Good. What are you goingto tell him tomorrow, then?''I'm not sure. That's why I asked you.'Barbara was not prepared to take any responsibility, so shesought a way out.While trying to figure out what to say next, she asked, 'If Iremember correctly, you said in the beginning that your questionwas hypothetical?''Yes, I did,' admitted Dusanka, and continued, 'but I wasn'tsure of your reaction, mainly because I realise I'm your responsibilitywhile I'm here.'Barbara smiled, realising how smartly Dusanka was remindingher of her obligation to give advice. There was no way out. 'IfI were you, I'd ask him to seek the matron's permission first.Apart from me, she should be told. Even I have to report to herbefore going out so that she can get in touch in a case of an emergency.'Sensing Barbara's shifting responsibility, Dusanka was happywith the outcome and promised to tell her mysterious caller toseek the matron's permission first. 'By the way, what's your mysteriousgentleman's name?' inquired Barbara. 'Kim Philby,' saidDusanka.Astonished by this coincidence, Barbara could hardly hideher surprise. It was all over her cool Anglo-Saxon face.Naturally it did not escape Dusanka's piercing eyes. 'Is anythingwrong, Barbara?''Not really, but I met Mister Philby a long time ago. To beprecise, it was during the Spanish Civil War, when he was anewspaper correspondent. Do you remember me telling you aboutwhat happened to me in Spain?'Dusanka shook her head, so Barbara told how she had beendumped in Barcelona and how her wandering around the city led188

her into Philby's arms. Exhausted from her extensive travellingand the impact of her ordeal, she had nearly collapsed. OncePhilby had learned about her kidnapping, he took her to a nearbyhospital, from which she was discharged the following day.Philby proved to be a very considerate man and, after sendingher a bouquet of flowers, he took her to dinner the followingday. During dinner, Barbara learned how persuasive Philby was.She granted him an exclusive interview a few days later. Shecould recall how persistently he inquired about the identity of thepatient and the British doctor, but Barbara was on her guard. Sheremembered very well Doctor Crocker's advice not to revealanything. Being tight-lipped about the whole incident, she realisedshe must provide ambiguous answers, but Philby was not aneasy man to deal with when it came to interviews.'Very strange,' said Dusanka. 'He told me he was a ForeignOffice official.' Dusanka could not even in her wildest dreamsthink of Philby actually being in charge of MI6, the section whichdealt with counter-intelligence operations in the Iberian Peninsula.'That might be true,' said Barbara. 'A lot of war correspondentson their return to England were offered jobs with the ForeignOffice. Their overseas experience was always valued.'Dusanka was amazed by this revelation. The whole ofEurope suddenly became small. She was glad Barbara thoughtvery highly of Philby. It was the second time Barbara had foundsomeone familiar in Dusanka's circles of friends.Unfortunately, the first time Barbara had not been so cooperative,and Dusanka never learned the truth. She rememberedhow it happened.A few weeks after her arrival, she had been telling Barbaraabout the struggle of the Yugoslavs against the German occupation.Barbara pointed out that she was using the wrong name forher own people. Barbara knew that, while Yugoslavia was thename of the country, its people were Croats, Serbs, Slovenians,Macedonians and Montenegrins. Dusanka was flabbergasted byBarbara's knowledge, and from then on Dusanka would refer to'people from Yugoslavia' rather than to 'Yugoslavs'.The whole incident had an unexpected turn.189

During their conversation, Barbara asked Dusanka for photographsof General Tito, probably sensing Dusanka's fondness forhim. She didn't have one. Instead, she produced a photo whichshowed a group including General Tito, Milovan Djilas, OlgaNincic, Fitzroy Maclean and James Klugman. Barbara almostfainted. Although she hadn't told Dusanka the real reason for herreaction, Dusanka suspected that among the faces was either onewhich Barbara recognised or one which was identical to someoneshe knew. The photo was taken just a day before her departure,and she was lucky to have it with her in England. The quality wasnot outstanding, but to Dusanka it did not matter. She was concernedonly with her secret love – General Tito.Remembering it all now, Dusanka was puzzled by Barbara'sreaction and was determined to find the answer perhaps at a moreopportune time. She hoped to find out before she left. Surely,Barbara would not refuge to tell her, especially as a farewell gesture.The thoughts looming on the horizon of Dusanka's troubledmind told her that there must be another reason, far more significantthan pure jealousy, for her to give Philby another chance.Her intuition had led her before, and she was guided this time bypast experience. Was she wrong now? Perhaps when she metPhilby again she would be able to judge. Who was he? Barbara'sidentification of him as a war correspondent contradicted what hehad said on the phone. Somehow, Dusanka felt her meeting withthis strange Englishman would serve her purpose in England.Maybe she could even strike up a friendship with him. Now thatshe knew of Philby's acquaintance with Tito, from as far back asSpanish Civil War days, Dusanka confident that her actionswould be approved by her comrades back home, a considerationwhich mattered more to her than anything else.The unusually vivid dreams she had during the night becameso real that not even the German bombardment of London couldinterrupt them. She could see herself in the middle of a beautifulgarden, where manicured lawns were interspersed with islands ofred and white roses near a splendid palace. She was surroundedby a small gathering of her comrades and was holding GeneralTito's hand.190

The following morning, thinking that perhaps her dreams revealedwhat she had secretly been thinking of during the pastdays, months and even years, Dusanka began routine work atGuy's Hospital. Her work seemed so endless this morning,mainly, she supposed, because she was expecting another callfrom Philby.At exactly twelve-thirty, the phone situated adjacent to herdormitory on the narrow corridor began to ring.Dusanka let it ring several times before she took the receiverfrom its hook.'Guy's nurses' residence. Can I help you?''Good afternoon, Miss Radovan. I'm glad it was you who answeredthe phone. How are you?''Very well, thank you,' Dusanka replied unemotionally.'I'm calling you again about my invitation. Have you decided?''It's not really up to me to make the decision,' replied Dusanka,ready to play a cat and mouse game. 'It's our matron, MrsCurtis, who needs to know my whereabouts at all times. Perhapsyou should ask her.''Don't worry about Mrs Curtis. She's a personal friend ofmine,' Philby lied. Realising she wouldn't be able to play hergame much longer, Dusanka accepted the invitation, providingMrs Curtis agreed to it.'Then it's settled. I'll be there at six-thirty waiting for you inthe main foyer. See you then. I hvala lepa. And thank you.'Surprised once again, Dusanka said. 'All right. Vidit cemo sekasnije. See you later.'At precisely six-thirty, Dusanka was notified of Philby's arrivaland she told the girl on duty to let him know she would beready in a moment. Fashionably dressed in a smart light bluecostume, Dusanka left the lift and walked along the corridor tothe main foyer. The short walk gave her an opportunity to glancethrough the glass partition.A smartly dressed gentleman took off his hat as she reachedthe doorway. 'May I introduce myself? I'm Kim Philby.'191

Not sure what to do next, Dusanka extended her hand, rememberingtoo late that it was not the English custom for a ladyto shake hands with a gentleman. A slightly colder hand squeezedhers, and she immediately formed an opinion about her companionfor the night. Being country boys mostly, her comrades inYugoslavia used a far stronger grip, but Dusanka recognisedstrength in Philby's gender grip; it was full of control, sound mindand, above all, unusual warmth.Once outside, Philby waved his hand towards a nearby limousineparked along the kerb. Their journey took less than fifteenminutes.Dimly lit from the outside, the Savoy Hotel was unimpressive.Dusanka had been told that many establishments would lookexactly the same because of the blackout and the restriction onexternal illumination. She quickly changed her mind once theywere inside. The entire foyer was vividly decorated in red, withheavy drawn curtains hanging on polished brass fittings. The solechandelier suspended from the high ceiling shone exquisite reflectionsof light into every corner of the foyer. The magnificentlymatching thick carpet with richly embossed motifs confirmed itsIndian origin. The wall drapes were equally impressive, and thegeneral atmosphere left her with a feeling of being in a very cosmopolitansetting, quite contrary to what she had imagined fromthe outside.The whole restaurant, the Savoy Grill, was filled withsmartly dressed people, and Dusanka rightly guessed that the patronscame mainly from the cream of London's upper-classes.Judging by the nods from waiters and several guests, Dusankagathered that Philby must be a regular guest. The head waiter escortedthem to an alcove. In the background was a settee with abeautiful flower arrangement.Over a splendid dinner, Dusanka and Kim discussed casualthings such as their love of art, music and literature. This pleasedDusanka, since she was not ready yet to discuss more seriousthings. Though no match for the highly educated Kim, Dusankaknew she had two things going for her: her age and the war. Asshe was only a country girl and unsure of the proper order, shewas, at first, scared to use the cutlery. However, she overcame the192

problem by slyly watching Philby and following his example. Shealso let Philby choose the wine. Although she was not familiarwith English wines, she knew well enough that, in this country, itwas the man's privilege to choose.Combined with the wine and the delicious food, light musiccoming from a sole piano player situated in one corner obscuredby flowers changed Dusanka's mood and relaxed her intention tobe on her guard, at least until she could discern what Philby wasup to. An occasional glance about them convinced her that thiswas the way she intended to live once the war was over. It wasthe first time she had tasted English tea. Like most people in herregion, she mainly drank black coffee.Thinking about home and her present situation, she wonderedhow many of her comrades would believe she was being entertainedby a well mannered Englishman in a plush restaurant. Kimwas a charming man whose general knowledge, plus his familiaritywith Yugoslavia's internal situation, was more than she wouldever have believed could happen to her in a foreign country.When their dinner was drawing to an end, Philby inquired,'What are you going to do on your retum to Yugoslavia, MissRadovan?''I'm not sure. It all depends, I presume, on circumstances.''I thought,' probed Philby, 'that you would have higher aspirations.Being so young, beautiful and intelligent a person, itwould be natural for you to pursue the better things in life.'Dusanka was uncertain what Philby had in mind so she setout to make him elaborate on his flattery. She hoped it wouldmake him reveal his real motives, perhaps later, if not tonight. 'Idon't quite know how to take your comments – as a compliment,or mere triviality.''Oh, come, Miss Radovan. You know as well as I do thatevery person is master of his own destiny.'With nostalgia in her voice, Dusanka answered hesitantly,'Well, that might be true in your case. However, the outcome ofthe war will probably influence my destiny.'Philby was sure now that Klugman's estimation had beenright. Why would Dusanka play into his hands? Was he close toher well guarded secret?193

They left the Savoy Grill and Kim suggested, on the wayback to Guy's Hospital, that on the following Sunday he and Dusankashould have a picnic in Hyde Park. He also suggested that,with the hefty allowance she received, she should buy some newclothes.Sitting the following Sunday on the Yorkshire blanket,spread out on the lawns in Hyde Park, Philby asked, 'I was toldthat General Tito is a Croatian. Is that so?''Yes, it is, but I can't tell you where he was born. It's kept secretfor security reasons. Why do you ask?''Don't you think it might have some bearing on his post-warconduct towards the Serbs? Croats and Serbs have been archenemiesfor centuries, and to overcome their enmity will take alot of time and diplomacy, or should I say guts.'Dusanka was stunned. Why on earth should this Englishmancare what might happen in post-war Yugoslavia? 'You're right,but only partly. As you can imagine, the resistance movementflourished only because of Tito's determination to wipe out competingnationalisms. 'Philby laughed slightly, 'That's what I thought you'd say, butsurely you'd agree that it's much easier to overcome difficultieslike that during wartime? One has to think what might happenafterwards. The differences between Serbs and Croats are buriednow only because of a common goal – the struggle for survival –but in peacetime they might explode again.'Dusanka could see the possibility, but was hoping for thebest. She took a deep breath. 'I take your point, but I sincerelyhope it'll never come to that.'Philby was not to be put off. 'One must always anticipatesuch a possibility.'Irritated by Philby's insistence, Dusanka tried to swing theargument found.'What about England? Your country, too, will have internalproblems. Won't they affect unity in your own backyard?''I don't think you can compare our situation with yours. Afterall, we've been governed by a tradition, which has gone on uninterruptedfor so long that it virtually guarantees unity.'194

Dusanka realised that Philby was right again.While she was thinking about it, Philby interrupted. 'All I'mtrying to do is to make sure our allies are treated respectfully.Knowing the history of the Balkans, I'm sceptical to the pointwhere I'm concerned. One might question my concern, but it's farbetter to be so before it's too late. Don't you agree?'In her imagination, Dusanka could almost visualise Philby'sconcern. 'To be honest, I've nevr thought about it before, at leastnot so far ahead. Now that you raise the possibility, I don't seehow I could either avoid it or solve it, even if it does happen.''Well, did you ever think about being in such a position yourself?'Philby was probing again.It was now that Dusanka could possibly have said yes, butthat would have revealed her secret dream to become the firstlady in Yugoslavia. She also knew that without some extraordinaryinfluence there was very little chance of accomplishing it.She shook her bead.A few weeks later, during a visit to Madame Tussaud's, Dusankaasked, 'Do you think this museum will ever display Tito'sfigure, Kim?''Of course they will, regardless of his post-war fame. We'llmake it happen, Dusanka.'Dusanka glanced back, but Philby's serious face confirmedhis words. It was quite an experience to be in the vicinity of aman who radiated so much confidence. During the past threemonths, Dusanka had seen many things in England which made itseem like her second homeland. She felt secure with a man whotreated her not only as an equal, but as a lady too.'By the way, Dusanka, I asked you a question a few days ago,but you didn't answer it. Was it because you weren't sure or wasthere another reason?'Dusanka pretended not to remember. 'You ask me so manyquestions, Kim. How could you expect me to remember whichone I failed to answer?'Philby reminded her, and Dusanka was ready to test her newfound friend. 'Oh yes, I could see myself on numerous occasions195

in such a position,' Dusanka said with a smile on her face, 'but unfortunatelyonly in my dreams.'Expecting her to come out into the open, Philby said, 'That'sexactly what many people think. It's common knowledge thatdreams like that can come true, providing one's prepared to pursuethem.''Oh, I wouldn't mind pursuing my dreams, but I'd probably bewasting my time,' laughed Dusanka.'Perhaps you're wrong,' said Philby seriously. Then he beganto elaborate on how he saw the development of post-war Yugoslavia.Animosities would cause even further rifts between notonly Croatians and Serbians, but also Macedonians and Serbiansor Bulgarians.Dusanka's heart sank at Philby's thesis and, by the time hehad finished, she was convinced that he knew more than she hadthought at the beginning. Sadly, she said, 'I wish I knew how tohelp.'By now, Philby was more than happy. He realised he had finallyhit the target. 'It's not simple, but it could be done,' he said.'Our government is concerned with Serbian prospects in post-warYugoslavia. It's known to us that even Tsar Nicholas II was asupporter of the Serbians and sympathetic to their union withother Orthodox states. It's possible that the Catholic Church willinterfere not only to preserve its position in the Catholic states butalso to expand. If they did, Tito would find himself in a very delicateposition. If he sided with the Croatians, he'd be branded bythe Russians as a Western lackey. On the other hand, if he sidedwith the Serbians, many people in the West would see it as thecontinuation of Serb domination, and even the possibility that theGreater Serbia design would go ahead.'Thinking about all this, Dusanka finally realised the importanceof Philby's concern. Deep down, she loathed Croatians, butwas reluctant to spell it out. Now that Kim had explained everythingin detail, Dusanka could actually see it happening. 'Whatcan I do to make all that less likely?'Philby's serious face fooled Dusanka. She was under the impressionthat he was trying to find a solution – a solution whichhad been in his head since receiving Klugman's telegram.196

'If we arrange for you to be close to Tito at all times, you'd beable to inform us of every development so we could advise youaccordingly.'Flabbergasted by such a monstrous proposition, Dusanka, infuriated,asked, 'Do you want me to spy for your country, Kim?'Pretending to be hurt by her outburst, Philby meekly loweredhis voice. 'Not at all, Dusanka. I didn't mean to give you that impression.If we wanted spies, we'd certainly have to rely on theprofessionals. What I'm asking you to do will be of greater assistanceto your own people.''If, as you said, you can place a professional person in such aposition,' Dusanka's trembling voice became barely a whisper,'why do you need me?'Philby realised how shrewdly Dusanka had twisted his statement,not even mentioning his 'if', but he decided to play it cool.'It's not the intention of our government to spy on its ally. We'reconcerned with Serbian prospects within Yugoslavia mainly becauseSerbs were our allies during the Great War. We have toconsider royalties with the British monarchy as well. You don'tseem to understand the gravity of the situation. Can you imaginewhat would happen if the various nationalities intermarried, andtheir children were baptised by the Catholic Church? If there wereeventually a uniform religion in Yugoslavia, it would be mucheasier for Rome to manipulate the whole Balkans, which wouldultimately put a lot of pressure on other non-Catholic countries.'Amazing, thought Dusanka. This Englishman is like aprophet, a British Nostradamus. There was so much commonsense in his deliberations, and yet by some strange coincidencewhat he said was so close to her own dream. Would she be able towork out something for herself? This was the first thought whichcame to her mind. Being so close to Tito, she just might realiseher ambitions and make her dreams come true. 'What do youreally have in mind, Kim? How could I possibly help?'Now that the fish was beginning to bite, Philby relaxed a bit.'What I have in mind is that you would be our political adviser, orconsultant perhaps. Once we know Tito's plans, we could possiblyinfluence him, with your help. Being so close to him you mighteven develop a relationship with him far from politics. Who197

knows? Perhaps something of a lasting nature?' Philby hintedcunningly.Dusanka blushed. She could hardly hide her excitement. Itwould be absolutely wonderful if she could achieve her goal tomarry Tito. Then it would be natural for her to be always in Tito'scompany. Her role on behalf of the British government wouldjustify Philby's confidence. 'I have to admit I've always admiredTito as a fighter, and as a man. Sometimes it's hard to distinguishone from the other. But there are so many other girls who wouldprobably fit this role better than I, regardless of my admiration.'Dusanka's tender voice clearly demonstrated her feelings, andnow she realised it, but it was too late. She had spelt out her intimatefeelings so obviously after so much effort to conceal them.What a fool, she thought. Kim will probably laugh himself todeath. But she was wrong.Kim's face remained unemotional and cool as ever. 'I'm gladyou have such feelings. It'll be much easier for you, and eventuallyfor us. I'm sure quite a number of girls think like you. Afterall, comrade Tito is a very handsome man, but you shouldn'tworry about competition. I have no doubt that, with your closenessto Tito and your training, you'll outclass them.'Encouraged by Kim's reaction, Dusanka replied, 'In that caseI wouldn't mind considering your proposal.'Philby was pleased with the outcome. 'That's my girl! Nowthat you've accepted the role, I'll show you as much of England aspossible. You'll have enough time to learn everything the firstlady of Yugoslavia should know. I'll organise tutorials in everythingthat'll be important to you in your new role.''Thank you. It sounds so exciting,' exclaimed Dusanka, actuallyseeing herself playing her new part.With their visit to Madame Tussaud's almost over, Philbywas delighted with himself – he had acquired a potential spy forhis real master, Joseph Stalin.Dusanka was happy because it was the first time in her lifeshe had felt so important. After all, her intuition was right again.Philby was not only her guide, but a man who would make ithappen. With his help, she had no doubt she would marry Titoand be able at the same time to help her own country folk – the198

Serbs. What did not occur to her was that she would be servingthe NKVD and KGB instead of the British. She was convincedthat her liaison with Philby brought not only brighter future prospectsfor herself, but for all those who were part of this sinisterplot.The remaining time Dusanka spent in England must havecost the British secret service a packet, but Philby believed themoney was well spent. Dusanka was transformed almost overnightfrom a peasant girl into an attractive and polished lady ofWestern culture. Her manners improved so much that Philby wascertain of his success in her makeover.Just before she left England, Dusanka found out from ColonelVelebit – the Yugoslav ambassador in England and Dusanka'scomrade-in-arms – Philby's real occupation. Visiting an Imperia1War Museum exhibition staged by the British ministry of war,Dusanka learned that Kim worked for Section V in SIS. It was toolate now. Although his image was shattered forever, there was noway out – not now.199

2009BELGRADE 1945The liberation of Yugoslavia in 1945, and the proclamationof the Federative People's Republic of Yugoslavia on 29th November,left Tito with a number of outstanding matters to be settledwhich he considered would play a vital role in his post-warreconstruction program: the repatriation of prisoners of war heldby the American and the British in Austria, the capture of DrazaMihailovic and Ante Pavelic.The repatriation of POWs proved to be an easy task. Theirfate was sealed long before the end of the war by Stalin's insistenceand Churchill's and Roosevelt's agreement. What Churchilland Roosevelt did not know, or even anticipate, was that Stalin'sand Tito's intentions were to liguidate the prisoners. As they wereno longer protected by the Geneva Convention, who could raiseany objection?In Stalin's case, the Russian POWs were rounded-up with theWhite Russian emigrés who lived in territories which had beenout of Russian jurisdiction long before the war but were now occupiedby the Red Army.Tito's monstrous plan was slightly different. He was responsiblefor approximately sixty to seventy thousand prisoners ofwar, but the total number of people he massacred was closer to ahalf million. Many people who were desperately trying to escaperetribution for various reasons were also enmeshed in the terribleweb of tragedy which became known as the Bleirburg Massacre.In a single stroke, Tito got rid of people who, in his eyes, wereeither collaborators with the enemy or refused to share their accumulatedwealth with the proletarian regime. In the post-warchaos, it seemed natural to him to liguidate them in the name ofvictory, thus minimising the possibility of further bloodshed byhis bloodthirsty partisans in a search for revenge for atrocitiesagainst members of their families.In permitting this slaughter, at what he considered an appropriatetime, Tito was providing a release valve; to delay the parti-

sans' revenge could have built up pressure which would createdisorder of tremendous magnitude, thus endangering the delicatebalance of a newly created regime. Tito gambled that his liquidationprogram would gualify for protection under the British OfficialSecrets Act. He was right. Once the British governmentlearned about the fate of the Russians and the Yugoslav prisoners,all documents relating to repatriation were classified secret andthereby protected by the post-war thirty-five-year moratorium.As for Draza Mihajlovic, his capture on 13th May 1946proved to be an even easier task, mainly because the Serbian generalhad decided to stay in Yugoslavia and to continue the fightagainst his arch-enemy – Marshal Tito. What Mihajlovic hadfailed to realise was that Tito was in possession of Pijade's doctoredphotographs showing Mihajlovic receiving arms from theGermans. Useful evidence indeed, if and when he could be capturedalive. The show trial which Tito had in mind had to be quitea different affair from that of Marshal Tukhachevsky's in Russia.Tukhachevsky's trial had been bungled right from the start, andTito was not prepared to make the same mistake.Ante Pavelic's case, however, was a different matter. KOS,the Yugoslav army counter-intelligence service, was puzzled initiallyby Pavelic's disappearance.Being a man who had spent years on the run, hunted like acommon criminal and even imprisoned by Generalissimo Mussolini,Tito had expected Pavelic to fight. After all, he desperatelywanted to stay head of the independent state of Croatia, so he hadfar more to lose than Mihajlovic. When he heard confirmation ofPavelic's hurried escape only days before Zagreb was liberated bypartisans, Tito could not believe it. What could have happened?Obviously, Pavelic must have realised his days as Poglavnik wereover. Leaving behind mostly lower-rank officers, he decided toflee the Croatian state, a state where concentration camps werepopping up like wild berries, while his undisciplined generalswere on the rampage.The concentration camps were shared by inmates who wereof Serbian origin but had been born in the state of Croatia; theywere usually referred to by the Croatians as Pravoslavci, peopleof the Orthodox religion, not quite a hundred per cent Serbs.201

Theirs was a sad story. The Serbians did not want them in Serbiaand treated them as turncoats, not realising they could be perfectinstruments in the hands of those Serbians who promoted theGreater Serbia design. The Croatians, on the other hand, nevertrusted them and always looked upon them as a Serbian Trojanhorse.Apart from these inmates, there were Serbians captured inCroatian territory (usually branded as Chetniks), Jews and manyCroatians who publicly objected to Pavelic's ruthless regime.The choice of western European countries which would offerhospitality to Pavelic was slim, apart from Spain and Italy (nolonger a Fascist state). Pavelic wanted to be close to his belovedCroatia. Being familiar with Italy, it was natural for him to seektemporary asylum in the Vatican, a sanctuary which could be arrangedby the faithful Croatian clergy. Their assistance was basedon Pavelic's understanding of their plight during King Alexander'sdictatorship, and his sympathetic views towards the RomanCatholic Church. The Church's philosophy was that its influenceand belief in God would make Catholics very poor material forpartisan forces. It was a fallacy which soon became evident afterPavelic took the helm of occupied Croatia. In fact, the regimeactua1ly forced many devoted Catholics in Croatia to join Tito'spartisans, despite knowledge of the partisans' atheist views andthe ruthless force that they used to enlarge the resistance movementWhen Tito learned about Pavelic's hideaway, he realisedPavelic was out of his reach, at least for the time being, so he decidedto try luring him back. How? What kind of trick wouldwork? In exile, Pavelic would always represent a threat to destabiliseTito's regime, in spite of the rigid control already exercisedby the Yugoslav Communist Party. Even Tito's future overseasvisits would not be safe and could be jeopardised, exactly likeKing Alexander's in Marseilles in 1934.Thinking about it, Tito remembered his old friend whom heregarded as being Serbian above anything, but not a Jew; hesummoned his comrade-in-arms, Mosa Pijade. This crafty masterof the Communist wonderland should be able to come up with aningenious idea.202

He was right again. As soon as Mosa learned of Tito's problem,he suggested a solution. On Mosa's advice, Tito appointedone of the least known generals, Slavko Stimac, to organize theKrizare, the Holy Crusaders. By giving them a religious connotationand suggesting mainly Catholic participation, Tito hoped toentice Pavelic, his arch-enemy, to return.To emphasise the Holy Crusaders' presence, a large cross wasemblazoned on the back of their uniforms – a very handy target inthe event of ambush. Tito was determined to hoodwink the Croatianreligious population once again, but this time for a differentreason. Those who joined of their own free will would be uselessfor his new regime of the proletariat in any case.General Stimac, however, insisted upon using the services ofthe partisan veterans known as the Adriatic Wolves. They hadlong ago learned to swap into German uniforms, creating confusionand havoc on the Adriatic coast. All those lower-rank officersleft behind by Pavelic were given a new hope of life; theycould either join the Holy Crusaders, or make a one-way trip toNaked Island. Stimac's persuasive methods quickly producedvaluable converts who would do anything to please their newmaster.To make this show more convincing, and to increase thechance of success, General Stimac suggested using some of theconfidential, but no longer important, information for transmissionby the Crusaders. Tito and Pijade decided to reveal a plotwhich was only partly known to Pavelic, but no longer of any useto Tito. During the last year of the war, Churchill had requestedcontact with Macek, on the pretence of being anxious about hiswell-being. Pavelic declined his approval. One of the British officersattached to SOE in Cairo was sent to Zagreb; there he learnedwhere the former premier of Croatia was held in detention, andbegan preparations for contact.The British officer was allowed to see Macek. The CO of theUstashe guard insisted that one of the Ustashe should be presentat the meeting. Unsure of the need for his presence, Macek toldthe British officer in French to address the soldier in French.Convinced of the Ustashe soldier's linguistic shortcomings, theBritish officer conveyed Churchill's request to Macek about the203

necessity to delegate one of his most trusted party officials tomeet Tito. It was Churchill's desire to pave the way for democracyby including in the new Yugoslav government those politicianswho had not collaborated with the Germans. Macek immediatelysuggested Ing. August Kosutic, Stjepan Radic's son-in-lawand deputy leader of HSS. An electrical engineer by profession,but timid by nature, Kosutic was no match for such a tough negotiatoras Tito.Tito was furious when he learned of yet another Churchillplot; the soldier present at the meeting, presumably for securityreasons, could indeed understand French, and had revealed the essenceof the secret meeting. Infuriated by this revelation, and todemonstrate his distaste for Churchill's manoeuvre, Tito willinglygranted safe conduct to Kosutic, but refused to see him. Instead,he let his deputy, Andrija Hebrang, a friend of Randolph Churchill's,conduct the crucial talks with a legitimate representative ofthe Croatian people. Given carte blanche, Hebrang negotiated theinclusion of a number of prominent Croatians in the post-wargovernment – yet another deceit.Once Stimac had received the necessary instructions, theonly question remaining was the whereabouts of the Holy Crusadersheadquarters. Instead of Sarajevo, Tito chose Fruska Gora,a mountain situated near Belgrade, as an old capital for a newYugoslavia. Away from heavily populated areas, it was equippedwith a powerful transmitter and was a favourable spot for recruitmentof the politically náive but honest (and, above all, religious)country people from nearby villages.Stimac began to work in earnest. When he had gathered anarmy of two divisions' strength, regular training and war gameswere initiated, giving the impression of military operations tocome. Stimac's transmitter directed the news to Pavelic, whom heregarded as a sinking man – a man who, in his desperation, wouldbelieve anything. Meanwhile, his recruits were turning into realsoldiers.To convince them even further that the set-up was genuine,he insisted on preaching the catechism once a day and held anopen Mass on Sundays. The sound of gunfire from blank ammu-204

nition used in training was timed to coincide with transmissiontimes; would-be listeners had to be convinced that real fightingwas going on in the vicinity of the Holy Crusaders' position. Thelack of private short-wave operators in Yugoslavia enabled Stimacto proceed with political propaganda against the newly establishedregime, without any interruptions.To make this circus even more believable, the powerful Belgraderadio station would occasionally jam Stimac's illegal broadcasts.Pleas for money, medical supplies and small arms were repeatedat intervals, so the propaganda appeared real. The voice ofan unknown newsreader claimed that, supported by political leadership,it would be possible to seize the state of Croatia fromTito's gap.Radio Belgrade, however, made a small blunder which wasnoticed by some clergymen in the Vatican. It always jammed theCrusaders' transmissions at unimportant times, and Pavelic wassoon alerted by this repetition. His repeated requests to identify atleast some of the Holy Crusaders remained unanswered, due, theysaid, to security reasons and possible repercussions against theirfamilies. To overcome this, Stimac sent a list of lower-ranking officersto the Vatican with signed declarations of their participation.Through the Holy Crusaders' transmission, named CroatianFreedom, Pavelic learned of the fate of Mihajlovic, who had beencaptured, tried and hanged – not shot, as claimed by the Yugoslavpress. Pavelic was disgusted; even he, Poglavnik, would havegranted a bullet to his arch-enemy rather than hanging him like acommon criminal.Puzzled, Tito asked Mosa where he had got his brilliant idea.Mosa explained that he had modified Stalin's successful masterplan, Trust.Tito remembered how Stalin longed for many years to get ridof White Russian exiles who were endangering the consolidationof his power after Lenin's death. He had only two options: eitherto kill them one by one – a risky method, since he could not counton utmost secrecy once a killer was out of his reach – or to pretendto join forces with the exiles and then liquidate them frominside their organisation. To onlookers, bloodshed inside the or-205

ganisation would appear to be the result of internal struggles forleadership. Once he learned the exiles were getting together, Stalin'sOGPU chief successfully penetrated them and formed Trust.Stalin also began with a similar organisation inside Russia.Their aim was to overthrow the Bolshevik regime, which appealedto exiles, and it was natural that, at the beginning, thoseoutside Russia should treat the news with suspicion. To convincethem, Stalin ordered the demolition of a number of bridges andrailway stations, an order which Trust carried out with terroristfervour. Tsarists were inclined to investigate the terrorist activities,and it was decided to send a married couple as a soundingteam, equipped with their own transmitter. Their findings werepositive and, as a result, there was cooperation between these twoorganisations, which were poles apart and which flourished beyondStalin's wildest expectations.Shortly thereafter, a number of mutilated dead bodies werefound floating in the rivers of most European cities. Many foreigncorrespondents failed to recognise that these bodies were not allthe result of an internal struggle within the Trust leadership, butwere cold-blooded murder. It was only after the kidnapping ofColonel Popov in Paris in January 1930 that the world becomeaware of Stalin's monstrous plan. A former Tsarist and laterNKVD officer, Popov managed to tell the truth so that Europe realisedit had been the main stage for these cruel liquidations.By using Trust to secure his dictatorship, Stalin was able toget rid of the most dangerous elements of the White Russian exilesand his opposition at home, by simply branding them Trustees.He wrecked their struggle for political change in Russia, andpermanently left the seeds of mistrust among the remaining exiles.Similar disinformation was spread by the Holy Crusadersthroughout Croatia, designed to convince the Croatian populationat large to weed out those who were against the newly establisheddictatorship. General Rankovic, who became the minister of police,equal in power to the former Russian head of the NKVD,General Yezhov, began by building free accommodation centres,similar to gulags. Already popular for his speedy handing over of206

prisoners of war, Rankovic's obsessive aim was to annihilateCroatian resistance.While General Stimac continued with his innuendo, Pavelicgathered his faithful circle of military advisers around him, seekingadvice. Some were inclined to join the Holy Crusaders, whileothers sided with the Croatian clergy, whose Jesuits first insistedon verification of the existence and bona fides of the Holy Crusaders.The struggle between the two groups forced the impatientPoglavnik to find an honourable compromise. He decided to senda small military delegation – a sounding team consisting of elevenofficers and one priest. They were equipped with their owntransmitter and a secret code known only to one member. Theirjourney into Yugoslavia was painfully slow. On the one hand,partisans were monitoring their progress, improvising obstacles inthe hope that Poglavnik would rush in once they had confirmedthe existence of the Holy Crusaders. On the other hand, Stimacdecided to allow them to get as close as possible while pretendingnot to be aware of their presence.Their movement through Slovenia and Croatia took severalweeks, and sometimes they had to split into three groups, quiteunaware that one of their own team was in constant touch withthe partisans. On their way, they heard whispers which becamelouder as they got closer to their target – Fruska Mountain. Localopinion was that they were going to be liberated once again, butthis time by the right mob – the Holy Crusaders.This raised the spirits of the team regardless of the risk theywere taking. Some could already visualise themselves being decoratedby Pavelic himself, while others could see promotion tohigher ranks. Still others contemplated how they could deal withtheir enemies of the black and brown shirts, not realising thattheir days, hours and even minutes were already numbered.Finally, they stopped to rest at the base of Fruska Mountain,camping in a deserted ranger's hut situated in thick forest, beforecontinuing the climb through the mountain passes. Cheerful, buton guard, they shared their thoughts around the open fire of thecamouflaged hut, the window openings stuffed with brokenbranches and covered by thick army blankets. As they chatted207

quietly, their leader left to pay a visit to a nearby village to learnmore about the exact location of the Holy Crusaders' headquarterson the mountain. By the time he returned to the hut, several hourslater, his companions had been butchered and their transmittersmashed into a thousand pieces.Realising that they must have been murdered by a partisanpatrol, he fled from the territory on his way back to the Vatican.Before he fled, he noticed something puzzling. There were twelvebodies – one of them wasn't even a member of their team. Mucholder than the others, his face was familiar and haunted him onhis way back to the Vatican. He was sure he had seen the man before,but he could not recall his name. Hastily, he searched theman's pockets, but he could not find anything except that hisclothes were made in Vienna. Looking more closely, the leaderfound a small piece of paper clutched in the dead man's fist.Scribbled on it were the words 'Draga Ire-. Dear Ire-.' It was presumablyaddressed to a lady, but never finished.Pavelic, convinced now of the existence of a trap, immediatelybegan arrangements to leave the Vatican. Tito, Pavelic andthe leader of the sounding team knew most of the answers, exceptthe name of the person for whom that piece of paper was intended.Pavelic was certain Tito had pulled a bluff; and, knowing thedestiny of the prisoners of war through three survivors now livingin Australia, he went to Argentina, disillusioned and militarilybeaten by a man whom he considered his academic inferior. Thecountless numbers of his countrymen who died in the terribleblood-letting witnessed by the survivors left a permanent scar onhis memory. Once in Argentina, he lived in obscurity, guarded bylocal police. He feared that, when Tito decided his time was up,he might suffer the same fate as Trotsky.208

10BELGRADE 1946Looking down through the small plane's window, the onlything Dusanka could see was Belgrade's outskirts covered withdeep snow. The snow reached almost to the rooftops on the single-storeyhouses. There was no sign of roads or even railwaylines.Dusanka thought it strange that no one had bothered to clearthe railway lines, at least. Perhaps it was too early in the morning.She was wondering if Belgrade would ever, except in winter, liveup to the meaning of its name – White City. She rememberedquite well its dirty appearance before and during the war. In thosedays, some of the country people continued their habit of spittingin the streets, as if they were paddocks.Despite the bad memories, her body trembled with excitement.Who wouldn't be excited after having been away for threeyears? In her case, the excitement was doubled because she wouldsoon be close again to her no longer secret goal – the man whomshe had always admired so much, now the president of Yugoslavia,Marshal Tito.Her feelings showed obviously on her broad Slav face, whileher moist eyes betrayed her emotional state. Luckily her companion,Royal Navy surgeon Doctor Stuart Crocker, was preoccupiedreading the latest medical bulletin about Tito's condition.Since leaving England at four in the morning, many thoughtshad passed through Dusanka's mind, most important, of course,her reception by the staff at Dedinje Palace.The plane, provided by the British Aircraft Corporation onbehalf of the British government, was a twin-engined plane, notlarge, but sufficient for a party of six people and a small array ofsophisticated medical equipment. Most of the passengers werenow catching up on the morning sleep which their departure haddisrupted. Their early arrival had been requested by the Yugoslavregime in order to conceal their presence.209

Apart from Dusanka and her companion Doctor Crocker, theparty composed Dusanka's ex-roommate, Barbara Fellow; thechief of staff at His Majesty's Memorial Hospital, Doctor GordonMaloney – an outstanding neurologist recognised for his discoveriesand much respected throughout Europe and America, andnow the leader of the British medical team; Doctor Hans Schulz,a pathologist from Vienna University, who was part of the medicalteam merely by chance; and Doctor Alfred Peacock, ananaesthetist from St Vincent's Hospital in Melbourne. Quite aninternational group of medical professionals, thought Dusanka.Schulz, who was visiting England giving lectures, had beenguest of honour at Maloney's residence. Their New Year celebrationswere interrupted when Maloney received a call from Whitehall.Schulz continued celebrating with the other guests. Maloney'ssudden disappearance was not noticed until he actuallyreturned from Whitehall. Schulz was immediately invited intoMaloney's study, where he learned about the proposed trip toYugoslavia and the nature of Tito's sudden illness. As Maloney'sfriend, he accepted an invitation to accompany him, but waswarned about the need for the utmost confidentiality, mainly becausethe Russians, who were still in Yugoslavia, might interpretthe presence of the doctors as a British attempt to meddle inYugoslavia's internal affairs.Schulz's acceptance simplified things for Maloney, as he hadalready vouched for him, anticipating his agreement. He was toldthey would leave within fortyeight hours, as soon as Peacock arrivedfrom the USA and the necessary equipment had been madeready.As they approached the Belgrade airport runway, Dusankaglanced once again at the giant machine clearing the service areanear the airport's main building. She immediately recognised theAmerican-made machine, having seen similar ones many timesbefore in American films. The crackling of the pilot's voice overthe PA system brought her mind back to reality while everybodyelse was fastening their seat belts.The landing was bungled, mainly because there was no English-speakingair controller available at such an early hour. Dusankawas called to the cockpit and translated the pilot's request to210

the control tower. Permission to land was then granted immediately,since the control tower had expected their arrival. Theywere instructed to park their plane near the southern end of therunway in a secluded area of Belgrade's sole airport.Once the plane's engines had stopped, Dusanka and her companionswere ushered into a waiting American-made bus whileseveral soldiers of the Yugoslav Red Army transferred the medicalequipment with appropriate care.The entire transfer was executed with military precision andextreme care, but for the visitors there was not time enough tolook around. The short route from the plane to the waiting busgave the new arrivals their first impression of winter in Yugoslavia,which they had not expected to be so severe.As their comfortably heated bus approached the almost desertedcity of Belgrade, Dusanka realised her companions werepuzzled by the lack of people. She laughingly explained that Belgrade'spopulation kept themselves inside – near an open fireplace,accompanied by hot tea, hot wine seasoned with honey andcinnamon bark, or their plain national drink, slivovitz. Satisfiedwith her explanation, they continued their conversations, observing,however, the heavily-armed Russian soldiers, who were patrollingthe entire route while their huge tanks occupied strategicpoints along the main road leading to the city.To Dusanka's companions, the white appearance of Belgradeand its cold weather was the only link between the Christmas festivitieswhich they had left behind. Some were still under the influenceof the Christmas spirit, but soon were to discover thatsuch celebrations were an almost unforgivable sin in this proletariat'sparadise. Only Maloney was aware of the present situation,as he had been briefed upon his acceptance of this unusualassignment. Although he loathed anything related to Communism,he had accepted the assignment out of duty to his profession.Near the large iron gates of the main entrance, where theirbus slowed down, they noticed a narrow strip of bare trees runningalong the long fence, while in the background they could seea white-coloured building – Dedinje Palace. This majestic building,once the residence of ex-King Alexander, was now the offi-211

cial residence of Marshal Tito, first non-elected president of theSocialist Federative People's Republic of Yugoslavia. Interesting,thought Maloney: Tito had spent so many years in Alexander'sjails, hunted by the royal Yugoslav police, and now, as a freeman, he chose to occupy the king's residence.Surrounded by a dozen heavily dressed Russian soldiers,armed with submachine guns, two huge, Russian-made tankswere guarding the main gates. The soldiers stared at them, presumablynot expecting visitors nor, for that matter, wanting any.Their unfriendly and unshaven faces showed clearly enough whatthey thought. Their massive-looking subare, fur caps, were decoratedwith large red stars of such size that they dominated thefront of the caps and were visible from a distance. The caps werea dim greyish colour, which confirmed the impression in theminds of the British visitors of the dullness of proletarian regimes.The red star, thought Maloney, underlined the blood spiltin creating this monstrous political system – a system which hadspread like a cancer – something far more sinister than Hitler'sThird Reich.Maloney felt uneasy. Somehow, the combination of the depressingcolours and the bitterly cold weather outside affected hispreviously festive mood. The uneasy feeling became more noticeableon his face as he studied the appearance of the unfriendlylookingsoldiers at the main gate. Their piercing eyes seemed tobe searching for something, anything. He was relieved when theywere waved on through the palace gates. Once in the grounds, hecould see that the gardens must be delightful in the spring. TrulyBritish, he noticed that one was possibly a rose garden, though itwas now covered by deep snow.As they approached the entrance to the palace, the scenechanged dramatically. The splendidly tailored uniforms of thepalace guards and their proud bearing reassured him once again,or was it the right security emphasised by the presence of theGerman shepherd dogs, sitting by the guards, their eyes and earsalert?Maloney was glad they had arrived safely and was impressedby the security at Marshal Tito's residence. As soon as their bushad stopped at the main entrance to the palace, the doctors col-212

lected their hand luggage, while Dusanka Radovan supervised theremoval of the sophisticated medical equipment, this time by thepalace staff, and again with extreme care. The orders she gave inher native Serbian with a military flavour were executed withoutany question, almost like a silent movie, thought Doctor Crocker.Stuart Crocker was the person who had helped Dusanka toovercome the obstacles in her path. What she didn't know thenwas that he was a close friend of Philby back in England and hadspent a few years in Spain during the Spanish Civil War, onFranco's side, until he was kidnapped by the guerrillas. At the beginningof the war, he was assigned to MI6 due to his linguisticabilities and sound knowledge of southern Europe.When Tito's initial treatment had been completed, most of themedical team left for England; only Dusanka and Crocker remained.With Dusanka's help, he engineered Marshal Tito'sspeedy recovery. Títo's real condition was kept secret from everyone,and Dusanka had enough time to consolidate her positionin the palace.This extra time Dusanka used most shrewdly. She becamealmost indispensable, not only to the palace staff, but to Tito aswell, and gradually succeeded in her plan to take full control ofTito's circle of friends. Many of them were politely turned awayunder the pretence that too many visits might slow down his recovery.Tito needed rest, which he enjoyed, especially during thecold winter. Mosa Pijade, Milovan Djilas, Edvard Kardelj andAlexander Rankovic were capable enough of looking after Yugoslavia'saffairs during Tito's convalescence. By exercising suchauthority, Dusanka was gradually accepted as being in charge,and thus got very close to fulfilling her dream.She skillfully coordinated Tito's every wish and desire, andher diplomacy with the palace staff impressed Tito. He had neverconsidered the possibility that this peasant girl from a backwardprovince of Yugoslavia might have such potential to be an executivecompanion. He did not dream of marrying her. Maybe hesuspected her plans or motives. Lying in bed most of the time, hecertainly had enough opportunity to think about it, but he neverattempted to discourage her.213

When on her own, Dusanka would often think back to herfirst meeting with Kim Philby. The only thing she regretted nowwas her unintentional slip in admitting to a soft spot in her heartfor Tito. She was mad with herself mainly because she alwaysguarded her secret thoughts from her immediate family, and nowa complete stranger was in possession of her once so closelyguarded secret. Although she now knew Philby's real occupation,it was too late. She was now, as she thought, too deeply entangledin MI6's spy web to escape. All those blank dockets she hadsigned for her clothes, lessons and hairdresser would be dangerausevidence if tampered with and produced at the right time.Philby told her initially that he must have proof of her purchasesand her expenditure to justify any spending out of the publicpurse. She believed him. Now she acknowledged that this hadbeen a very clever move, indeed. She realised she had to play thetune called in London, at least until she got married.During her stay in England, she had been treated for the firsttime in her life like a lady, despite the fact that she was taking lessonsto improve her image and her ability to run such a large residencesuch as Dedinje Palace. Now that she was in Yugoslavia,she felt more confident, fully aware she must follow Philby's instructions.He appeared knowledgeable and yet modest in his approachin day-today contact. Maybe this was the secret of Britishworld supremacy, thought Dusanka. Being so modest at the time,she had been fooled by him, whereas her own countrymen wouldhave thrown their weight around with so much pride and blusteringthat their enemies would have known their intentions in advance.She realised that Pbilby had taken advantage of her secretand had lowered her to the role of spy, a far more demeaning tale,she thought, even than being a street cleaner, the lowest paid jobin Yugoslavia. Reluctant to accept the consequences, she had finallyagreed, but now, being so close to her goal, she was convincedit had benefited her already.Perhaps later on, when she was far more secure, she couldprobe Tito's reaction to her conduct, before she decided what todo about her precarious position.214

The interior of the Dedinje Palace was very impressive.Enormous chandeliers were suspended from its high ceilings andtheir glittering appearance emphasised the majesty of the scene.Along the corridors were numerous radiators attached to thewalls, but it was almost impossible to keep the whole place warmbecause of the cold weather outside, which crept in under doorsand around window frames. The palace's marble floors were coveredwith red carpet strips to soften the echo of footsteps.The marble used for the floor was of a very unusual composition.It was mined on Naked Island, a penal colony for convictswith life sentences. The snow-white surface was interlaced withsmall red veins. It was so rare that, whenever something was builtof marble anywhere in Europe, a small block or slate would beshipped to the site from the Naked Island quarries, since it wasbelieved that by virtue of its unusual composition it would be agood omen for the project.Due to thie cold weather, there was little traffic in the palace,except for an occasional venture from one room to another. Eachroom had its own open fireplace, but only a few were in use.A few days after Tito's successful operation, Doctor Crocker,relieved by Barbara Fellow, sneaked into the marshal's beautifullyappointed study. Even an ordinary visitor could discern from itselaborate layout that its expensive interior had not been createdrecently. It was the product of a bygone era, indicating the tastesof the aristocracy more than anything else. Yet it was now at thedisposal of a strange individual, a man born and bred into povertymost of his life.Quite a drastic change for the lucky devil, thought Crocker.The study was a true haven for a book lover such as the doctor.His huge appetite for books of all descriptions, especially ancientand medieval history, was well known at London University, longbefore his graduation. Such books fascinated him much more thanthe medical books which he had to read.Among the volumes, he was looking for one in particular – abiography of Tito. His search on a previous night's visit had beenin vain, but now he was determined to find one, no matter howlong it took. Being a foreigner in Yugoslavia, Crocker was sur-215

prised how many books on the shelves were written in English.Some were in French, German and even Russian. A pity, he saidto himself, as he noticed the complete works of Pushkin, Dostoyevskyand Tolstoy, that Russian is totally alien to me. As anotherwise competent linguist, he found the study to be a Meccafor a bibliophile like himself. When he had inspected the studythe first time, only hours after his arrival in Belgrade, he noticed anumber of books which would easily have qualified as collectors'items back in England. A real connoisseur's delight where I canimprove my French and German, thought Crocker.The spaces between the numerous shelves were occupied bypaintings, mainly portraits of various ladies whom Crocker presumedto be members of the Yugoslav royal family, but therewere only a few left. Those that remained showed that the ladieswould have proved lucrative for goldsmiths as they were wearingexpensive necklaces, rings and crowns of fantastic designs. Theother paintings must have been taken away. Pale rectangles withdark edges, indicating the former position of the picture frames,were the only evidence of their presence.It would be rather strange, thought Crocker, if a library ofsuch size did not have a book about Tito. He was eager to learnsomething about this man so often talked about to him by Philby.Looking around, he noticed that one of the medium-sizeddrawers, below the first row of books, was not as tightly closed asthe rest. Slowly he pulled it out, and before him was a small, softcovered,red book, written by Michael Padev, with the title MarshalTito in white letters and Tito's picture in the middle of thefront cover. As he lifted the small book out, he found that thedrawer was full of copies. His intuition led him to open the nextdrawer and, to his astonishment, that drawer also was full of copiesof the same book. Odd, Crocker said to himself, why on eartharen't they stacked in the bookshelves instead of this out of theway place? Beats me. Immediately he suspected something extraordinary.He took a copy of the book and seated himself in the nearbyarmchair, close to the open fireplace so he could fed the warmthradiating from it. A quick inspection revealed a number of photosand a map of the Balkan Peninsula showing Yugoslavia's borders.216

He was deeply absorbed in his reading until he reached page 22.Suddenly he sprang out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box, notreally believing what was before his eyes. He cursed Philby. ‘Theson of a bitch.' Stopping for a few seconds, he spun round andalmost threw the book into the fireplace. 'He could at least havetold me this before I left, instead of letting me find out about itmyself, here in Yugoslavia.'Angry, he began pacing backwards and forwards across thestudy, the book still in his hand. He glanced again at page 22. Thename that was so hard to pronounce still pounded through hisbrain. Was it possible he had misunderstood? Trying to recall hisconversation with Dusanka on the plane, Stuart was sure it hadsounded different. Could it be possible, he asked himself in a lowpitched voice, suspecting somebody might hear his angry outburst,that I really misunderstood the Slav pronunciation, or am Ion the threshold of uncovering something really sinister? Surelyhe could rely on his own memory, since reading had been theprimary training in sharpening his mind. How many people knowabout this, I wonder? It occurred to him that even Philby mightnot know what he had just discovered. As he reached the armchairwhere he had previously been sitting, Stuart slowly loweredhimself... trying to figure out something in his past... puzzled.He started thinking... searching... activating his distantmemories, firmly convinced it had some connection with thisbook. What? His concentration almost became a meditativetrance. Glancing at the black and white photos in the book, hetried to recollect his past. The sound of his deep breathing, theoccasional turning of the pages and the crackling of the fire werethe only sounds in the study. Being so deeply rapt in concentration,he failed to hear a light knock on the study door.By the time he lifted his head, Dusanka was standing in frontof him. She was puzzled by his expression. No doubt he was disturbed.Her presence and closeness brought him back to reality. Itwas too late to hide his surprise. He rose somewhat sheepishly,not because of this absolutely impossible and unbelievable revelation,but because he did not know how to conceal the fact thathe had been discovered in a compromising situation.217

Dusanka, not aware of the reason for his seemingly absentmindedlook asked, 'Is anything wrong, Stuart?'Speechless for a moment, he managed to mumble, 'No... justa little bit tired...that's all...'Not paying him any closer attention, Dusanka went on, 'Ichecked our patient on my way down. Barbara says his conditionis very stable.''Oh, that's really good news,' pretended Stuart, who had anticipatedTito's progress since morning. Realising he still had thesmall book in his hand, he was trying to get rid of it as if it were ahot potato. Not sure what to do with it, he thought for a split second.If I toss it on the sofa, Dusanka will notice it. Does she knowabout this? Then, glancing at the drinks trolley, Stuart sought away out, but Dusanka politely interrupted his thoughts.'Do you want something before dinner, Stuart?' Only now didshe realise there was something strange in her companion's unusualbehaviour.'No, but I wouldn't mind sharing a drink with you. Let's celebratethe success of our mission.' His eyes turned desperatelyagain in the direction of the trolley. His desperation was like thatof a drowning swimmer clutching at a straw. He knew a drinkwas the only way to overcome his embarrassment. Not waitingfor Dusanka 's reply, he asked, 'Would you care for a drink, Dusanka?''No, thanks. You should know hospital regulations as well asI do.'Stuart ignored the hidden reprimand and tried to bluff hisway out. 'Come on, we're not in the hospital now. I don't considerus to be on duty.' Crossing the floor, he was determined to makeDusanka change her mind. 'Do you mind if I have one?''Not at all. Just help yourself. Make yourself at home.'Sensing the patronising tone in her voice, imagining her ashis hostess already, Stuart did not feel like exploring her mood.The important thing was to dump the book and get himself adrink. As he tossed the volume aside, pretending it was of littleimportance, it slid across the polished top of a grand piano situatedopposite the drinks trolley. It went almost the length of theinstrument, stopping at the very edge.218

'Thank you,' he said. 'It's very kind of you but, frankly, youdisappoint me, not sharing a drink with me.' He was lying. Deepdown he knew he would have had a drink regardless of Dusanka'sparticipation or permission. He needed it. This drink was nowmore important than ever. Not because of the drink itself, but asan excuse to conceal his state of mind.Lifting one nondescript flask, he pointed at it. 'What's this?'Facing Dusanka from a distance, he held the flask above the trolley.'Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you. The darker yellow one is pearliqueur. The other is slivovitz.'Not being familiar with either, Stuart poured a nip of slivovitz,smelled it first and then tasted it. 'It smells nice. I can trace asmell of plums. What kind of plums do they use?' he asked, nowin full control of himself again.'The ones you call prunes in England.'Satisfied, Stuart poured himself a little more and swallowedit in one gulp. He regretted it immediately. His pale face changedat once, and he could feel his heart pounding faster. This particularslivovitz, known to locals as prepecenica, distilled for the secondtime, was far beyond Stuart's expectations.'Oh, my God! It's so strong. Even more than a fiery vodka.'Dusanka's laughter, and the crackling of firewood comingfrom the open fireplace, reminded Stuart of the peacefulness hehad so far enjoyed in Dedinje Palace.To reach his room, he had to cross a number of the palace'scold corridors, so he said, 'It's going to be handy on the way upmy room.' He poured himself another drink.'I couldn't agree more, but be careful,' said Dusanka withmotherly concern. 'Drinking in a warm room and then goingthrough the cold corridors can be quite an experience.' Glancingat the book lying on the top of the piano, she moved closer andasked, 'Could you pour me some pear liqueur, please?''It's my pleasure,' said Stuart, relieved.As he turned his back to fulfil her request, Dusanka movedcloser to the piano and took a good look at the book. Noting itstitle, she decided to check on it when Stuart had left the study.219

While they sipped their drinks, Dusanka told Stuart thatDoctor Maloney was going to return to England earlier thanagreed, and Doctor Schulz would accompany him. Finishing herdrink, Dusanka left her glass on the trolley, and said, 'See you atsix-thirty sharp. Dinner's going to be earlier tonight.''All right. See you then.'As soon as Dusanka had left and the study doors were closed,Stuart crossed the floor to the piano, grabbed the little red bookand again studied page 22. Now, he said to himself, why werethose books in the drawer instead on the shelves? Something inthe back of his mind was still niggling at him... something thathappened years ago, closely related to what he had just read.What? Think harder, he mumbled to himself. Whatever it was, hewas sure it would eventually emerge. He had always been able torely on his memory.Leaving the book on the coffee table, he decided to return tothe study after dinner and continue reading. Maybe he would findsomething else. By then, he hoped, his memory would retrievewhat had happened years ago.Dusanka was thinking about Stuart's embarrassment, soclearly displayed when he faced her. She was certain it must beconnected with Tito's biography, which obviously had excitedhim. Instead of going to her room, she had entered the drawingroom adjacent to the study; After all, she too, would like a closerlook at the book. She heard Stuart's irregular footsteps, possiblyunder the influence of the slivovitz, as he missed the red carpet inthe middle of the corridor. Dusanka waited a few more minutesbefore she slipped in through the drawing room doors connectedto the study. In her hurry, she at first failed to notice that the redbook had disappeared from the top of the piano. When she realisedit was no longer there, she moved feverishly around the studyuntil she found it on the coffee table.Grabbing it impatiently, she deposited it in her nurse's uniformand returned to the drawing room. Making sure no onewould disturb her, she locked both doors. She flicked through thepages, glancing at the pictures, but nothing attracted her attention.Then she tried to remember how far Stuart had got with his read-220

ing when she entered the study. Recollecting what happened inthose few seconds before Stuart noticed her presence, Dusankarealised he had not been very far from the beginning. It did nottake her long to discover why Stuart had been so disturbed andwhy he was unable to conceal it once she walked in.Her heart began to pound faster, as she rested her head betweenhands. 'Oh, no... I can't believe it... Not now that I'm soclose to my goal... What will happen if somebody else finds outabout this?' Not quite sure how to deal with it, Dusanka began tothink...hoping to find a solution. It was now that everythingstarted to fall into place. Remembering the moment when she hadshown Barbara a photo of Tito surrounded with his friends, sherecalled that she had never asked her why she reacted as she did.Now it was all clear, and Stuart knew as well. Dusanka was wonderingif Philby knew, too. Was it the real reason why he hadasked her to work for MI6?Being so close to her goal now, Dusanka was not prepared tolose grip on it. After all, only a few people would know. So what?Would they dare to reveal the truth? It could rock Europe, causeanother war. What would happen to Yugoslavia? Angered by thediscovery, and knowing she had been betrayed, Dusanka rosefrom her seat and crossed to the open fireplace.Watching the fire licking the remaining logs, Dusanka begantearing out page after page, throwing them into the fire. Her eyeswere glued on the curling paper, which rapidly became ash. Shedid not know that another ninety-nine copies of the book rested intwo drawers below the bookshelves.She immediately began to plan what to say to Stuart if heasked her about the missing book. She would, of course, pretendto know nothing. She was hoping he would get drunk enough notto remember he had been reading a book the previous night.She was wrong. Stuart did return to the study after dinner andnoticed that the book had disappeared, but he never asked herabout it. Why should he? He collected another copy, which hetook with him to England, not realising that the disappearance ofthe volume would be noticed and that it might pose a threat to hislife.221

Her position consolidated, and in control inside and outsideof Dedinje Palace, Dusanka continued after Stuart Crocker's departuretwo months later with her efforts to please the man whomshe loved so much. Surprisingly enough, all those foreigners whohad a chance to observe her during those few years neverdreamed of her real purpose, least of all the minister of police,General Alexander Rankovic. Yet she never endangered her life,thanks to her powerful mentor – the KGB, that is, not MI6.It was then that she was glad to accept the role of spy, orconsultant for Yugoslav internal affairs, as Philby had put it toher. Thanks to her background, she not only managed to save herlife, but continued a low-profile influence in the political affairsof the Serbian republic, working for the advancement of theGreater Serbia design. When she was finally dumped by Tito fora younger woman, Dusanka disappeared.Stuart Crocker and Barbara Fellow did not know that Dusankahad named them as shareholders in Tito's secret.222

11BRIONI ISLAND: 1948The communication which Tito received from Moscow at thebeginning of May 1948 was not encouraging. It puzzled him initially,but afterwards it set off a fear within him which he couldnot shake off. The communication contained a request for a secretmeeting with comrade Molotov, the Russian minister for foreignaffairs. The wording of the request was so ambiguous that it wasalmost impossible to discern its intent.Tito was instructed to visit Hungary so that secrecy could bemaintained much more easily. Tito did not like the smell of it, butsensed what might happen if he ignored the request. From his experienceduring his stay in Russia, Tito knew only too well howinnocently Stalin arranged for his victims to be liquidated. Stalin'sdouble-crossing intentions, which Tito remembered sourly fromthe war years, were his primary concern.During the war, Tito had requested, on numerous occasions,military support from Russia, but always in vain. He would havebeen happy to receive British arms through Russia, instead offrom Great Britain directly, but this was also to no avail. He evensent a delegation of his twelve most trusted men, led by his personalcourier, Smiljan Pecjak, and what happened? Nothing at all.Tito received neither military nor political support from Russia.Strangely enough, he never heard any official report aboutthe fate of the Yugoslav delegation, either. What really hurt himwas the knowledge that Stalin, on the eve of the end of WorldWar II, accepted Churchill's proposal to divide Yugoslavia fiftyfifty.Thanks to Philby and his doctored aerial photos, Roosevelthad finally been convinced of the hopelessness of an Allied invasionthrough the Adriatic.It was obvious to Tito, as he thought a little more about Stalin'splan, how, once he was in Hungary, Stalin could threaten hislife. He never trusted Hungarians, and always regarded them as anation of gipsies, people whose nomadic lifestyle had imposeddifferent values and somewhat promiscuous loyalties. Tito sensed223

that Stalin's invitation must have some connection with his eagernessto be as independent from Russian influence as from that ofthe West. That alone was sufficient reason for Stalin to liquidatehim in the same way as he had liquidated thousands, if not millions,before him.To assure himself about his interpretation of the request, Titosummoned his faithful comrade-in-arms, Mosa Pijade, the onlyadviser he trusted among his numerous colleagues in the innercell of the Yugoslav Communist Party. His trust derived not onlyfrom their shared opinion of Stalin but also from their shared secret,which, deeply buried though it was, left him so vulnerable toexposure.Glancing again at the single sheet of paper delivered to himby the first secretary of the Russian embassy in Belgrade, ColonelSergei Kuznyetzov, Tito could hardly hide his astonishment whenhe was asked – politely, of course – to read it and give an instantreply.Infuriated by such blunt requests, Tito almost burst into hiswell known Balkan outrage, witnessed so many times by the Russiandiplomatic staff stationed in Belgrade.Determined to study it further, Tito instructed the colonel toreturn the following day, after he had had time to consider theimplications of Stalin's request. Knowing the president was busyalready, and recognising the tone of Tito's voice, it was clear tothe colonel there was no point in emphasising the urgency of Stalin'srequest. Being a reasonable man himself, he could easily understandTito's outburst. After all, Tito had been given the job ofgeneral secretary and had led his country to victory.Tito, on the other hand, thought about the four years of hardshipduring the war and remembered that, since the end of thewar, all he had ever got from the Russians was requests, requestsand nothing but requests. Pondering on the past, and recollectingthose bloody years of war, Tito wondered why the Russians hadneglected all his pleas. What had Stalin's real reasons been -especially at a time when Tito needed the Russians so badly?Could it be possible that Stalin was still against Yugoslavia, andin favour of two unions, Orthodox and Roman Catholic? No224

doubt, Stalin would base his argument on political grounds ratherthan religious. After all, he loathed religion in his own country.The buzz coming from his red telephone interrupted Tito'sthinking and he impatiently grabbed the receiver. Not realising hemight be mistaken, he barked info the receiver, 'What kept you solong?'Surprised by bis tone, Mosa meekly replied, 'I received yourmessage only this minute. What's up?''I have to see you.' Tito moderated his tone, but could hardlyconceal the grave concern in his voice. He was more pleadingthan ordering.Mosa's immediate thought was that it must be something bigand delicate when Tito declined to go into detail. 'Al right. I'll reschedulemy meeting for tomorrow morning. I'll be with you assoon I've given instructions.'Replacing the receiver, Tito immediately rose from his plushupholstered executive chair, imported from West Germany, andcrossed his study to the bookcase on the wall. His devoted friend,Tiger, the German shepherd dog, watched his every movement.Reaching into the drawers which formed the lower part of thebookcase, Tito paused. Thinking out loud, he said, 'Now is thetime.'Tiger, probably expecting an order from his master, prickedup his ears. Tito then pulled out the first volume from the drawer,intending to destroy it. He opened the book, searched for page 22,tore it out and hurled the volume into the fireplace. Such was thefate of Michael Padev's book. Repeating this procedure with copyafter copy, Tito soon filled the fireplace.Throughout this activity, Tito had been careful to stack allthe copies of page 22 on the floor at his left. However, when hehad disposed of every volume, he realised there were only ninetyeightsheets of that imponant page. 'What the hell is going on?' healmost shouted.Tiger, feeling his master's mood, put his tail between his legsand departed to lie in his favourite spot beneath the grand piano.'Who took the other two?' Tito murmured to himself.Checking the adjacent shelves, he realised somebody could have225

emoved them without his knowledge, but who? A light knock onthe study doors interrupted his mental turmoil.'Good day, comrade Tito,' said Mosa. He walked in, closelyobserving Tito's movements. In a half-joking tone, he said,'Judging from your nervousness, it seems to me you have a seriousproblem.'Tito faced Mosa, lifting his right hand, angrily squashingninety-eight pages, waving them over his head. 'These blastedbooks. I finally decided to destroy them. Never got around to itbefore. Now when I find the time, two are missing. Someone hasalready poked his nose into it, or so it seems.''Why don't you ask Dusanka? She should know.''I told her to keep out of here,' Then he remembered he hadtold her about the books several months after his illness. It waspossible that one of the doctors or even the nurse Barbara Fellowhad snooped in his study, 'Help yourself to a drink while I setthose blasted books alight.'Mosa did not wait for Tito to repeat his offer. He knew onlytoo well that the two missing books were not the reason for hisinvitation.As Mosa walked straight to the liquor trolley, Tito begantearing the books in half, to make sure they would hum easier.Lighting single pages first, to start the fire, Tito turned to Mosa.'Are you sure all the copies were taken off the market?''Well, it's difficult to tell, but I'm sure a few copies leftshouldn't worry you. But if you like, I can always contact thepublisher to find exactly how many copies were printed. If I remembercorrectly, your copies were all that remained out of sevenhundred already destroyed in 1944. What you should do is askcomrade Dedijer to finish your biography. Once it's been published,Padev's book will be forgotten forever.'Partly satisfied with Mosa's assurance, Tito replied, 'I hopeyou're right.' Staring at the curled paper turned into ash while theflames were growing smaller and smaller, Tito with relief joinedMosa at liquor trolley and helped himself to a nip of slivovitz.Lighting his favourite pipe, he seated himself at the piano stooland asked, 'What would you like me to play for you, Mosa?'226

Mosa's bemused face was enough for Tito to discern hiswish. 'Tchaikovsky and Chopin, of course. How could I ask sucha ridiculous question?' Without waiting for Mosa's nod, Tito beganTchaikovsky's Piano Sonata in G, and Ballad No 4 in F minorby Chopin. Then he changed to Ravel's dazzling display ofpianistic fireworks, Gaspard de la Nuit, and Mosa knew instantlythat Tito was tormented by a problem of a very serious nature. Hewould rarely play Ravel, and Mosa now knew that Tito wasseeking a solution. He also knew he would be expected to provideit.Mosa poured himself another slivovitz, but this time he useda larger glass, knowing he would need it. He seated himself inone of the leather-upholstered chairs. His small frame almost disappearedin the comfortable seat. He sipped his slivovitz as hewaited for Tito to finish his fierce playing. He did not like it, buthow could he refuse to listen to the music which reminded him somuch of his past?At that moment, Tito paused, and Mosa tried to cheer him bytelling him a new joke he had heard from his driver on the way toDedinje Palace. Tito did not smile, although the joke was outrageouslyfunny.'Tell me, what's the problem?' inquired Mosa.'It's not just mine, it's yours too. We have a problem – youand I.'It did not escape Mosa how Tito emphasised 'we'. The lowpitchedtone of Tito's voice reached Mosa's straining ears like adistant echo, and he understood Tito was deeply troubled. 'Well,in that case, let me hear it.' He leaned towards Tito, urging him tospeak louder.'Read it first, and then you tell me what you think of it.' Titopointed to his desk, opposite the piano, where the message lay.Mosa rose from his comfortable position and seated himselfbehind Tito's enormous desk. All Tito could see was Mosa's smallhead, just above the desktop, his face dominated by thick-lensedspectacles rimmed with thin steel frames. While he read the message,Tito watched his every move, hoping to discern any negacivereaction, but Mosa remained motionless.227

'So what? I don't see any problem.' Mosa was pretending,sensing the nature of Tito's concern.'Come on, comrade Mosa. Have you forgotten what you toldme about an invitation you received years ago?'Of course, thought Mosa. How could he forget? He rememberedwhat he had gone through. It was like a nightmare, but inTito's case it was a different matter. To reassure him about Stalin'srequest, Mosa said, 'You're probably making more of it thanit deserves.''I don't think you understand. Why would Stalin suggest ameeting in Hungary? If it's so important, he could ask for a secretmeeting in neutral territory, say in Austria.'Mosa read the message once again. His memory went back to1938 when he had received his invitation to Moscow. He couldquite clearly remember now his own fear of being liquidated, butsince then a lot of things had changed. Tito was not just anotherCommunist official, but the leader and president of Yugoslavia.Surely Stalin would not dare to try to murder him? After all, Titoenjoyed too much popularity among European Communists. Stalincould word a message differently to impress Tito, thoughtMosa. On the other hand, it could mean just what Tito feared.'Maybe there's nothing to worry about. What makes youthink otherwise?' inquired Mosa.'I simply don't trust the old man. You know what's happenedto some of our friends lately?'Mosa nodded, realising Tito had a good point. His mind wassearching for a solution – a solution acceptable to both parties.Suddenly he slapped himself with an open palm in the middle ofhis forehead, narrowly missing his spectacles. 'Why not suggest tothe old man some other venue? Couldn't we suggest Brioni Island?'Tito thought for a few seconds and agreed. 'That's a fine idea.It'd give me a chance to inspect what's been done since last year.If Stalin's intentions are genuine, he'l accept it.''I think so, too.' Mosa's reassuring tone finally convinced Titoto go ahead with preparations.Several days later, Tito received another communication thatStalin agreed and was actually pleased with Tito's chosen loca-228

tion. Unusual, thought Tito, convinced that Stalin's initial requestwas ill-meant.A week later, Mosa and Tito were on their way to Brioni viaDubrovnik, where they boarded the president's yacht, Ancona, recentlypurchased from an Italian businessman. Tito had renamedit Jastreb, Hawk.Brioni Island was subtropical, about seventy acres in size,situated on the northern part of the Adriatic Sea a few miles fromthe Istrian Peninsula. It had been King Alexander's favourite retreat.He had built a beautiful Mediterranean style villa therenamed Beli Dvori, White Palace. It had been built from whitestone blocks delivered to Brioni from St Grgur Island, while themarble came from the penal colony, Goli Otok, Naked Island.Although all the facilities were adequate at the time of building,Tito had since resumed summer residence and ordered extensiverenovations, which included modern facilities imported from Italyand West Germany. All the changes expressed Tito's desire to reservethe island as his own retreat as well as an occasional showpiecefor invited dignitaries.First of all, Tito decided that all personnel at the palacewould consist of females between eighteen and thirty years old. Inthe beginning, the girls were chosen from numerous institutionswhich looked after orphaned children, whose parents had beenkilled during the war. The only requirements were appearance,reasonable intelligence and complete loyalty. Once selected, theywould receive training on the mainland. After successfully passingan approved test, they would be shipped to Brioni Island.During their stay, they would rarely leave the island, except asordered by Tito himself. They would be further trained on the islandby qualified staff, and their knowledge of several chosenlanguages determined the size of their dowry once they reachedthirty-five. They would be given the choice of either marrying islandguards or continuing to work in other capacities.A garrison of Tito's personal guards were responsible for theisland's law and order, while the Yugoslav navy operated two torpedoboats and four German Uboats captured by the Allies near229

Trieste after the Italian capitulation and given to Yugoslavia atthe end of the war.The island's flora had been improved by the importation ofevergreen trees and shrubs which could survive the colder climatein that part of the Adriatic. The flowers were protected undercover during winter and in the spring were brought out again andarranged to give the island a splendour close to Paradise. The island'sfauna were complemented by deer, hares, pheasants, fieldpartridges, chamois, wild ducks, doves, hazel hens, snipes, foxes,wild grouse and even wild pigs. The half-dozen island rangers,mostly men in their mid-forties, married and living in cottagesscattered in the thick island bush, looked after the game animals.They were responsible for clearing the forest so that Tito and hisinvited guests could travel by horse-drawn open carriages, suitablefor hunting. Horses were supplied from Tito's Lipizzanerstud farms near Djakovo and Sabac.The nearby Adriatic fishing ground provided the island withblue fish, pilchard, sprat, blue fin tuna, mackerel, European bass,shrimp, European cuttlefish and lobster. Also, a few gardenerslooked after fruit trees planted on the perimeter of the palacegrounds.After Tito's and Mosa's arrival, the island personnel finalisedall the preparations their boss requested. A small runway wascompleted by Yugoslav army engineers so the sole plane housedin the hangar could take off at any time. Several people knewabout the arrival of a mysterious visitor to the island, but noneexpected to see Molotov. He arrived from Austria, first by planeto Zadar and then to the island on the lavish Jacht Jastreb, nowequipped with the latest technological equipment.Tito was kept informed of Molotov's progress and subsequentarrival by the beautiful, blonde Ljerka, who operated his marineradio system. As well as maintaining contact with Jastreb, shealso kept in touch with Dedinje Palace, now in Dusanka's charge.In the begining, Molotov insisted on a meeting between himselfand Tito, but Tito's insistence on Mosa's presence was finallyagreed upon. Sitting around the beautifully decorated table eatingsplendid meals provided by the attractive chef, Mireta, Molotovcould not take his eyes from the beautiful Olga, whose Russian230

was perfect. She could fool even him, who was a Russian.Dressed in a white low-cut blouse with a short black skirt highlightedby a small white apron and her long legs sheathed inseamed stockings enhanced by dainty shoes, she enriched his dinner.Nothing like her existed in the grey Kremlin, only in Yalta;but trips there were rate. Olga would bend over to place variousdishes on his plate, and through his spectacles he would leer ather firm breasts, adorned with large nipples. It did not escape himthat Olga noticed his lust, and he was delighted that she repeatedher bending so often.After dinner, they all went into a drawing room. Its whitecolouredberber carpet and cane furniture, supplied by the statefurniture factory in Zagreb, gave a casual appearance, at oddswith the expensive paintings decorating the walls. When Tito noticedMolotov's penetrating look, he explained that some of thepaintings were a legacy of King Alexander, while others weregifts from various leaders and statesmen who had been guests onthe island.Sipping a cold beer imported from Czechoslovakia, andsmoking Cuban cigars, Tito, Mosa and Molotov moved to thelarge balcony. From there, they could see Brioni's beaches dottedwith a small huts.'You're probably wondering why our great leader of the proletariatrequested our meeting?' asked Molotov.Tito only nodded, giving Mosa the signal to answer. 'Yes, weare, especially because of its seclusion.'At that moment, a beautiful girl come to the balcony, dressedin a light casual dress that revealed her youthful bosom. Kneelingat Molotov's seat, she poured more beer. Although Molotov triedto appear indifferent, Tito and Mosa traced in his eyes somethingmore than a casual desire – it was lechery.This split-second weakness, traceable on Molotov's face, wasenough for Tito to seduce the old man even further by saying, 'Ifyou fancy her, she can be yours tonight,' and with a cheeky expressionon his face Tito smiled, wondering what was really onthe man's mind, apart from the girl.Molotov was not in the mood to answer, but his piercing looksuggested that he might accept. As soon as the beautiful creature231

left the balcony, he began with his explanation, occasionallyglancing in the direction of the girl's departure. 'Stalin has learnedabout Churchill's desire to use Allied forces against our country.As you know, Russia is in no position to win militarily against thecorrupt West, at least not in the immediate future. However, inour leader's opinion, there is a way we can bleed them to death byusing their own weapon – money.'Molotov's further elaboration was interrupted. Hearing thatmagic word, 'money', Tito and Mosa exchanged sly glances.'What do you mean, money? How could you beat them withsomething they have in abundance?'Molotov smiled enigmatically, slowly rose from his seat andwalked towards the balcony rail. As he reached it, he heardlaughter coming from below. The glare of light bulbs almostblinded him. He closed his eyes and slowly began to open themagain. What he saw was absolutely unbelievable. About a dozengirls, some lying either on towels spread around the pool or onbare slates surrounding the pool perimeter, were chatting in theirnative dialect. All were naked. Never in his wildest dreams had heexpected to see something so delightful. What beautiful bodies,was his immediate thought. He wished at that moment he wasyounger, but even at fifty-eight he felt he could satisfy at least oneof them. Stroking his goatee, he restrained himself from furtherstaring at the beautiful bodies.Returning to the group, he said casually, before loweringhimself into his comfortable seat, 'Simply by exploiting their owncorrupted methods.'Mosa, who suspected the direction of Molotov's proposal,probed him a little further. 'You appear to underestimate the Anglo-Saxonability to see through your moves, comrade Molotov;''Not at all. What we have in mind would not be so easy todetect, so long as comrade Tito plays his role in accordance withour instructions.'Tito almost jumped out of his seat. He was infuriated. Hethought, What a nerve! Coming to Yugoslavia with some wildplan and giving instructions to me the president of Yugoslavia.Who does he think he is? Glancing at Mosa to see his reaction, hereceived a signal to stay calm.232

'What do you mean, your instructions, comrade?' inquiredMosa.'Our great leader has devised a plan. We're all convinced itwill work.''How do you intend to achieve it, comrade Molotov?' askedTito, who had managed to calm himself down, if not for appearanceat least for the sake of the money which Molotov had mentioned.'It's rather simple, actually, once you agree. We're awareyou've been critical of Russia for quite some time. You're admiredfor it among Western countries. However, if you divorceyourself from us, they'll try to keep you out of our influence. Inthat case, you'll be able to name your price. As you know, the USgovernment could increase their own armaments providing thereis a threat. As we have to rebuild our forces to maintain our sovereignty,it's natural that they'll succeed in the beginning but, aspeople become weary of higher taxes, it'll be harder and harderfor them to spend more money.'Tito impatiently interrupted. 'I can't see how I can be of anyassistance to you.''You can, more than you think. Once the situation arises,your reputation for being our adversary will benefit their aim andyou'll then be able to squeeze more money our of them.'Still suspecting that Stalin was plotting to get rid of him, especiallyif he went against Russia openly. Tito pretended refusal,but Molotov was armed with an unbeatable trump card. 'I was advisedby comrade Stalin to inform you that, if you refuse to cooperate,he will reveal a secret which will mean the end for you inyour own country.'Tito, infuriated, rose from his seat as if ready to fire a salvo,but Mosa was quicker. 'There's no need to blackmail comradeTito,' said Mosa, with distaste in his voice. 'However, we can seeyour point. What we worry about is unity among the Communistcountries and the possibility of a backlash against our cause.'With a self-assured tone, Molotov said, 'Let us worry aboutthat. After all, if you succeed, we'd expect other countries to followsuit. In that case, there'll be no division amongst us, at leastnot a real one.'233

Tito thought for a moment while Mosa remained silent. 'Howdo you propose our breakaway, comrade Molotov?''Once you agree, you can do as you like, providing we haveyour solemn commitment to work towards our united goal. As afirst step, we propose that you request us to withdraw our troopsfrom Yugoslav territory. At the same time, you can deliver a tiradeagainst Communist ideology. Once the USA, Great Britainand the rest of the Western world begin to pay for your services,you'll be able to fulfil your program. By the way, we'll keep fiftyper cent as a guarantee that you'll keep your promise.'Mosa, as always, kept thinking about the Yugoslav Communistreaction. 'How do you suggest we go about justifying such aplan to our party members?''That's your worry. Do as I've explained, just so long as it'sconvincing enough.''Has it ever crossed your mind that your plan could take yearsbefore it bears fruit, if ever?''We realise that, but there's no simple solution. We need timeto rebuild our country and streamline our resources for their bestuse. Time to reeducate the country people and to rebuild our industries.All this will take time, but during that time you'll receiveyour reward, and possibly other countries will join your lead.Who knows? Perhaps you'll be able, one day, to enlist their supporton the presumed path of self-determination. It'll cost a fortune,of course, but in return the Western standard of living willslowly decline, until it reaches a desperate level. People will thenbe disillusioned with democracy and seek an alternative. At thatmoment, they’ll be ripe for a takeover and complete control. Canyou imagine, our leader will then achieve what Alexander theGreat and Hitler failed to achieve by force: world supremacy.'The whole picture of Stalin's monstrous plan became visibleto Tito. Surely it would be to his own advantage to accept it. Afterall, it would cost nothing. 'I'll give you my support, providingStalin keeps his word. I want it in writing.'Molotov smiled happily, contemplating the presence ofyoung Olga in his bed.'Of course. As soon I get back to Moscow, I'll arrange thenecessary guarantees.'234

Their conversation at an end, Tito rose, and the others followedsuit.Once Mosa and Tito were on their own, they began exchangingviews, making sure they covered the agreement fromevery possible angle. Tito was happy, very happy, because nowhe would be able to get rid of all those in his party who idolisedStalin. Why not? He had been virtually forced to agree, and nowrealised the treacherous path he was taking on his way to politicalprominence. What sweet revenge against a man who had refusedto help him at a time when he was so desperate. What an opportunityto clean his own backyard without any opposition from theWest – or East.Mosa studied Tito's thoughtfulness and suddenly realised thatin their entire relationship he had never seen such an expressionon Tito's face. His eyes had the triumphant look of a victor whohad captured the whole world.Remembering the slaughter of prisoners at the end of thewar, Tito was overjoyed that he had been given another opportunityto liquidate his opponents, but on this occasion he decided hewould use them instead.235

23612BELGRADE 1949Tito's drawing room was situated on the first floor of DedinjePalace, but it had been converted into his secondary office. Themagnificently appointed room was at the rear of the palace overlookingits splendid garden, planted mostly with roses of everydescription. The vast windows, with the sun's rays piercingthrough the richly embossed curtains, were the only bright spot inhis present moment of personal tragedy. Outraged because of thebad news he had received moments earlier, Tito, in a tormentedstate, sat with his head in his hands, while his beautifully manicuredfingernails dug into his thinning hair.The great mahogany desk he now stared at was protected bya glass top on which lay a large map of Yugoslavia, and his gazewas focused on the Yugoslav-Hungarian border. The strainshowed on his beet-red face, and now he felt the news he had justreceived was too much for him. For two weeks now he had feltdepressed. His head, being so heavy, felt as though it were filledwith lead. This particular kind of weakness was rare with him, butnevertheless was presenting itself at a time when he knew heshould be strong. He was deeply disappointed with the performanceof his comrades in arms.Instead of the members of the inner party unanimously supportinghim, his colleagues were deeply divided for the first timesince the end of the war. It was a very dangerous situation threateningthe solidarity of the Yugoslav Communist Party. His onlycomfort came from the almost indispensable Dusanka. His lovingdog, Tiger, now lying at his feet, felt his master's mood.Thinking about his grandiose plans, and drifting away fromthe establishment of an independent bloc of nations, Tito thought,as he had on numerous occasions, about his elevation onto theworld political stage. Since 1948, he had been secretly workingon his own idea which would help him to outmanoeuvre his formerguardian – the father of the proletarian struggle against capitalism,Joseph Stalin. Being an atheist, Tito would not have dared

to use word godfather, a description which would have been moreappropriately applied to the instigator of the Bolshevik Revolution– Lenin.Tito regretted from the beginning his submission to Russianpressure back in 1948. It bothered him greatly to realise he hadsubmitted to his master's request to act as a Trojan horse in Russianforeign policy. In his mind he could clearly visualise thatdreadful meeting with Molotov which had gained him a lot offoreign currency, but at what expense? Analysing it over andover, he realised only a bloodthirsty maniac like Stalin could havedevised such a monstrous plan. There was no way out of it.A secret which Stalin shared with Mosa Pijade, initially, andpossibly now with the present chief of the MGB, Lavrenti Beria,had been hanging over Tito's head all this time. If revealed, itcould easily start yet another war on the Balkan Peninsula, and heknew what it would mean to him personally – certain death. Somany years of suffering, humiliation and deprivation enduredduring the war would go down the dram.Tito realised now for the first time how Stalin's 1948 blackmailhad really made him vulnerable to exposure. Without doubt,Stalin would use the threat again and again. He knew that, so longas he stayed under Stalin's thumb, he would be forced to take asubservient role.The low purr of his intercom returned Tito's musing to reality.Moving as if in slow motion, he gently pressed the button andasked in a weary tone, 'Yes, my dear Slavica. What is it now?'Surprised by her superior's friendly tone, Slavica softly replied,'Comrade Rankovic phoned to find out when you'll be ableto see him.'Not sure of his agenda, Tito asked, 'Are there any appointmentstoday, Slavica?' 'Yes. Just a moment please, I have to loo-'Tito interrupted. 'Never mind, my dear. Tell comrade Rankovicto be here at four o'clock sharp. By the way, ask comradePijade to come too, and don't let anyone in till we finish ourmeeting. Do you understand?' The military flavour to Tito'scommand indicated an order to be followed to the letter.'Yes, I do, comrade Tito!'237

Tito leaned back in his executive chair, glancing at a largemantel clock, confronted again with the same bad news he had receivedearlier about the chief of staff, General Jovanovic, whohad been shot dead as he tried to cross the Yugoslav border illegally.The incident could look as if Rankovic was carrying out avendetta against yet another Montenegrin general.Tito suspected rightly. He had already received a written reportby a local commander from whom General Jovanovic hadrequested a Russian-made tank to force his way through the wellguardedYugoslav-Hungarian border. If the commander had refused,and made a telephone call when Jovanovic left the guardpost, he could have saved the general's life. Why had he stalled atthe most crucial moment?Torn between loyalty to his comrades and plans for his future,Tito realised the importance of finding a solution to thistricky situation. If he accepted General Rankovic's recommendation,he knew he would have to sign the death warrant of justabout every member of the Yugoslav Communist Party who hadsigned the resolution and aligned themselves with the Cominform.In other words, a large-scale liquidation would be imminent.He was not scared of this, providing that all declared theirloyalty openly, but, assuming that some anticipated the deathpenalty as a possibility, they would surly hide their true coloursuntil a more opportune time. This time it was a different matter –this time it was not his enemies he must consider, but his owngenerals, and officers all down the line. Men who had shared fouryears of resistance comradeship and its extreme hardships withhim. Any such liquidations could have a colossal impact on unityamong the lower or outer circle of the Yugoslav CommunistParty. Their decimation would virtually threaten the very existenceof post-war Yugoslavia – there was far too much at stake.He had to think... How could he repeat it? He had alreadybeen part of the Bleirburg Massacre but luckily, at that time, theBritish had been forced to keep their mouths shut. They had beenresponsible for handing over the prisoners.The Russians were not in a position to use the massacreagainst him even if they wanted to, because they, too, were guilty238

of the same crime – shooting their own citizens in the name ofvictory and freedom.Deep down, Tito knew the British had expected safe conduct,and a fair trial, but all those who had lost loved ones had beenasking for blood – instantly. And after all, thought Tito, muchblood was spilt in England before it became a civilised and democraticallyrun country. Not to mention their colonial drive, whichclaimed thousands of innocent lives. How could they have expectedprimitive peasants, exploited for so long, to react differently?The present mess had started with the issue of a resolution directedto every member of the Yugoslav Communist Party. It wastheir duty to pledge support for the YCP or Cominform. Each recipienthad to sign the resolution and post it back to YCP headquarters.Although the vast majority answered in the affirmative,approving the party's stand against Stalin's domination and hismeddling in internal affairs in Yugoslavia, Tito was not satisfied.The thirty-five per cent who openly sided with the Cominformresolution were hard-core Communists and it was quite a dangeroussituation. Who could guarantee that those who pledged theirsupport to him or to the YCP were not back-stabbers? And ifback-stabbers existed, how many were there?Tito's position was so delicate that anything Rankovic suggestedwould definitely further jeopardise it. Rankovic's proposalcould backfire, and all those fascist elements in exile could forcetheir way back and cause another civil war. Analysing Pijade'sproposition, Tito could easily see merit in the lock-up proposal,but where could he lock up such a large number of political prisoners?He would need to empty all his prisons and former concentrationcamps, and still it would not be enough. Where couldhe then send criminals and petty thieves? And who would foot thebill for it all?Angrily, he rose from his chair and left the office. On theway out, he instructed Slavica to convey to the officer in chargeof the palace guard, Major Stojadinovic, his request to directGeneral Rankovic and comrade Pijade, on their arrival, to hissummer gazebo. It was situated at the back of Dedinje Palace andhad been finished just recently. Its outside appearance would fool239

anybody. The evergreen plants hid the gazebo. It was outfittedwith complete bar facilities, recreation units and a rest room, aswells as a big billiards table. A number of sofas and armchairsupholstered in an expensive cotton fabric imported from Indiabeautified the interior. The entire area was a sacred sanctuary forTito. No one would dare enter it without his invitation. Not evenDusanka, not even to have a quick look, even though she lookedafter everything. She knew perfectly well what would happen –instant dismissal.Inside, the gazebo had teak panels from Thailand, and theoutside was treated radiata pine painted green. Sandwiched betweenthe panels were mohair panels glued together in a hundredmillimetrethickness, which served as insulation from Belgrade'shot summers. Suspended from the ceilings to keep the inside temperaturebearable were large fans imported from the USA.The panoramic thick glass panels, tinted with a light greyhue, were Italian, and allowed a southern view of the DedinjePalace. They overlooked the beautifully mown lawns interspersedwith beds of magnificently coloured roses. Instead of the shuttersinstalled on the outside of the glass panels, Tito preferred to usebamboo screens from China. He could easily see outside withoutbeing noticed.In a cupboard, he stored a portable telescope so powerful hecould peep through the palace's windows as well as beyond thesouthern perimeters of the palace grounds. The telescope hadbeen brought from Germany after Tito saw it demonstrated by aGerman firm in Vienna. He was proud of the purchase, becausehe had been able to demonstrate his Viennese accent; it completelyfooled the poor salesman, who thought he was impersonatingTito. What a laugh when Tito convinced the salesman heactually was the marshal in person!The bar itself was the masterpiece of a Slovenian cabinetmakerand a Bosnian woodcarver who reproduced a map ofYugoslavia using coloured glass chips. When lit by concealedlights, it provided enough illumination for a cosy environment. Alarge record player and a grand piano, both German, furnishedenough entertainment for a music lover of Marshal Tito's calibre.240

Changing his clothes and taking a large towel, Tito steppedinto the elegantly shaped swimming pool filled with sparklingAdriatic sea water. Italian craftsmen had laid a mosaic pavementaround the pool perimeter incorporating motifs, mainly of Serbianorigin, from Yugoslavia's rich history. There was no visitor whodid not pay tribute, not only to those who built it but also to Dusanka,who had devised the ideas for beautifying the palacegrounds. What a lovely place for a wedding, she must havethought.Once out of the pool, Tito went back into his sanctuary. Ashe entered the other room, a young waitress came through thedoor from the inner area to attend him. She wore a short, seductiveskirt which amply revealed long, shapely legs. The thin cottonblouse topping the skirt showed her firm young breasts to advantage,and her large nipples pushed at the thin material in amost exciting manner. Tito had instructed her never to wear a brawhen serving him. She obeyed the order explicitly, and the resultwas devastating: a ripe fruit ready for harvest, thought Tito.'Would you like a drink as usual, Josip, or would you prefersomething else?'Her partially concealed smile suggested what she had inmind.Staring at her with undisguised lust, Tito smiled. 'Pity I haven'ttime now, but tonight might be a different story.'In that case I'll wait for you tonight.' Vera gently put her handaround his neck, giving him a kiss of confirmation.'By the way, I'm expecting company shortly, so you go backto the palace now. I'll let you know when I'm free.' Tito put hishand around her shapely, youthful figure, wishing he was at leastten years younger. Her body began to tremble and Tito becomearoused, too. He was amazed how differently he felt in Vera'scompany. She was the only one allowed to call him by his firstname, but only when they were on their own. She went with himas part of his household whenever he travelled to Djakovo, wherehe kept his Lippizzaners.'Listen, Vera. I might be going to Slovenia by myself sometimenext month. Would you like to come along?' ..'Yes, of course. I've never been there.'241

'See you tonight, then?''Yes, of course!'As Vera put a bottle of cognac, a container with ice cubesand a bottle of mineral water on a small table near Tito's favouritechair, she returned to kiss him and tried to walk away, but hemanaged to put his hand gently on her breast.'You'd better put on more decent clothes on the way out, otherwiseI might have some competition.' Tito winked and gave hera cheeky smile.Vera nodded and silently left Tito's sanctuary.Tito glanced at his watch and noticed that he had only tenminutes to prepare for the arrival of his devoted comrades. Lyingon the beautiful sofa, one of a few remaining pieces of furniturewhich had belonged to Italy's King Emanuel Spaletta, Tito relaxed,sipping his cognac. A light knock on the gazebo doorsroused him from a slight doze.'Come in.'Tito noticed Pijade's small frame at the door. Casually shakinghands, he offered Mosa a drink and motioned to the seat besidehim. Mosa settled for a cold beer from Czechoslovakia.'I was seriously thinking, comrade Mosa, about Rankovic'sproposal. I gave him orders to come up with something in linewith your recommendation.''Ah, that's very good. Can you imagine the consequences forthe party?' returned Mosa. In a low-pitched voice, he then beganto outline his plan to win enough friends among the poorer nationsto form a non-aligned alliance, something like a balancebetween West and East.He was interrupted by the arrival of General Rankovic. Afterthe exchange of handshakes, Tito leaned back on his sofa ready tohear Rankovic's redrafted proposal. His initial outburst when Titohad asked him what to do with Comintern sympathisers was stillringing in the president's ears. 'Shoot the bastards! What elsecould you do with that treacherous lot?' had been the exact wordsof the Yugoslav minister for police, General Rankovic. It wasMosa who had persuaded him to change his mind, and they hadall agreed to find a more acceptable proposition.242

Once comfortably seated, Rankovic began. 'As you know,' hetook a deep breath, 'we have a number of uninhabited islands inthe Adriatic. Looking at the map last night I found three of themost suitable for an isolated rehabilitation centre – not a jail.'Both Tito and Mosa were flabbergasted with this suddenchange of heart. Only General Rankovic knew the real reason forhis suggestion to shoot what he called the bastards. It had notbeen his real intention, of course. His initial outburst had beenmeant to conceal his true devotion to Cominform, and Tito's approvalwould have given him an excuse to stage a coup d'etat.'What makes you sure they'll work – I mean your rehabilitationcentres?' asked Tito.'Having been in prison myself, I think it's more rewarding torehabilitate political offenders than to treat them like commoncriminals. After all, they're our comrades in arms. As a matter offact, they'll be self-sufficient, once they're properly organised onthe islands. Naturally, their work will hang in some cash for us, aswell.'Tito's greedy mind almost made him hit the gazebo roof.'What would I do without you, general? You're a genius. Tell meexactly, what do you have in mind?'Glancing in the direction of Mosa (whom he regarded as aJew more than a Serb, mainly because he spent most of his timewith the Croatian leaders of the Yugoslav Communist Party),Rankovic continued, 'King Alexander once exploited the open-cutmarble mines at Naked Island. During the war, the Italians modernisedthe production machinery and continued mining, but, dueto the war, it never got off the ground as a commercially profitableventure. Now that we have the required labour, we can start areally profitable business.'Tito, unfamiliar with the size of Naked Island, asked, 'Howmany people could we accommodate there, general?''Considering the availability of accommodation facilities, approximatelythree to four thousand, but at St Grgur we can havemuch larger internment, possibly twenty thousand.'Surprised that such large numbers were possible, Tito wasrelieved. The uninhabitated islands could prove an ideal ground243

for his rehabilitation program. 'But what will all those people doon St Grgur?''That's easy. As you know, there's a shortage of furniture inYugoslavia, and the prisoners will be able to manufacture it untilthe mainland factories become selfsufficient. Who knows? Perhapsone day we'll be able to sell it to other countries. 'Before Tito could comment on Rankovic's idea, the generalopened his thickly stuffed briefcase and pulled out a neatly preparedfile. 'The main reason I asked to see you, comrade Tito, isto propose a new law. As you know, there might be problemslater on, and we have to act swiftly.'Not realising what Rankovic was referring to, Tito asked,'What kind of problems do you expect, comrade general?'Rankovic took a deep breath, knowing this moment was veryimportant, if not crucial, for his future success. 'Simply this: whenpeople learn that we may be deeply divided, they'll try to stir reactionaryelements in our communities, and their damagingpropaganda will reach enemies beyond our borders.'Sensing the general's concern, but also the possibility of givinghim a free hand to carry out his own personal vendetta, Titoinquired, 'Can you be more specific? What kind of law do youhave in mind?'Without hesitation, Rankovic blurted out, 'A communitybeneficial work law.' Tito and Mosa looked at each other andburst out laughing. 'A what? You must be joking, or out of yourmind.'Rankovic remained cool. He controlled his south Balkantemperament with case, and he knew why. Waiting for Tito'slaughter to subside, Rankovic recollected the rehearsed outline ofhis awkwardly titled regulation. Then he went on, explaining howhe intended to implement a law which would in the end hoodwinkpolitical observers from the West and East alike. According to hisabsurdly named law, two members of the YCP would be asked tosign a statutory declaration accusing a nominated person of politicalpropaganda against the existing regime in Yugoslavia. Theaccused individuals would be sentenced to periods not less thanthree months, and no longer than three years.244

'But that will overburden our judicial system, comrade general.Isn't that so?' asked Mosa.Rankovic smiled politely, but certain that what he was aboutto say would be accepted differently. 'Not at all. The aim of thislaw is to bypass the judicial system. After all, they're so busy thaturgent cases could disrupt the entire system. And that's exactlymy reason for avoiding it.''But how would you operate such a law?' asked Tito.Again Rankovic was ready, but he sipped his drink first, realisingthat a small slip might well be his last. 'What I have inmind would be operated entirely by the police. A police prosecutorwould lay charges verbally to the chief of a particular town,city or province. It would then be up to the chief to determine thepenalty. All those prisoners who received sentences longer thansix months would be sent to remote parts of the country to builddams, roads, bridges, schools and whatever was necessary to fulfiltheir term of sentence. Those with shorter periods would be assignedto urgent repairs or whatever might need attention in theirarea of imprisonment.'Tito and Mosa nodded their approval, seeing a lot of merit,but mostly concerned with their own plans.'In that case, leave your proposal here. I'll need to study it beforeI agree to it.' said Tito.Rankovic was not happy. He concealed his feelings so as notto arouse suspicion about his real reason for introducing thismonstrous law. He had hoped for Tito's immediate approval, as inthe past; his reluctance was a setback for his plans. As Tito rose,both men followed, instantly, ready to leave. At that moment,Tito signalled Mosa to remain after Rankovic's departure.Once alone with Mosa, Tito said in a low-pitched voice,leaning towards him, 'I'd like you to study ways to implement theBrioni agreement. What I have in mind is something of our own.It must appear at the beginning as if we are playing their tune, butthose bastards should be taught a proper lesson. Not a single bulletor rifle did we ever receive from them, yet they're so generouswith their stupid requests and bloody plots.' Tito could feel hisrage rising again.245

Mosa tried to calm him. 'Don't worry about it. So long as weget enough money from the USA, Britain and Germany, we'll beable to do things our own way.'246

13BELGRADE 1949Marshal Tito realised that his newfound political ambitionwas still a long way from success. The ambition, of dimensionshe had never before imagined, had, over the short period of hisreign, become an obsession which preoccupied his increasinglyburdened mind – constantly planning how to launch himself ontothe European, and ultimately the world, political stage. It was anambitious plan for the successful leader of a mere resistancemovement, not to mention a former blacksmith.He realised that progress within Yugoslavia might be jeopardisedbecause of the greater attention he was giving to his grandioseplan. From time to time, he could shovel his responsibilitiesonto members of the inner cell of the Yugoslav Communist Party.He well knew this might lessen his own influence within the party– a very dangerous situation indeed. It was quite possible thatsome of them would even contemplate challenging him. He couldnot afford that, at least not at this stage. He was, however, awarethat his political image at home must be improved, because thecapitalist press was painting him as a self-imposed dictator. Thisnegative publicity would definitely plague his prospects, unlesshe succeeded in rebuilding his war-tom country and the nationalist-drivenstates within Yugoslavia.Yugoslavia's small population was another problem. Whowould pay any attention to the representative of such a small nationin a political arena dominated by three giants, the Americans,the Soviets and the Chinese, plus countless numbers of countries,which sought a greater role for themselves? Tito knew that evenhis regular appearance at international gatherings and UN GeneralAssembly sessions could not significantly alter his otherwise obscurepolitical situation. Not even his achievements during thewar would be sufficient to gain him influence or recognition inthe chapters of the world history of great leaders. The recognitionwhich Tito had in mind was something similar to that given tostatesmen of Lenin's, Stalin's or even Churchill's calibre.247

If he could create an independent body of underprivileged orunderdeveloped countries, then, only then, might he succeed.Given their disproportionately large populations, their sheer sizeshould guarantee him enough weight against the existing East-West polarisation. But how could he possibly unite such diverseand poor countries? When they were so dependent for their survivalon cash handouts from richer countries, which exploitedthem for their own political goals, how could he influence them toseek an alternative?While Tito's mind was probing and evaluating this politicallyvery attractive proposition, Mosa Pijade, the special minister responsiblefor constitutional and legal matters, was working on theintroduction of his own plan, which would ultimately enable Titoto gain respect among the poor, most populous, countries. Hisplan was very simple. Yugoslavia would provide scholarships forstudents from underdeveloped and poor countries scatteredthroughout Asia, Africa and me Middle East. The selected studentswould be given the opportunity to study and to qualify atone of the numerous universities across Yugoslavia. Mosa knewthat a large number of those foreign students would eventuallyreduce opportunities for Yugoslav students but, given the need forskilled labour within Yugoslav industry, there would be no needfor shiny bums, as he usually referred to university graduates. Itwas common knowledge that he loathed long-term students, andhe even introduced tougher entry exams mainly to reduce evenfurther the growing herds of non-productive citizens.It was obvious to Mosa that war-torn Yugoslavia was in noposition to finance such an ambitious plan but, in spite of thehuge financial outlay, he was not prepared to shy away from it,mainly because he knew that, once the plan was revealed to Tito,it would be up to the president to find the extra money. The wholeidea was designed to promote Tito's interests first; the Yugoslavpeople would benefit if there was anything left over.The selected students could be of great use, thought Mosa.Once they returned to their native countries and were among theirown illiterate tribesmen, they, being highly educated, wouldqualify instantly for responsible positions within their respectivegovernments. If properly manipulated whilst in Yugoslavia and248

programmed by the Yugoslav political brainwashing machinery,they could be convinced that Yugoslavia was seeking an independentline which could be followed as the only line to preserveself-determination. Their acceptance of Yugoslavia as an independentcountry would ultimately benefit Yugoslav trade andcommerce and, subsequently, political support for Yugoslavia'sleadership, furthering Tito's ultimate goal of becoming a worldrecognisedleader.During their studies, the students would be encouraged toparticipate in radnicke akcije, labour activities. Projects of variousimportance and size would be built along with Yugoslav students,who, according to Mosa, lacked proper enthusiasm. As an excuse,the university authorities would emphasise the need to acquireskills during vacations. Their participation would be interpretedas a demonstration of gratitude for the hospitality they had receivedfrom the Yugoslav government. Such activities wouldminimise the use of paid labour and expensive machines. The useof students, another magnificent invention of an old grand master,would create savings that could be spent on projects where skilledlabour was in far greater demand.A few blocks from Mosa's office was a building belonging tothe ministry of the interior, where its minister, General Rankovic,the most feared Serb outside Serbia, was equally busy finalisinghis brainchild – the introduction of a new but by now modifiedversion of community beneficial work. The law would give to theYugoslav Communist Party, and ultimately to him personally,almost unlimited power. The general would be able to bypass thejudiciary processes which consumed a lot of time and were, hebelieved, an unnecessary drain on the government purse. Giventhat the Yugoslav government had decided to go ahead with layingthe national highway from Zagreb to Belgrade at a time whenthe bulk of the labour force was engaged in rebuilding from thewar's aftermath, and other projects, it was very convenient for thegeneral to tie the introduction of a new law to a mammoth projectto secure its passage.To receive its final approval, after Tito had incorporated afew modifications, General Rankovic was in a hurry to finish his249

written submission by early afternoon so that he could personallydeliver it to Tito for vetting, before the president's departure forEthiopia – his favoured hunting ground after Brioni Island. Duringhis stay in Ethiopia, Tito would be the guest of his accomplice,Emperor Haile Selassie.The general deliberately moved to disguise his monstrouslaw in sheep's clothing so that members of the general assemblywould not suspect its harsh consequences. By means of the law,Rankovic could imprison thousands of Croatian nationalists who,in his opinion, were dangerous for the Yugoslav hegemony inwhich Serbs had the upper hand.The simplicity of the new law's operation was its main feature.A signed declaration by two members of the YCP would besufficient for police to instigate a house search, arrest and interrogation,and to pass a sentence, not necessarily in that order. Therewas no mention of the suspect's name being printed beforehand.This would leave it open for all those in a position of trust toabuse the new law. Once an accused person had confessed hiscrimes against the state, it would be up to the qualified judge –the chief of the UDBA, the Yugoslav secret service – to pass averdict, without the help of a jury or proper court procedure. If asentence was served, it did not necessarily mean that it could notbe repeated. As for any appeal, the accused had no chance – hisappeal would be heard by the same judge who had passed thesentence, and then the only person who could reverse the sentencewas Marshal Tito or, in his absence, General Rankovic.When Rankovic's presentation was ready, he took a look atthe map provided by his ministry showing accommodation arrangementson Naked Island. The island was situated on thenorthern part of the Adriatic a few nautical miles from the mainland.The conditions there were very different from those onBrioni. There were several buildings, mainly along the beach.One housed the administration of mines, the stores and canteen,and the police quarters. On the other side of the island was a concentrationcamp surrounded with two wire fences two metresapart and two metres high. Between the fences, prisoners laid apavement consisting of marble off-cuts or crushed stone. It waslevelled by hand. One would pick up a larger stone and use it as a250

hammer to level off smaller stones until it could be walked on.During the summer months, it was impossible to walk on it withbare feet. The high temperatures heated the marble surface, makingit unbearably hot.The entire camp was run by the highest-ranking officer, usuallya colonel, who was a prisoner too. There were five generals,but their small building was situated on one of the barren hillsvisible from the camp, which accommodated two thousand fivehundred senior officers of the Yugoslav Red Army. Another sixteenthousand soldiers and lower-ranking officers were accommodatedon St Grgur. Privic Island was uninhabited at that stage.The generals on the hill were intimidated and humiliated bywhat they had to do during their imprisonment. Outside theirsleeping quarters they had a big pile of crushed marble rocks.During their working day, which lasted twelve hours from six inthe morning, they would transfer the pile several metres furtherout in a circle around their building. Several positions weremarked on its perimeter, and police observing their progressthrough powerful binoculars would be able to check their dailyprogress without going uphill.They always kept five generals there; after the capture ofColonel Dapcevic, he was the only colonel among the fraternity.His friend, General Petricevic, had been captured at the sametime. General Jovanovic was shot, so he and Dapcevic hadenough time to evaluate where they had gone wrong. Other generals,Rade Zigic and his brother Veljko Zigic, kept themselveswith Branko Polajner, who had been the military attaché at theYugoslav embassy in Moscow. It was a rather colourful group ofpeople, but without the presence of Andrija Hebrang. Mainly becauseRussian correspondence of a confidential nature had alwaysbeen addressed to Tito and Hebrang, he was the man manyCommunists in Yugoslavia had thought would be Tito's successor.Among the prisoners, the authorities appointed a number ofpolitical commissars. Their duties were to read Communist ideologyfor themselves and, later on, to others. In return for their conversionto the right path, they received special privileges andshorter working hours so they would have enough time to study251

and prepare themselves for rehabilitation and salvation. It wasrather a long shot, but for some it paid off with the ultimate freedomwhich was the earnest goal of every prisoner. To make surethere would be no faked confessions, the authorities arranged,once a month, a visit from the mainland by the political commissar,who questioned the genuineness of those who claimed theirrightful conversion to true Communism. The whole procedurewas carried out in an open theatre, with the audience seated onrocks beneath a pedestal occupied by the main actor. His confessionwould be interrupted by numerous questions. He did nothave time to think, but had to answer rapidly. Any stalling wouldbe taken as a sign that he was trying to fool those whose decisionhe depended on.Prisoners were not allowed to write to, or communicate inany way with, relatives, nor did they receive any visitors duringthe entire sentence they served on the island. If a policeman wasbribed by relatives on the mainland, he would join the other prisonersas soon he was discovered.The conditions were no different from Lepoglava and Mariborprisons, except that those who tried to escape from the islandbecome an instant meal for cruising sharks in summer, or, inwinter, they died of cold and exhaustion long before they reachedme mainland.Mosa Pijade was sitting opposite Tito in his drawing roomsipping slivovitz while Tito was giving instructions for his forthcomingtrip to Ethiopia. Mosa's every move was followed by themilitary-trained eyes of Tito's dog, Tiger, who liked Mosa's smallframe but would never come close to him unless ordered to byTito. Tito had explained to Mosa why he objected to other peoplepatting his dog, and Mosa never attempted to do so again.'My plan is quite simple, comrade Tito: to convince ourfriends of cur sincerity we ought to do something for them first.We'll offer them, let's say two hundred to a thousand places at ouruniversities. Deliberately avoiding mention of the possible cost,Mosa paused long enough for Tito to react and then continued.'Once they finish their studies, they'll be placed in positionswithin their governments, and then, providing of course we've in-252

doctrinated them while they’re here, we'll be able to use them forour own needs.'Slightly impatient to make his departure, Tito interrupted.'Where are we going to get the money? Who's going to pay for allthis? You don't expect me to sell all my Lipizzaners or the wholeof Brioni Island, do you?'Mosa smiled sympathetically. Though Tito's stud was in itsinfancy, it had already provided considerable cash, which hadbeen deposited in Swiss banks not only for rainy days but also foryet another enterprise dear to Tito's heart: a clinic which wouldresearch into ways to prolong human life. Tito had been neglectedin his early childhood, spent many years behind bars and led hispartisans through misery, hunger, cold and heat to final victory inthe war. Now he wanted to live and enjoy the privileges whichyears ago had been reserved for the bourgeois class. Who couldblame him? It was quite natural, providing one could afford it.Tito was sure that, once his clinic was operational, there would bea long list of clients who would pay exorbitant prices to betreated, and thus create a healthy balance sheet for his long-terminvestment.Tito's private thoughts gave Mosa enough time to prepare adetailed answer. 'Well, we can always ask the Americans, theBritish or even the calculating Germans to pay for it. It'd be peanutsfor them! The only thing we need to say is that we'll try towin over their enemies, who resent their strings-attached dollars.We can even stress that our scheme would be much more expensiveif they had to provide such a service.'Seeing the positive side in Pijade's argument, Tito agreed.'Very clever indeed, but will they bite?''Let's try it. It won't cost us much to try.''You're right. I'll summon the US ambassador before my departuretomorrow and we'll see how he reacts.''You can tell him you've already invited the Ethiopians, anticipatingtheir support.''That'll be arm-twisting, but I'll try.'Satisfied with Tito's acceptance, Pijade continued, 'That's notall, comrade. I've anticipated using those coloured bastards forour projects while they're here, thus saving a bundle of hard cur-253

ency for other projects. This move will definitely raise ouryouth's pride, and we'll be able to keep out of trouble. What doyou think?'Tito, unaware of what Pijade was planning, asked, 'What areyou talking about, comrade Mosa?''Those recent student demonstrations,' comrade Tito. 'Do yourealise how much we'll have to pay for the damage they did toconsulates in Zagreb?'Tito smiled enigmatically, realising that Mosa didn't knowabout Rankovic's plot. 'I thought you'd have recognised one ofRankovic's manoeuvres to influence Western powers to let us totake charge of Trieste. While you were in Germany,' continuedTito, 'arranging war reparations to be paid to us, comrade Rankovicinstigated a clever but costly plan. We were able to impresson the USA and Great Britain how our people feel about ourpiece of land – Trieste. But that's not all. There were numerousstudents who refused to participate. The police assumed they'daligned themselves with the USA and Great Britain. Their refusalto stone foreign consulates enabled the education authorities tothrow the bums out of the universities, blaming them for the damage.Let's face it, the staff of those consulates can't go out andlook for the troublemakers themselves, and so we killed two birdswith one stone. Clever, wasn't it?'Mosa could hardly hide his surprise, nodding in approval, butin a sarcastic tone he said, 'It was a really excellent idea of comradeRankovic's. It proves once again that the YCP can operatewithout those who believe they're indispensable. 'Although Pijade took himself as an example, Tito sensed thatMosa's remark was actually pointed at him, mainly for failing toprevent UDBA's interference. Mosa had demonstrated on manyoccasions that he loathed Rankovic and the secret service, but, forvarious reasons, Tito could not afford to rose either of them.Sensing a possible clash between his trusted henchman and theparty's mastermind, who shared his terrible secret, it occurred toTito that now was the best time to calm Mosa's concerns.In the meantime, Rankovic had arrived to present the finaldraft of his law for Tito's signature.254

Before Tito could warn him or ask any questions, Mosa interruptedhis thoughts. 'That idea of yours is excellent, comradeRankovic.' He did not repeat his remarks about indispensability.He had always regarded himself as superior to Rankovic in everyrespect.'I don't know what you're talking about, comrade Pijade.''Comrade Pijade is referring to a little incident over Trieste,'said Tito. 'Ah, that. It's almost forgotten.'To head off any possibility of confrontation, Tito asked,'Let's hear what our most-feared Serb has to offer,' hoping Pijadewould pass over the incident.Mosa, however, had become embittered, sure in his suspicionthat Tito sometimes ignored his advice. Being much older thanRankovic and even Tito, Mosa expected more respect, mainly becausehe thought Tito should show him lifetime respect andgratitude. It was Pijade's efforts which had launched Tito as generalsecretary of the YCP in 1940, and it was Pijade again whohad warned him about Doctor Tauber, only to learn later on thatTito had ordered his death without even consulting him. That incidentalone had been a crossroads in their relationship, but Mosaburied it for party reasons.Rankovic, who patiently waited for his turn to speak, couldnot stand Tito's jokes about his popularity but he was aware that,if he managed to ignore them, Tito would eventually give up hisattempts to upset him. He then explained how his revised new lawwould work, while Pijade concentrated his mind on every detail,trying to find a loophole. When Rankovic proposed that harshermethods be employed in the Yugoslav prison system, Pijade objected.'It seems to me that you're trying to turn the clock back, comradeRankovic.' Pijade's eyes tried to penetrate Tito, remindinghim about their prison days in Lepoglava and Maribor, but Titoremained unmoved.Rankovic, sensing defeat of his plans, especially if Pijadedetected his increased power, said, 'By approving this law we'll beable to make a lot of money which could be diverted in other directions.Once we pass sentence on an offender, we can advise hisrelatives to participate in various projects after working hours -255

without pay, of course. In each case we can determine how manyhours should be contributed to the rebuilding of our country beforewe consider any shortening of the original sentence.'Not quite sure how this would operate, Tito asked, 'But howcan you be sure they'd adhere to such an arrangement?''Very easily. Each individual will be issued with a card whichwill be presented at the project. The project manager will keep itand record the time until each individual has collected enoughhours.'Realising the law's enormous advantages, Tito took a copy ofthe submission. He read it quickly and, before Pijade could givehis personal view, signed it. It instantly became law.Rankovic was now able to imprison numerous intellectualsand people who were not necessarily enemies of the state butmerely critics of the way the country was managed. The continuousfailure of five-year plans and the compulsory membership ofcooperatives would have gradually brought about a serious declinein the standard of living, long before Tito's departure. Projectspopped up as soon as hundreds of people had been imprisoned.People's loved ones went to locations where their free labourcontributed to the building of new schools or hospitals. Itwas a bitter pill for them to swallow when they found out thattheir long hours of labour were contributed for nothing. The enthusiasmshown at the beginning of the projects faded away. Asresult, bad workmanship and laziness took its place.Despite all this, the regime succeeded in finalising thousandsof projects that left foreign visitors wondering about their owncountries, which were run on free enterprise. Some of the visitors,steered by professional guides, asked questions to assure themselvesthat what they saw was real. What they did not realise wasthat no one would dare to speak the truth. It would have been tooexpensive – a prolonged holiday in the shade with many nastyside-effects.MOSCOW 1950Stalin became fed up with Tito's grand tours of Europe, Africa,the Middle East and Asia. Tito's latest denunciation of the256

USSR on 28th July 1951 at Knezice, Bosnia, was the last straw;His speech, full of ill-feeling and acid remarks, was more thanStalin could possibly take from his former protégé. While he wasmaking plans of his own, he remembered the infamous bargainworked out between Molotov and Tito. It had been deliberatelyand ambiguously worded. Stalin was convinced that Tito wastaking advantage of him, and he did not like the smell of it.Remembering something very useful, Stalin struck the buttonon his intercom. 'Olga, get me tovarisch Beria on the phone!''Immediately, tovarisch Stalin"A few minutes later Stalin's intercom purred and Olga reported,'I have tovarisch Beria on the line, tovarisch Stalin.''Put him through!'The polite voice of the MGB chief came on the line. 'Goodafternoon, Joseph. What's new?''Nothing special,' pretended Stalin, and continued, 'I've beenthinking lately about Tito's behaviour. As you can tell from thetranscript of his latest speech, that clown from the Balkans istaking advantage of us and endangering Communist unity. I thinkthe time has come to do something about it.'Beria, who knew his master, sensed that something sinisterwas on Stalin's mind. He cleared his throat in a politely interruption.'What would you like me to do?''I'm not sure.' Stalin deliberately paused. waiting for Beria'sresponse, but in vain.Beria was not prepared at this stage to commit himself or tovolunteer any suggestion unless he knew a little more about Stalin'splans.So Stalin continued. 'Before I decide what we're going to doabout this pig, I'd like to see the dossiers of those Croatians. Youknow, the ones stationed at Gorky.'It did not escape Beria that Stalin emphasised 'we', indicatingBeria's involvement. 'Yes, I know the ones you mean.''All right. By the way, Lavrenti, who's responsible for theBalkan states desk now?''Colonel Orlov, Joseph. I thought I told you when I reorganisedthe ministry.'257

Stalin, who originated every reorganisation, liked ColonelOrlov very much. He had become one of the best officers in theintelligence area and was liked by his superior officers too.While he paused to think what instructions he would give Beria,another matter crossed Stalin's mind. 'When you get hold ofthe dossiers, send them to me by Colonel Orlov. The plans I havein mind need his assistance as well. I think you understand.'Stalin's patronising tone did not help Beria's hurt feelings, notso much because of Orlov's involvement, but more especiallyStalin's intention to keep him in dark. But why? thought Beria.Didn't Stalin use the plural when he mentioned the Croatians?After all, they had both been involved previously in so many plotsthat he had lost count. Why was this one so special? 'As you wish,Joseph. Dosvidanya.''Dosvidanya, Lavrenti.'While Stalin was waiting for the dossiers, he grabbed a homeof vodka, clenched the cork between his tobacco-stained teeth andpulled it out. Several long gulps helped his thinking. He thoughtof everything, and his plan took shape.Fifteen minutes later, the door buzzer sounded. Stalin loudlygreeted his expected visitor, Colonel Sergei Orlov, the chief ofthe Balkan states desk at the MGB, formerly the NKVD. Stalin'sexperienced eyes could see, dressed in a tailor-made civilian suit,a proud officer whose upright walk across the office demonstrateda discipline and balance which distinguished him from sloppy civilians.'Good afternoon, tovarisch Stalin. Here are the dossiers yourequested.' Stalin, who had waited impatiently for Orlov's arrival,grabbed the offered dossiers and flicked them open. 'Pour yourselfa drink and sit down. I'm going to refresh my memory.' Hepointed to the dossiers. 'It's been almost ten years since I metthese comrades.'Orlov walked to the sideboard and, instead of choosingvodka, his eyes studied the rows of imported drinks. The momenthe spotted a bottle of Johnny Walker, he got himself a large tumbler,put in a few cubes of ice and poured a whisky, just enoughto cover the ice. This did not escape Stalin's eagle eyes, and hewondered where Orlov had learned such a civilised way of258

drinking. Most Russians drank straight out of the bottle; when inthe company of distinguished guests or foreigners, they used aglass but always filled it to the brim. While Orlov enjoyed his favouritedrink and read Pravdas sports section, Stalin read the firstdossier about comrade Smiljan Pecjak.According to the dossier, he had been born in 1923, in Klanjecvillage, the same as Tito. The son of a wealthy farmer, he waseducated at primary school in Klanjec and at high school inZagreb. During his student days, he was a Communist sympathiserbut, once he met Tito, he became a devoted member of theCommunist Party. At the beginning of the war, he was Tito's personalcourier and soon became a research officer in the partisan'spropaganda branch. His day-to-day contact with Tito developedinto a close relationship. After German forces had occupiedYugoslavia, and Croatia became an independent state, Tito organisedthe resistance movement. His position was delicate, as hehad to fight against atrocities committed not only by the Germans,the Italians, the Hungarians and the Chetniks, but also the Ustashe.It was obvious that Tito expected military support from Russia,so he sent young Communists to Russia to achieve it. Oncethey had reached Russia, they travelled and worked in liaisonwith the Red Army. Stalin could clearly recall their reception atunio Hall, when he had been impressed with young Pecjak. Unfortunately,as Russia had been preparing for war, Stalin sentthem away from the Kremlin – to Gorky. There, Smiljan Pecjakattended a spy training course at Marx-Engels Technical Collegeand later at Lenin's Technical College in Verkovnoye. The specialespionage training camp at Soyuznaya, a small town betweenTula and Ryazan, was Pecjak's home until the end of the war.While he was studying espionage, Pecjak also attended coursesdealing with political science and consular duties. By now he hadtwo degrees and was finalising his master's degree in economics.Stalin recalled how he had met young Pecjak, years later, at ameeting with Molotov, then the commissar for external affairs,who suggested Pecjak's training. He too was astonished atPecjak's intelligence and grasp of a wide range of human activities.259

At the end of the report about Pecjak was a footnote, a recommendationfrom Pecjak's principal at the technical college inGorky, saying, 'Recommended for diplomatic duties with emphasison intelligence matters.'The other dossier dealt with Franjo Rukavina, who was someyears older than Pecjak. He had been born in Mostar, Hercegovina,where people were known to be honest, loyal but mercilessfighters. A son of a poor coppersmith, he was lucky to have hadprimary school education. During the establishment of prewarYugoslavia, and the independent state of Croatia, Rukavina instigatedseveral very successful assassinations. At the beginning ofthe war, and the German occupation of Yugoslav territory, he wasentrusted with backstage operations on behalf of the YCP. Hisspeciality – the supplying of stolen arms and ammunition, as wellas the means of transport such as motorbikes, cars and even Germantanks – gained him the reputation of being a rugged individualwho would use every possible means to fulfil an order. Hewas recognised as a most fearless partisan and, because of his extraordinaryabilities to survive whatever conditions prevailed,Smiljan had requested Rukavina to accompany him to Moscow.On his arrival in Moscow, he was immediately assigned tothe NKVD's mokrie del, wet affairs or administration of illegaltasks. In that capacity, he was used behind German lines duringthe war on the Russian front. His activities become known to theAbwehr, whose chief, General Reinhard Gehlen, offered a handsomereward for Rukavina's capture. Somehow Rukavina hadbeen always one step ahead. Was it luck or was it prowess? Stalinasked himself. By the end of the war, Rukavina had been promotedto the rank of major and commissioned into the Red Army.As a result of bravery, he was awarded the Red Banner Ribbonwith Golden Star, the highest decoration ever given to a non-Russian officer. Because of the decoration and his reputation,Stalin selected him for a special role in his plan.'I've finished with the dossiers. You can have them back. BeforeI tell you what I want, I'd like to beat your opinion. What isTito really up to?'Confronted with such a difficult question, Colonel Orlovpondered for a few minutes, not knowing the consequences of his260

answer. 'Speaking for myself, it's rather difficult to assess. Tito'scourting of Nehru, Nasser and Emperor Haile Selassie and hisplans for a Third Bloc could be beneficial to us, regardless of hismotives, so long as he sticks to our agreement. We're aware of hishopes of manipulating those poor countries, and I wouldn't evenbe surprised if he staged a few coups' in countries like Ethiopia.Approaches through our channels in Yugoslavia have confirmedmy belief that he's not playing straight. His excuses and assurancesthat he's only acting against us to impress the USA andGreat Britain so as to get better financial deals has led me to believewe might have made a poor choice in using him. Let's faceit, if he succeeds in controlling that bunch of countries through financialor political channels, it'll be very expensive for us.'There was no question of Orlov's sincerity. Stalin admittedhis reasoning had merit, but it was too late. What made Stalinmad was Tito's treachery. 'Do you believe we can pressure him tostay in line?''Up to a point,' said Orlov, not realising the effect his wordswere having on Stalin's thinking.Amazing, thought Stalin, how Beria had painted Tito's escapadesin a different light. Maybe he wanted Stalin to fail to provehis inability to control Tito. Such a failure could be easily usedagainst the ailing Stalin, and Stalin suspected that Beria wanted tobecome supreme leader of the USSR. Stalin was not impressedwith Beria's remarks about Tito's reassurances. That was why hehad invited Orlov.'I don't think for a minute Tito is adhering to the agreed policy,'said Stalin.Orlov had learned long ago not to reveal his opinions unlessabsolutely sure of Stalin's intentions. 'What do you want me to do,marshal?''I think the time has come to put our trainees to the test. Theyhave been trained at our expense, so let them pay for it.'Orlov's flabbergasted expression failed to attract Stalin's attention.He appeared to be mentally absent. Glancing at Stalin'sface, Orlov thought. Possibly he's contemplating yet anothergrandiose plot. What struck Orlov was Stalin's readiness to go261

into details which he believed should be left to the MGB. 'I don'tknow what you have in mind.''While I was waiting for you, I worked out a plan. It's my intentionto liquidate our friend in Yugoslavia.'It was not the first time Orlov had heard such words, but hewas still stunned now that Stalin had spelled out his intentions.He now understood the importance, and the consequences, of deliveringthe two files. 'How would you like us to arrange it? Asyou know, we have at our disposal numerous Armenians, ByeloRussians and other minorities, who can knock him off while he'stravelling around the world.'Sta1in rose from his seat, stuffed his pipe and, while lightingit, muttered through clenched teeth, 'No, colonel.' Taking his pipeout of his mouth, Stalin paced a few steps, giving the impressionof trying to find an answer. 'What I want is a completely differentliquidation. It must be carried out in his own backyard. By doingit my way, it'll be impossible to prove our involvement.''What do you propose?'Stalin outlined his idea. 'First of all we can send SmiljanPecjak back to Yugoslavia. As soon he settles into his new role,we'll get in touch with him. Through him we'll be able to establishdetails of Tito's movements. Once we've checked Pecjak's accuracy,then we can dispatch his friend, tovarisch Franjo Rukavina,who'll finish the job. To make sure that our plan succeeds, we'lluse the services of another man selected by our resident officer inBelgrade. One of the selected candidates will aim at the same targetas Rukavina, just in case Rukavina should change his mind atthe last moment. Regardless of who shoots first, the bird will bedead.'Orlov pondered over Stalin's scheme, which appeared to be astraightforward assassination. 'The trouble with your plan is, howare we going to get them out?''I don't care about that. So far as I'm concerned, other candidatesshould knock off Rukavina. That would prevent any possiblediscovery of our involvement. Anyway, that'll be your responsibility.''But what about tovarisch Pecjak? Are you going to sacrificehim, too?'262

'No. We'll warn him in time and secure his escape to Hungaryor Rumania. The main thing is for us to get rid of Tito. He'susing our sympathisers, who become slave-labourers in Yugoslav'sovercrowded island, while our real enemies go free. That's avery dangerous situation. The Balkan Peninsula is very importantto us. Their warm-water ports could be used almost all year roundfor repairs to our naval ships. Do you remember Churchill's remark?"The Balkans are the cockpit of Europe." If he was right,then we're going to be the ones sitting in it.'Orlov realised that once Stalin had set his mind on a liquidationany counterargument would be senseless and dangerous. Orlovwondered how the new chief of BND, his old friend, GeneralGehlen, would react when he received the news. 'When do youwant me to start with the preparations, tovarisch Stalin?''Immediately. Send tovarisch Pecjak so that I can have aword with him first. Once I finish with him, he's yours.'Not certain that Stalin's proposal would work so easily, Orlovaired his doubts, but gently. 'We have to be very convincing, becauseon his return these Yugoslav bastards may shoot Pecjak asan enemy of the state. You can imagine that his absence since1945 won't be so easy to justify...'Stalin interrupted abruptly. 'I've thought about that, too. Thebest way to achieve his recognition is to arrange for him to escape.I'm sure your mokrie del will come up with the appropriatesolution. If he can prove we locked him away and starved himalmost to death, or that he was imprisoned in one of our gulagsnear Lithuania, he might tell them he was planning to escape, but,being in a foreign country, it wasn't easy. We can even inflictseveral scars on his body and subject him to a strict diet. Oncethey see him in such a state, they should believe his story.'Impressed with his leader's thinking, Orlov accepted that theplot could work. 'But what about comrade Rukavina? Surely wecouldn't have two coincidences. Who would believe that?''You 're right. Rukavina is another matter. Giving him a newidentity there shouldn't be any problem. To avoid detection, wecan always send a gun by a diplomatic bag belonging to one ofthe Eastern Block countries. Make sure the gun's foreign-made.What kind he uses is up to you and him. What I want you to263

choose carefully are the bullets, ones which explode after penetratinga target. We can't afford some miraculous operation savingTito's life.'During the entire conversation, Orlov was thinking of LavrentiBeria, his superior officer. Why was he not present? Surelyhe would have to tell him something of this conversation. Orlovknew it was going to be difficult, since he could not initiate actionsbeyond Russia's borders without Beria knowing about it. 'I'llsend for both of them, but separately. Once you acknowledgeyour success with Smiljan, our mokrie del can proceed with Rukavina.'Finally satisfied with the outline of his plan, Stalin took anothergulp of vodka. 'By the way, there's another thing I'd like tomention. When you send for Rukavina, send him to the Crimeafirst, possibly with two attractive girls from different parts ofRussia. According to his file, he has a great appetite for girls. Assoon as I finish with Smiljan, you can recall Rukavina and beginthe indoctrination. By giving him a nice holiday we'll boost hisBalkan ego and sense of importance.'During Stalin's deliberations, Orlov thought, It would begreat if we had a man like Stalin as the chief of MGB. He thinksof everything. 'What about comrade Beria, tovarisch Stalin?''Well, tell him as little as possible, and don't mention toPecjak his real role in my plan – or our target.''I understand,' said Orlov.A few days later, Smiljan Pecjak, Tito's former courier, arrivedat the Kremlin. Sensing the importance of Stalin's invitation,which had been overdue in his opinion, Pecjak waited in thevisitor's hall with anxiety showing on his face. Stalin deliberatelylet him wait in the almost deserted hall, mainly to induce a psychologicaleffect.When he was shown into Stalin's office half an hour later,Stalin greeted him with the customary bear hug and three kisseson the cheek. 'Welcome to the Kremlin, tovarisch Pecjak. Howdid you like being in Gorky all those years?'264

'Thank you, tovarisch Stalin. When I was in Gorky I alwaysenjoyed the hospitality of the Russian people, and I hope I'vemade a few friends.'Stalin had decided long ago not to inform Pecjak and Rukavinaabout the situation in side Yugoslavia, neither during norafter the war. The news from Yugoslavia which reached Gorkywas heavily censored, and some Russian publications were barredfrom the camp.'I'm sure you were surprised when you learned about yourtrip to Moscow, were you not?' inquired Stalin.'Yes, of course. As you probably know, I expected to beasked for something in return for your hospitality, not to mentionall those education and up keep expenses.''You're probably right,' pretended Stalin, giving the impressionof a casual reply.Pecjak was not a fool. He had learned long ago that nothingwas received free, not from the Russian oligarchy anyway.'It wasn't our intention to claim anything in return but, sinceyou mention your willingness, there is something you can do forus. Naturally, we could use the services of other people, but thatwouldn't be fair to you.' Stalin began with his plans right from thebeginning. He told Pecjak how Russians had supplied the partisanswith military support, and how Tito had accepted Britishmilitary delegations which meddled in the internal affairs ofYugoslavia. He went even further by saying how other membersof the YCP had objected to the rewriting of Yugoslav historybooks showing England as her main supporter. It was a lie andStalin knew it, but he had anticipated Pecjak's unawareness,which would be hard to reverse once in Yugoslavia. By then hewould be at the mercy of the MGB, and Pecjak would know whatthat meant – certain death.Stalin led him to believe that millions of Communists aroundthe world thought it was Tito who had instigated the breakawayfrom Russia, undermining the cause of the proletariat. He evenstressed the dangerous consequences for unity among the Communistcountries, and the fact that the Western countries woulddefinitely exploit that weakness. While Stalin was talking toPecjak' he used every scrap of a lie to convince the confused man265

of Tito's treachery. He even outlined how Russia, despite its ownhardships, had helped Yugoslavia to rebuild itself from the postwarruins and how Russia forced Germany to pay hefty reparationsfor damages incurred during their occupation.All those things had been kept from Pecjak, so that he wouldbe able to continue with his studies in peace and without interruptions.Only Pecjak's devotion and the positive reports from theeducation authorities helped Stalin to continue his support regardlessof Tito's double-crossing intentions.It was then that Pecjak remembered that when, on several occasions,he had raised the question of contact, he was told howduring the war partisans were shifting from one area to anotherand even radio contact was becoming difficult. Not realising thecommunications were doctored, he received a few letters fromTito urging him to work on the Russians so that they would increasetheir contributions to Tito's war efforts. How could he havesuspected that the disinformation branch of the NKVD had fakedTito's letters, which were mostly in signal form? In fact, Pecjakwas under the impression that he had been in contact with hisleader until 1948, when his real contact with Tito ceased to exist.There was no mention of Molotov's trip to Brioni Island nor ofTito's acceptance of Stalin's plan to bankrupt the world. As asafety precaution, Molotov and Tito had arranged for both partiesto exchange faked correspondence between their respective embassiesas a trick to hoodwink their own staffs, and Western intelligenceorganisations, in case they fiddled with their diplomaticbags. Now, copies of their reports were lying in front of Pecjak onStalin's desk. Besides this stack of evidence, there were Yugoslavnewspapers such as Borba with thick headlines, TITO TAKESHIS OWN PATH.Pecjak was stunned, not only by Stalin's tirade, which lastedalmost three hours, but with all the indisputable evidence: evenDer Spiegel carried similar headlines. Pecjak had been asked toturn to a particular page of the volume which contained Tito'ssing against Russia. The heaviest blow was when Pecjak learnedabout his comrades, who were tortured to death just because theysupported the true Communist cause. When he learned aboutGeneral Jovanovic, Feka Dapcevic and Andrija Hebrang, Tito's266

ight-hand man during the war, Pecjak could not stop his emotionaloutburst. 'Bloody butcher from Klanjec. How could he betrayour comrades? Unbelievable.'By the time Stalin had finished his peroration, Pecjak was anoutraged man a man seeking revenge. His mind was racing, tryingto find what would be the best way to punish the beast fromZagorje province. 'What would you like me to do, tovarisch Stalin?''We would like you to go to Yugoslavia and help us to punishthat Balkan bastard.''I would do anything to help you do just that. Tell me exactlywhat I have to do,' breathed Pecjak, struggling to control himself:Though inwardly delighted at Pecjak's reaction, the shrewdand callous Stalin was not prepared to reveal his whole plan justyet, at least not his plan to liquidate Tito and end his political influencein southern Europe forever. 'There is a problem, Smiljan.Although we're eager to punish Tito for his irrational behaviour,we must think carefully. Being close to Tito, you'll be able to reportto us his intimate thoughts, which are very important to usbefore we make up our minds what would be the best way topunish him.'To impress on Pecjak his sincerity, Stalin continued, 'Youmust realise we have to reach a right and just decision.'Pecjak could not see that Stalin was bluffing. His absorbedface made Stalin realise that his oratory had impressed Pecjakmore deeply than he had thought it would.'You seem to have a question,' said Stalin.'I was wondering how I'm going to convince Tito about myloyalty when I've had no communication with him since 1948. I'mnot sure I'll be able to live up to your expectations.'Overwhelmed by Pecjak's sincerity, Stalin's face changed to aserious paternal expression, as if trying to solve a difficult problem,although he had been ready with his answer ever since hebegan contemplating Tito's assassination. 'I've thought about that.You're right. Somehow we must convince Tito of your sincerity.'Striding to his desk, Stalin stabbed a button on his intercom andordered, 'Ask Colonel Orlov to come in.''Yes, tovarisch Stalin!'267

Both men stood silently in the room, musing. Their thoughtswere interrupted by Orlov's arrival. Stalin outlined Pecjak's problem,and Orlov began with his well prepared explanation. Accordingto his plan, Pecjak's background since 1948 would be edited.'We'll also edit your body. To overcome the initial pain, we'llperform it under anaesthetic. Because of its chemical nature, youshould be able to 1ose weight but hold onto your present strength.Your physique will return to normal gradually, as soon as youreturn to a normal intake of food.'Then Orlov elaborated on every detail so that Pecjak wouldbe convinced of the feasibility of the Russian plan. He assuredPecjak that it would be painless, but visible scars on his bodywould be inflicted – mainly on his back so they would not affecthis lifestyle later on.Orlov even gave assurances that, if Pecjak decided to live inRussia on completion of the assignment, the Russians were readyto arrange that too. According to Orlov, the Russians would makesure Pecjak lacked nothing for the rest of his life. Pecjak was alsotold that his alibi would be compiled into several pages, andPecjak would have to learn it by heart. There would be names ofvarious gulags, and prisoners no longer alive, but their nameswould be useful in case someone should try to check up on thedetails.Pecjak's route was laid out on the map before him, showingthe topographical features on the way to freedom. He would carrya hidden transmitter he must dispose of when he reached theAustrian border so that the Russian secret service could keep theroute clear from possible interruptions on his long journey toYugoslavia.The medical team would supply him with necessary vitaminswhich he would be able to pick up en route to stay fit. He wouldbe transported to one of the labour camps, where he was to bebeaten so that other prisoners who were to join him would believehe had attempted to escape.Once in Yugoslavia, he would be on his own, but not entirelywithout support. Pecjak was to receive backing from a fifth columnwhich Russia still had operating inside Yugoslavia. How he268

arranged his contact with Tito was to be left to Pecjak. However,Orlov stressed the importance of executing the scheme within twoto three months. The resident officer of the Russian embassy inBelgrade was to contact him for information and arrange otherdetails. He would then be told what to do.'And now I'd like to hear your opinion, comrade Pecjak,' Stalininterrupted impatiently.'I have to admit the plan appears sound, and I'm prepared togive it try. I can't guarantee its outcome, but I assure you I'll domy best to prove myself worthy of your trust, and thus in a smallway repay my debt to you and your wonderful country.'With joy on his face, Stalin shook hands with Pecjak, andsaid, 'Let me congratulate you. Your decision to serve the proletariatand its cause will remedy all the damage which Tito has inflictedon us since 1948. Your name will go down in history,proudly bestowed with one of the highest Russian decorations reservedfor only a few. I don't think I'll see you before your departure,but let me wish you dobroye chachtye i dosvidanya, goodluck and see you again.'With their customary bear-hug greeting, Orlov and Pecjakleft Stalin's office. Rubbing his hands, Stalin acted like a victorwho had just eliminated his archenemy. The remaining vodka wasdisposed of in a familiar fashion, and the empty bottle discardedinto the wastepaper bio. Stalin was so excited he forgot to leave iton the desk as a reminder to restock his side board. It occurred tohim later that Pecjak could change his mind once in Yugoslavia.It was a chance he must take. After all, would Tito really believea man with whom he had failed to communicate for so manyyears? How would Pecjak justify all the other details, especiallyones he could not prove? The more he thought about it, the morehe was convinced Pecjak had no alternative but to suck to theoriginal plan.Several weeks later, Stalin was informed by Colonel Orlovthat the first phase of their sinister plot had been successful, andhe was now in the process of commencing its second stage. Ifeverything went as planned, Tito would be a dead duck by the endof 1951. Stalin, who was pleased with the progress report lying onhis desk, remembered Nikolai Yezhov; who had bungled Marshal269

Tukhachevsky's trial. Thank goodness this time he had an efficientofficer, Colonel Sergei Orlov. He had even contemplatedrewarding Orlov on completion of the contract.At the same time, Orlov received yet another hussar figurineto add to his increasing number – Gehlen too was enormouslypleased!270

14ZAGREB 1951It was the coldest morning of the winter on 19th December1951 in the city of Zagreb. Its streets and roofs were covered withthick layers of snow, and the grey sky promised more of it. Suchcold weather had never before been experienced by comradeZlatko Tauber, assistant chief of the special branch of the UDBA.He was travelling in his new BMW on the way to his office. Thecar's heater was working in tandem with a fan which distributedheat evenly inside the cabin, but Tauber could feel the presence ofthe ice-cold side window close to his cheek.He was very excited this morning. Who wouldn't be? hethought. It was the first time since 1945 that he had been given anassignment outside Yugoslavia. His forthcoming meeting in Vienna,the home of his grandparents and his late father, DoctorOtto von Tauber, filled him with unusual vibes – vibes which hewas feeling for the first time since his father had suspended a goldchain with a medallion around his neck.Instinctively, he raised his right hand from the steering wheeland pressed the medallion against his chest, feeling the presenceof his father's gift. Being in such a good mood he still could notescape the memory of when, in 1946, he had been told about hisfather's mysterious death. Maybe this trip is part of Tito's obligationto me, thought Zlatko. How otherwise could he explain Tito'sinsistence on sending him instead of the more senior officer proposedby the minister of the interior, General Rankovic?One thing he had learned since receiving a cable from Belgradewas that Tito had been informed a few days ago by GeneralReinhard Gehlen, the chief of BND, the West German secretservice, that Joseph Stalin had put out a contract on Tito's life. Onreceiving this information, Tito requested that a Yugoslav representativebe allowed to interrogate the would-be assassin. GeneralGehlen had agreed. It was a sensitive assignment, and Zlatko, despitehis age, had demonstrated his capacity to carry it out. His271

linguistic ability and Interpol connections were probably Tito'schief reasons for selecting him.However, Mosa Pijade saw Tito's move in a different light.Being a Jew, as was Zlatko, he sensed that Tito desired to intimidateGehlen by sending him an archenemy of the Third Reich – aJew. The UDBA's files on Gehlen showed in detail that he hadnot only escaped the gallows of Nuremberg but had regained hisposition as chief of intelligence in his now democratically governedcountry. The information had been provided by his EastGerman counterparts, who had made several desperate moves tohave him removed from his present position.Gehlen, a man of extraordinary intelligence, grasp and insightinto the intelligence sphere, backed by strong political convictions,represented a hard nut to crack. His case was unique inthe history of the cloak and dagger profession. It was commonlyacknowledged that a person devotedly serving one master couldnever make fully suitable material for a new master, but he hadproved otherwise. As he had been the chief of Nazi intelligenceon the Russian front during the war, it was obvious the Russianswould seek their revenge, but he had outwitted them.Zlatko sensed that Gehlen must have had something extraordinaryto convince his new masters of his loyalty, but unfortunatelythat was not in the file. He knew that when he met a certainDoctor Weber at the International Hotel near Vienna airport hemight then learn more about this Gehlen.The meeting was scheduled for two-thirty that afternoon.Tauber decided to travel to Ljubljana in his new car, so that onthe way back he could visit a few friends at Maribor before hereturned to Zagreb. From the Slovenian capital, Ljubljana, Zlatkoand his companion, Onisil Bijedic, would travel by the Caravelleexecutive jet provided by JAT, Yugoslav Air Transport. At hisrequest, the technical staff of UDBA had installed a two-way radioin his car so he could be in touch with headquarters or thehighway patrol. The frequency to relay his transmissions throughto Tito's palace at Dedinje and to Novi Sad, Zagreb and Ljubljanawas the only addition to his set.Whilst driving, Tauber thought about his companion, whohad recently returned from North Korea, where he had obtained a272

lack belt in the martial arts: Onisil was the only person in Yugoslaviacapable of disarming a heavily-armed soldier barehanded.Although he could kill with a single stroke of his hand, Onisilspecialised in t'ai chi ch'uan, the Chinese art of mediation in motion.Zlatko, eager to keep Onisil working in his office, realisedthat sooner or later he would have to part with his dear friend. Itwas nothing sinister, just a natural process in which a skilled personlike Onisil would be offered a lucrative opportunity more interestingthan his present position of chief coach for Yugoslavagents. It had taken Tauber a few days to convince his superiorofficer, Colonel Cvetkovic, to let Onisil accompany him to Vienna.As Zlatko reached the UDBA offices situated at the YugoslavArmy Boulevard, he slowed down and turned into the drivewayleading to massive gates which were manned around theclock by two heavily armed guards and an array of electronic devices.Though the guards were concealed from public view, theywere fully aware of what went on outside the building. As hecame closer to the gates, they slowly began to open to allow himto pass through the archway of the vestibule leading into a smallcar park.In the corridor of the UDBA headquarters, Zlatko met hisfriend.'Good morming, comrade Tauber. Are you ready to leave, orshould I check the piano?' Onisil's cheeky expression indicatedthat he really meant what he said – to check the BMW for possiblebugs.'Good morning, Onisil. That'd be a good idea. I'll be ready ina few minutes…'After giving instructions to his staff and leaving a messagefor his chief, Zlatko picked up his gun and eased it into the leatherholster attached to his belt. By the time he reached his car, Onisilhad finished checking the vehicle.'Everything all right?'Onisil nodded.By the time they reached Savska Cesta, the traffic had becomethicker. 'Funny,' said Zlatko, looking in the rear-vision mir-273

or. 'We have company. Don't turn your head. I'II slow down sowe can see their licence plates…'Shit! Every time I think of having a good time, somebodytries to check on me. What sort of stinking life is that?''Don't worry, we'll fix them..The other car slowed down, too. Zlatko decided to speed upand disappear into one of the adjacent streets. His manoeuvreworked well. As soon as their pursuers had passed, Zlatko turnedback on the main road and drove just behind the other car, closeenough to take their number. He could not see inside, however.They had curtains drawn together on the windows and, whilepassing the mysterious car, Zlatko noticed that the driver was theonly visible occupant. There was no doubt that the registrationplates belonged to the city of Belgrade.'What we are going to do, Zlatko?''At the moment, nothing. But as soon as we reach the turn-offto the main highway, we'll pull over for a few minutes and changeposition. You can drive.'Onisil got the message. It was not the first time Zlatko had lethim drive his car – he remembered the old bomb, the Zastava, theYugoslav Fiat – but Onisil was keener to drive now that Zlatkohad a real car. 'Let's give them a run for their money,' he said,getting excited.'I'm afraid that wouldn't work, my friend. Don't forget theirMercedes is just as fast as the BMW. No, we must try somethingelse.''But what can we do?' Onisil's desperation showed in hisvoice.Zlatko thought for a few seconds. 'Once we reach the highway,I'll alert the highway patrol. I'll tell them to intercept the carand keep them occupied for, say, ten to fifteen minutes. That'llgive us time to outrun them.''Boy, you're not just a pretty face, are you?' said Onisil,laughing out loud. 'You're really a shrewd one – never too old tobe smart, eh? Unbelievable!'Zlatko, encouraged by Onisil's cheeky outburst, immediatelyput his plan into action. Once on the highway, he pulled over andchanged seats with his colleague. Their pursuers, because of274

heavy traffic, were several lengths behind. The manoeuvre wasexecuted with military precision. Thanks to Onisil's training program,Zlatko was as fit as the rest of the agents in the field, althoughhe had a desk job.Once on the open highway, with no fear of being stopped bythe police, Onisil drove the BMW to its limits. Incredible, thoughtZlatko, watching Onisil driving. It would have been a frighteningexperience, especially if he had been pursuing somebody in heavytraffic. To Onisil, it was sheer enjoyment.Zlatko became so absorbed that he almost forgot the nextstep. Changing his voice, he spoke into the microphone, givingorders to the highway patrol to stop the other car and keep it thereuntil other police cars arrived for identification. He used the nameof the most-feared traffic officer and had no doubt that every policecar in the vicinity would follow the order.Their fast drive brought them to Ljubljana much earlier thananticipated, but they did not mind, since they intended to havelunch on the northern outskirts of the city. Surely their pursuerswould not look for them there. The highway was clear of the previousnight's snowfall, but just before they reached Ljubljana itstarted to snow again.Ten minutes later, both of them they were sitting in a warminn, sipping boiled red wine seasoned with cinnamon bark, whilewaiting for their lunch.'It's really funny, Zlatko. We work for the same ministry, andyet they're spying on us,' whispered Onisil.'You should know by now that in our country no one can betrusted. After all, they're making sure we arrive safely.' A cynicalsmile appeared on Zlatko's face, convincing Onisil that theyshared the same view, despite serving a system which exactedtotal loyalty.'You shouldn't think so audibly, Zlatko,' said Onisil, lookingaround the small inn's restaurant, making sure that no one couldhear their conversation.During their small talk, Onisil inquired how long they weregoing to stay in Vienna.'I think two days, as anticipated, will be enough.'275

'In that case, we can arrange for our plane to return to Ljubljanainstead of paying the Austrians for staying there.'They left the inn and drove off. Just before they reached thelast turn off to the airport, Onisil said, 'It looks like our friendshave finally managed to catch up,' but Zlatko was not in the moodto comment one way or the other.As they approached the tarmac, on which a Caravelle jet wasready to take off, Zlatko asked Onisil to take their light luggagewhile he made arrangements for his car.Their trip to Vienna was a short affair, hardly enough time totalk about their private lives. As they approached Vienna's airspace,the Yugoslav pilot identified himself and asked for permissionto land, which was granted immediately.The Yugoslav plane was painted with JAT insignia, but itspilots were military officers. Their plane was directed to taxi nearthe Vienna Air Club, which was a privately owned business. Nextto the exit to the club's tarmac, instead of the limousine whichZlatko expected, there was another jet ready to take off. He noticedthat it was far smaller than the Caravelle, and the impatientco-pilot was nervously pacing beside his plane, seemingly annoyedbecause of late passengers. As the Yugoslav jet come to afull stop, one of its pilots, probably the senior (not necessarily byrank, but on account of his position within the YCP), left thecockpit and walked up to Zlatko and Onisil.'What are your further instructions, Major Tauber? I was toldto seek permission to stay at Vienna airport until you finish yourjob.''That will be impossible, captain. It would be better for youto fly back to Ljubljana. The trouble is that we don't really knowhow long it will take us to dear up this mess.'The captain was not happy about this arrangement, andZlatko was puzzled why his request had not been relayed to thecommanding officer of the base as he had requested before departurefrom Zagreb.'Captain Stambolic, I made a request to your commanding officerand was assured my request would be granted.''It's quite all right, Major Tauber. I was told to stay, otherwiseI have to return the plane to Belgrade.'276

Onisil, who had been listening to their conversation, couldnot restrain himself from interfering. 'If you were told differentlyfrom what Major Tauber requested, why don't you contact yourbase and check...'A sudden knock on the plane door interrupted their conversation.Captain Stambolic went to the door, opened it and asked inGerman, 'Can I help you?'The unknown gentleman politely replied, 'I'm looking forHerr Tauber. Could I see him, please?''May I ask who's calling, sir?''Oh, yes, forgive me. I'm Hans Lotz, a friend of DoctorWeber.''Just a minute, please. I'll fetch comrade Tauber for you.'Before the captain managed to enter their suite, Tauber wason his way, followed by Onisil.As they met midway, the captain said, 'Herr Hans Lotz wouldlike to see you, comrade. He's apparently a friend of a DoctorWeber.'Tauber only nodded in acknowledgement.Once outside, he was greeted by Lotz. 'Welcome to Vienna,Herr Tauber. Let me introduce myself first. I'm Hans Lotz, friendof Doctor Weber – the gentleman who arranged this meeting. Iwould like to have a word with you before your plane leaves Vienna.'Surprised, Zlatko Tauber replied automatically, pointing tothe Yugoslav plane. 'Very well, Herr Lotz, let's go inside.'Lotz's grimace suggested an outright rejection of Tauber's offer.'I'd prefer to talk to you outside. It won't take long, but it isconfidential. Being outside is much healthier.'The emphasis on 'healthier' suggested to Tauber that Lotzwas probably suggesting the plane was bugged, and he immediatelybecame infuriated by such an implication. Realising in asplit second that he might be referring to the club building aswell, Zlatko entered the plane and said to Onisil in Croatian,'There's apparently something he wants to tell me in private. Ashe's going to tell me outside, I suggest you keep your eyes on us.277

I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't worry,' he added, seeingOnisil's anxious face.'Okay, Zlatko, you're the boss, but stay within range of theplane.' He pointed at his coat where he kept his gun.Rubbing his hands, Zlatko said, 'Hurry in. It's really coldhere, Onisil.' Without saying any more, Tauber disappeared fromOnisil's view, realising only later that his moves were observedfrom the cockpit window;Zlatko left the plane, followed by Herr Lotz. When they werea few metres from the plane, Zlatko stopped, but Lotz continuedwalking, motioning towards the club lounge, which was desertedat that time.Strange, thought Zlatko. He had been under the impressionthey were to talk outside. Giving a signal to Onisil to stay put,Tauber followed Lotz. He realised now he must have misunderstood.Lotz had actually been referring to the plane, the Germanswine. What cheek. When they were inside, Lotz offered him awarm drink, which Zlatko accepted.'Do you see that jet over there, Herr Tauber?' Lotz pointed inthe direction of the smaller jet, the one he had observed whilethey taxied to the club house.'Yes, I do.''Well, we'll take a trip to Pullach, since your bird is there inour cage. As you can probably imagine, our chief preferred tokeep him there. One of the main reasons is that there's a largecompany of hawks circling in Austria. Practically nowhere is safeany more. The possibility of interception is far greater than youcan imagine.'Zlatko Tauber was certain Lotz was referring to MGB agents.It sent a cold shiver down his spine, but he managed to nod.'I bet your trip here is already recorded back home,' Lotzcontinued. 'Believe me, they're a powerful lot, so our chief didn'twant to take any unnecessary risks. I hope you understand?'Instead of the customary nod Zlatko had given several timesduring his briefing, he decided to be little more courteous. 'I'dprobably react the same way as your chief under the circumstances.'278

Relaxed by Zlatko's statement, Lotz hoped the ice had beenbroken, so he continued, 'Our chief didn't only take into considerationour position, but the Austrians' as well. He's aware theAustrian government could be in a very embarrassing position,because of the treaty between the USSR and Austria. Their presencehere could influence the Austrians and make it difficult toextradite our bird to West Germany, but it was the BND that wasinformed about the assassination attempt. You can inform yourgovernment of the situation on your return, if you like, and I'mquite confident they'll recognise the implications. As you know,it'll be difficult to keep it under the carpet much longer, especiallywhen it's known that a large number of Cominformists are still ininfluential positions.'Despite the detailed explanation, Zlatko was disturbed by thefact that he had to travel even further. 'I didn't anticipate this,' hesaid, 'but having come so far, I have to finalise the matter asagreed,' hoping his superior would think likewise.Before Zlatko had finished his drink, Lotz moved his chair alittle closer and leaned towards him. In a low-pitched voice, hewhispered, 'By the way, I invited you out of your plane mainlybecause I wasn't sure if your companion understood German. Ourchief insists you should come alone. I realise your position, but letme assure you it's very important, not so much for interrogationpurposes, but...' – Lotz paused for a few seconds and then continued– 'for your own good.'Puzzled by Lotz's secretive tone, Zlatko realised how politelyhe had been conned, not only to follow Lotz inside the clubhouse,but to agree to travel even further; and now yet another obstacle.What would he tell Onisil? How would his friend react? It hadbeen Zlatko's idea to take him to Vienna. His colleagues at homewould be suspicious when they learned how he dumped him.In the meantime, Lotz was observing his face, hoping to seean encouraging sign. Nothing, absolutely nothing, revealedZlatko's feelings. What a face, thought Lotz. He had not had timeto think about it before, but now it appeared more Arab, or evenJewish. So young, yet he must be experienced or the Yugoslavswould not have sent him to represent them.279

While he pondered over their strange meeting, Zlatko's mindraced through every possible angle to find the right answer. 'It'srather amazing. Our presence in Austria was arranged beforehandand agreed to by both parties, so how do you expect me to justifyonly my presence, Herr Lotz?'Lotz had not expected such a reaction, but considered thepossibility that the other official was Zlatko's friend. 'Well, wecan easily justify it. To our knowledge, your partner is not only anexpert in the martial arts but one of your craftiest electronic wizards.It would be inappropriate for him to abuse our hospitality,wouldn't it? We anticipated this mainly because you will be thefirst official from a Communist country to enter Pullach.'Zlatko's suspicions were right. They were not going to takeany chances. Their homework was superb. He wished his branchcould be as efficient. 'You put me in a rather awkward position, Ihope you realise that. What do you expect me to tell my colleague?That he's not wanted in your country?'Lotz recognised this young official's position, but he hadbeen given his orders and, so far he was concerned, he intended tocarry them out to the letter. 'Well, you can always tell him we cantake only one foreign agent with us at a time. As you know, oncethis becomes known to our government, we'll have to justify yourpresence, too. Your entry into Germany will be illegal accordingto our laws. As you're without a travel permit or entry visa, andare not an official guest of our government, we too, are takingchances. It may be all right in your case, but not your companion's.I'm terribly sorry, but those are my orders. I'm sorry if thatupsets you, but what else can I say?'Zlatko was trying to find an honourable exit from this trickysituation, although he was sure Lotz was lying with all this garbageabout a necessity to inform their government. God knowswhat they were doing behind its back. Pretending to be concerned,he said, 'You're quite persuasive, Herr Lotz. How can I refuse?Let me inform my friend. It'll only take a minute.'Zlatko rose from his seat, but Lotz stood in his way. 'There'sno need for you to go to your plane. Just scribble a note, and oneof my men will deliver it to him. If you have luggage, let himknow, and a messenger will pick it up. Under normal circum-280

stances, you'd be able to use the club's phone, but that could alertour hawks. Thank you – but you must understand.'Given a piece of paper and fountain pen, Zlatko hurriedlyscribbled a few words while Lotz was waving to one of his manoutside.Hi Onisil,There's a slight change in our plans. Our host thinks thisplace is overcrowded, so my dinner has been organisedat the different hotel. I can't elaborate any further, butwhen we meet again I'll tell you all about it. I'd like youto hand over my luggage and my briefcase, but removethe keys of my car. You can pick it up on the way, anddrive it back. Be careful. Keep your eyes on the rearvisionmirror – you know what I'm talking about.ZlatkoBefore Zlatko managed to fold the note, he noticed Herr Lotzstanding near him with a small box in his hand. 'I suggest that youpack up your tool too,' quite clearly indicating below his belt.Lotz did not have to repeat his request, as Zlatko slightly openedhis overcoat and disengaged his gun from his holster. He was notunduly upset either. He would have made a similar request if hehad been in Lotz's position.When Lotz's man left, Zlatko asked, 'When are we leaving,Herr Lotz?' 'As soon your luggage is on our plane.'Opposite the clubhouse, Onisil observed a man approachingtheir plane. He opened the door and accepted the note. It tookseveral minutes before he appeared with Zlatko's luggage andbriefcase. Though uncertain, Zlatko observed Onisil's departure ashe waved in the direction of the clubhouse.Once airborne, Onisil put away Zlatko's keys and read hisnote again. Strange, he thought. During the entire journey toLjubljana, Zlatko never expressed concern about our pursuers,and yet he's now urging me to be careful. Surely Zlatko smells arat somewhere.281

Squashing the note, Onisil dropped it into a nearby ashtrayand set it alight. He did not want anybody to read it should anythinghappen to him. While the flame licked the remaining part ofthe note, Onisil felt uneasy for the first time. A slight tremorshook his body. He was determined to contact his boss ColonelCvetkovic and report at least something before he continued hisjourney back to Zagreb.On the flight to Germany, Zlatko's thoughts went back overhis past. It had been six years since he had been addressed asHerr. His memories floated back to his happy childhood in Viennawith his family. For some strange reason, he felt almost thesame as he had when his stepfather placed the medallion aroundhis neck, and for a moment he recalled the emotion in his throat.His thoughts then went to the strange meeting with GeneralRankovic, whom he had met in Pijade's office, and he could nothelp also remembering Rankovic's underhand behaviour with theBritish command in Graz, in lower Austria, during negotiationsfor the repatriation of the Yugoslav prisoners of war. Strangelyenough, he never did hear what happened to them. Though he didinquire once or twice about their fate, it struck him as odd that hehad been told only that everything had been taken care of.PULLACH 1951At the Pullach headquarters of BND, Zlatko was greeted by ahigh-ranking officer dressed in a civilian suit who ushered himinto General Reinhard Gehlen's office. As he entered the office,Zlatko noticed Gehlen – a slim figure, contrary to what he expected,approximately a metre sixty tall and about seventy kilogramsin weight, whose greying but thin hair indicated his middle-age,approximately fifty, give or take a year.Once introduced, Gehlen extended his hand and greeted themuch younger, and obviously intelligent, officer. 'Welcome toPullach, Herr Tauber! His warm hand, but cold, piercing eyes, indicateda welcome well meant.Being a Jew, Zlatko loathed all Germans and could not passup an opportunity to air his dissatisfaction, realising how rude it282

might appear. 'Thank you for your hospitality, Herr Gehlen. Imust say you've put me in a very awkward position. I won't suggestit was deliberate, but still it is rather unpleasant.'Gehlen's shrewd mind read Zlatko's rejection, and he attributedit to the man's dislike for Germans, particularly Germansfrom the Nazi era, which was quite obvious. He knew that his politenessand straightforward approach might change Zlatko's attitude,especially when he had something for him.In an apologetic tone, Gehlen said, 'I realise that, Herr Tauber,but believe me it was necessary. I hope that, by the time wefinish our conversation, you'll agree. Though I know you speakperfect German, I'd prefer to speak to you in English, if you don'tmind.'Zlatko's first reaction was that Gehlen was trying to removethe obstacle of a language which could remind him of his illfeeling.A very clever move, he had to admit. 'It'll be quite allright with me, Herr Gehlen.''And now let me offer you some refreshment, Herr Tauber,'said Gehlen, with a jovial tone in his voice, happy he had persuadedthis young Jew. Maybe he might even be able to strike upa friendship, notwithstanding Tauber's reservations.'A Scotch, please.'While Gehlen was pouring the drinks, Zlatko had an opportunityto look around the office. What a sight. He rememberedthat his father's study had been equally beautiful and warm. Thisone was even more richly decorated, with lots of paintings complementedwith ornaments, books and figurines – predominantlyhussars mounted on beautiful horses. It gave him the impressionthat Gehlen really liked his favourite sport – horse-riding. Whilehe glanced at Gehlen's beautifully carved mahogany desk, he noticedtwo pictures. One was presumably of Gehlen's wife and theother of his daughter.'Oh, I almost forgot to tell you we're going to have dinner inyour honour. A small family gathering. I presume we can counton your acceptance, Herr Tauber.'Though Zlatko did not like the idea, mainly because he hadcome here to finish his job and not to be entertained by formerNazis, something inside was forcing him to accept. The way283

Gehlen emphasised 'family' , Zlatko felt he might learn somethingvery useful, so why not make the most of it? 'Thank you. Youshouldn't have gone to such trouble.'It was then that Zlatko thought the niceties had gone farenough so, in order to put Gehlen somewhat off guard, he burstout, 'Could you tell me little more about the assassin? The letterwe received from your office didn't specify his nationality.'Gehlen could hardly hide his surprise. What was Zlatkotalking about? Had he, Gehlen, not personally signed a letter deliveredto Marshal Tito by the second secretary of the Germanembassy in Belgrade, Herr von Schneider? So what was Taubertalking about?'I'm rather surprised, Herr Tauber. I sent Marshal Tito a fullreport and I have his acknowledgement here, so there must besome mistake.'Equally surprised, Zlatko opened his security briefcase andproduced Gehlen's letter. Gehlen glanced at it and realised immediatelysomeone had edited it before a photocopy was taken.Hmm, thought Gehlen. Why? Then he opened a file which waslying on his desk. He produced six pages of a letter and gave it toZlatko.While Zlatko was reading the original, he learned that the assassinwas actually Croatian by birth. He was astonished. Howthe hell had the Russians got him? Why was he prepared to takeMarshal Tito's life?Meanwhile, Gehlen was watching his every move and facialexpression. It did not take him long to discern the purpose of Stalin'splot. Gehlen, instead of asking him about the file, kept askingZlatko about the weather in Zagreb and his trip to Ljubljana. Suddenlyhe asked, 'Your surname is so familiar to me. I can't helpthinking I've heard it somewhere before. It sounds Austrian ratherthan Croatian.''You're right. My father was Austrian and my mother a CroatianJew. I was born in Zagreb, where my father was a professorat the University of Medicine. We used to live part of each year inboth Vienna and Zagreb. My father would go to Zagreb for sixmonths and then back to his private practice in Vienna. He wasapparently involved in research financed by Zagreb University.'284

'lt's strange, because I met Doctor Otto von Tauber in Vienna,'pretended Gehlen. 'Your father, I presume, Herr Tauber?''Yes, he was my father.' Zlatko could hardly hide his surprise.By a one in a million chance he had met a German, an ex-Nazi officer,now chief of the West German secret service, yet a manwho actually knew his father.'How come I've never met you, Herr Tauber?''If you could say specifically when you met my father, Imight be able to tell you,' said Zlatko.'Well, it's rather a long time ago, in 1945, the end of the war,to be exact, Herr Tauber.'Well, that does it, thought Tauber to himself. This criminal infront of me has the will to talk casually of the war as though noone suspects his guilt. Zlatko was also becoming increasingly annoyedat Gehlen's insistence in referring to him as Herr Tauber,and he was fed up with Gehlen's disguised insolence, so he said,ever so politely, 'Excuse me, General Gehlen, but l'd prefer it ifyou just called me Zlatko rather than Herr Tauber.'Sensing Zlatko's annoyance, Gehlen said in a gentle tone, 'Asyou wish, Zlatko, but you still haven't told me why I've never metyou before.''Oh, I'm so sorry. I almost forgot. At that time I was inZagreb.' Zlatko began to struggle to be polite.'Yes, yes, you 're right. I can recall it now. Your father toldme so,' said Gehlen, trying to give the impression that he too, hadforgotten. 'It was six years ago, but I remember it now; Your fathertold me something about your mother, but I was in a positionat that time that made it awkward to remember all the details.Could you refresh my memory?'Zlatko almost burst with anger but, having been asked so politely,he set out to humiliate his host. 'Not at all, General Gehlen.But I have to warn you it may be embarrassing for you, after allthese years. I presume you've tried to forget your past as a Nazi.'Suspecting what was coming, Gehlen was prepared to judgethis Jew upon his final statement, so he tried to confuse him. 'Weall have something in our past,' he said in an almost fatherly tone,'but it's important not only how we're judged by others, but how285

we learn to live with it. You can feel free, by all means, no matterhow embarrassing it might sound.'The way Gehlen emphasised 'something in the past', Zlatkofelt he might mean him – Zlatko Tauber. Why would he mentionit otherwise?'It all started when my father received a visitor from Zagreb.That was in 1938. During his stay in our house, my father hadvery serious conversations with him. At one stage, they discussedAdolf Hitler's rise to power and the occupation of Austria. I waspresent at the time, but unaware of the extent of their concern.However, before his departure, my father's friend offered sanctuaryto my family. It was a rather unusual invitation. Our visitorwas in no position to give guarantees to my parents, especially ashe, too, was a Jew.''So your father accepted the invitation from comrade MosaPijade, eh?' Zlatko could not believe his ears. How did Gehlenknow who the visitor was when he had not mentioned his name?Is he clairvoyant or what? thought Zlatko. 'May I ask how youknew, general, that it was Mosa Pijade?'Gehlen smiled, rubbing his hands, employing his usual tacticof surprising his prey – first blow to me, he thought. 'I couldhardly justify my position in BND if I failed to know everything.Don't be disturbed. Continue, please.'Zlatko continued telling of his father's concern for his wifeand father-in-law, both of Jewish origin. He had been worriedabout Zlatko, too. During that time, Mosa encouraged Zlatko'sfather to move to Zagreb and, if necessary, split the family, for ashort period at least.'Do you still wear the medallion, Zlatko?'Unintentionally, Zlatko put his hand on his chest, feeling thegolden medallion. Unbelievable – Gehlen knew about that, too. Itwas too late for any denial, so he said, 'Yes, I do.''May I see it, please?' Gehlen extended his hand, givingZlatko no choice. He almost asked a rude question, but decided tocomply with Gehlen's request, so he opened his shirt, removed hisgold chain and handed it over. While Gehlen inspected the medallion,Zlatko continued, 'During the conversation, Mosa offeredthis medallion to my father. A very unusual gift, as you can see. It286

appears to me now that my father was so overwhelmed with thegift that he accepted that fateful invitation.'Gehlen closely inspected the medallion with a magnifyingglass, which really startled Zlatko. What possible interest couldhe have in it – a man who hated the Jews so much? It's odd,thought Zlatko.'It's genuine. Quite remarkable, Zlatko.''I don't understand. How would you of all people know anythingabout it?' 'Very simple, my dear friend. I have one too.'Gehlen rose and walked to the glass cabinet with a painting of theTyrol behind it. He moved the bulky-looking cabinet with ease,and a wall safe appeared. His fingers fiddled with the combinationlock for a few seconds. Then he fetched out a small woodenbox. It was magnificently carved. When he opened the lid, there itwas – a medallion identical to Zlatko's.The first thought which crossed Zlatko's mind was thatGehlen must have snatched it from some unfortunate Jew; 'Ithought you were the enemy of the Jewish people, so how did youget it?''Many people think the same thing. I can't blame them but,believe me, it's not true. It is true that I served a governmentwhich had a policy of genocide against the Jews. But at the time Ididn't question it. If I'd refused my services to the Third Reich,somebody else would have done my job. Having accepted the position,I was able to do many things which I couldn't have doneotherwise.'How clever, or convenient, thought Zlatko, realising that hehad not got the whole answer, so he repeated, 'But how did youget the medallion, general?''It's rather a long story,' said Gehlen, obviously trying toavoid how it started, but he continued, 'Before I parted with myfamily at the end of the war, my wife gave it to me. I must admit Iknew of its existence, so at that moment I was sure my wife knewabout my real activities, which served countless Jews, and herfaith in me saved my life. I accepted this medallion not to savemy skin, but as gratitude for saving so many Jews who were leftat the mercy of me Russians. Would you mind finishing yourstory? We still have time before dinner.'287

'As I said,' rejoined Zlatko, 'German forces had already occupiedAustria, and my father decided the time had come to leaveeverything behind. Too many people there knew of my mother'sorigin. We left Vienna in a hurry. Our friends promised to lookafter our house while we were away. My father was thinking toreturn later on and sell it. It was too big, anyway. Unfortunately,as you know, the war took a different course. While in Zagreb weheard news over the radio about a Coup carried out by a highrankingofficer of the Yugoslav army which renounced the treatysigned by the prime minister of Yugoslavia and the Third Reich.My father knew that this would in the end infuriate Hitler, and hewas right. As a result, German forces occupied Yugoslavia withintwo weeks. I still can't understand why Yugoslav officers did it.''It's very simple, Zlatko. At that stage Hitler was planning anoffensive against Russia, and Stalin knew about it. So, with thehelp of the Yugoslav Communist Party, he instigated a coupwhich he thought would give him time to reorganise his forces.Unfortunately, he did not anticipate that the occupation would becompleted so soon. Stalin encouraged Tito to organise the resistancemovement, although he supported General Mihajlovic.Most of Tito's senior officers were former officers of the royalYugoslav army. The interesting thing is that some of those officerswere the ones who took an active part in the coup and thusvirtually changed the course of history, at least for the Croatianpeople. The Communists were sure the new situation would benefitthem more than anybody else, and, as you can see, their gamblepaid off. But what happened next, Zlatko?'Then Zlatko talked about Vlatko Macek and his belief thatthe elected premier of Croatia had made a grave political misjudgement.'What makes you think that, Zlatko?''It's obvious to me that if he'd accepted the German proposition,at least on paper, he'd have be en able to stave off the creationof the resistance movement, and possible contact with GreatBritain.''I have to agree. You're right. Such an arrangement wouldhave stopped or at least minimised the bloodshed. Please go on.'288

Zlatko explained how Macek had refused the creation of sucha state and his refusal had forced the Germans to turn to AntePavelic. 'What happened during Pavelic's reign is history. Nowthat we were in Zagreb, Mosa suggested to my father that heshould let me live with a family in Bosnia. They'd lost a son ofsimilar age and they'd be very happy to look after me. My motherwould be placed in one of the numerous convents near Zagreb,and my father would be free to teach at Zagreb University. Therewas one problem – my grandfather – who wouldn't budge. Nomatter how hard my mother and father tried to influence him, hewas determined to face whatever consequences might follow hisoutspoken criticism. In the meantime, my father got an offer towork for the Ustashe. Although he loathed them, he decided totake the offer, mainly to protect my grandfather. I moved out first,but for my mother and grandfather it was too late. One of ourneighbours of German origin tipped off the Ustashe about mymother being a Jew as well as my grandfather.’'My father was able, at the beginning, to stave off their imprisonment,but in the end they were arrested. While my motherwas taken to one of the concentration camps near Zagreb, mygrandfather was taken to Jasenovac. Somehow he managed totake his own life on the train, and thus freed himself from thethreat of inhumane treatment. My father wasn't lucky either. TheUstashe secret police suggested he had helped Josip Broz – Tito -to escape from prison during the kingdom of Yugoslavia, but wassaved by the Communists, who learned at the time of the possibilityof his arrest. He fled to Vienna, and then to Switzerland,where he stayed until the end of the war.''When the war was over, I went to Zagreb to look for my parents.I looked everywhere, but without any luck. One day, I heardthat Mosa Pijade had a provisional office in Zagreb. He'd becomeminister for culture in the post-war regime. He encouraged me tolook for my father first, and he also told me what had happened tomy mother and my grandfather. Though I was twenty-two, Icouldn't stop my emotional outburst. My mother was a lady ofexceptional gifts and talents. By nature she was very sensitive toinjustice, and I just couldn't imagine her surviving in a concentrationcamp. I knew that only her determination could save her289

from insanity and suffering. She always believed that Jews, althoughcrucified by other religions and races, would one day livein their own country, and she was right.''But how did you get this job, Zlatko?' inquired Gehlen.'It's a long story but, to cut it short, I visited Mosa's officetrying to get clearance to pursue my search. While I was waitingmy turn, my father came into me office. We embraced each otherin front of twenty or thirty people in Mosa's waiting room. Wewere both crying, not realising it would be our last meeting.'At that moment, Zlatko felt the old emotion aging in histhroat. He stopped talking and took a deep breath. He felt his eyesmoistening. He tried to control himself, just managing to do so.He didn't want to show this German his emotions, so he continued,'I don't know how long we talked, but I noticed after a whilethat all those familiar faces who were waiting, like myself, left,and new people were coming in. As we had missed our turn I thentold my father about Mosa's suggestion to look for him first. Myfather said Mosa had probably anticipated that the post-war messwould be the main obstruction to finding my mother, that waswhy he'd offered an alternative.'Suddenly, out of the blue, the door opened to reveal Mosaaccompanied by a taller, solidly built man dressed in a general'suniform with several decorations clearly displayed on his chest.Standing in the doorway, Mosa pointed in our direction. At thatmoment, I thought he was going to lead us to my mother but, instead,the general beckoned me into Mosa's office. My father andI went inside and were introduced to General Rankovic, ministerfor me interior. As they shook hands, my father introduced meand, believe me, I've never experienced such a handshake in myall life. I could almost hear my bones cracking under his gap.Mosa told Rankovic about my father having been responsible forhis earlier release and Marshal Tito's escape.'At that moment, I noticed something very strange in the general'seyes. He looked at Mosa as though he was going to kill himon the spot. Many times since, I've tried to find an explanation forthat strange occurrence, but it's still a mystery to me. Anyway, myfather quickly used the opportunity to talk about my mother.While they were discussing it, I realised, from Mosa's reference to290

Tito's escape, why my father was given this medallion, althoughMosa didn't mention it. Mosa was full of praise for my mother,and Rankovic promised to find her but warned us it would taketime. He pointed out that many prisoners were still in concentrationcamps mainly to make them fit for return to their homes...'Gehlen impatiently interrupted. 'Do you still think there wassomething strange going on, Zlatko?'Sensing something odd, Zlatko took a long look directly intoGehlen's eyes, but he could not detect anything sinister. He suddenlyfelt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was sureGehlen had the key to the mystery and felt that the awful truthwould one day be revealed. 'Yes, I'm sure there was somethingvery wrong. I've been haunted by that incident ever since, especiallyafter the death of my father.'Gehlen noticed Zlatko's moist eyes but, instead of telling himwhat he knew, he decided to wait until Zlatko had finished hisstory and hopefully collected himself. 'What happened then?'Zlatko explained how Rankovic promised to help. 'In return,I had to do something for him. He suggested that my father goback to Vienna and wait there until I notified him about mymother. He stressed that Yugoslavia was in chaos. Until conditionsstabilised, he could do very little. He had so many things tofinalise himself, he said the search for my mother would be myjob. Then my father asked him what he wanted from us. He toldus he was on his way to Graz and would lodge the Yugoslavclaims for repatriation of prisoners of war as soon he arrived.Since I spoke German, English, Italian and Russian, he said hewould need me as an interpreter. Before I could refuse, and suggestthat my father would be the more appropriate person, my fatherforced me to accept the job. I realised later the reasons for hisinsistence.'Gehlen raised his hands. 'My God, what did you do, Zlatko?Is it possible that your desire for revenge made you so blind? It'sinconceivable that you were part of one of the greatest tragediesat the end of the war.'Zlatko jumped from his chair with fierce indignation. 'I don'tunderstand what you're talking about, general,' he rasped.'I'll tell you later, Zlatko. Just finish your story first.'291

It was like a military command, and Gehlen's words stung hisears. On quietening down, Zlatko continued to tell how his fatheraccepted the suggestion he go back to Vienna and wait for hiscall. 'Though I was to leave that night, General Rankovic allowedus a few hours together. As it happened, he later offered my fathera lift to Graz, from where he could take the train to Vienna. Onething which really puzzled me was Rankovic's determination thatour meeting should last as long as possible. I realised later, ofcourse, that a crafty person like Rankovic must have had a reallygood reason to behave like that. On our arrival in Graz, I escortedmy father to the railway station. There we parted. I never saw himagain.' Zlatko sobbed, but quickly regained his control.Gehlen, however, was patiendy waiting for the revelationwhich he presumed would be far more emotional. He was certainnow that Tito had sent Zlatko to intimidate him, possibly becauseof Zlatko's Jewish origin. What Tito had failed to recognise wasthat sending Zlatko instead of a more experienced officer actuallygave Gehlen a trump card.'At the meeting we attended the following morning,' continuedZlatko, 'the British commanding officer, Brigadier Scott, refusedto hand over seventy thousand prisoners of war. He said hewas waiting for instructions from London. Rankovic, however,was infuriated with what he regarded as the brigadier's highhandedattitude. At one stage he thumped his fist on the brigadier'sdesk with such force that I thought the desk would collapse.It was all very embarrassing, indeed. Realising that Scott meantwhat he said, Rankovic produced a copy of the Yalta agreement,which clearly stated what was to happen to prisoners at the end ofwar. The copy was signed by Churchill, Stalin and the Americansecretary of state, Cordell Hull. The brigadier gave in, but hewasn't happy. Great Britain had been a party to the conference,yet he had to be shown such an important document by a Balkanpeasant.''Did he really have such a law opinion of Rankovic, Zlatko?''Of course. General Rankovic's behaviour wasn't in line withhis rank. I could read it on the brigadier's face. Consequently, ourstay in Graz was very brief, as you can imagine. On our return toZagreb, Rankovic proposed that I accept a junior position in his292

ministry, and I did so mainly to enable myself to continue lookingfor my mother. But as I was only twenty-two, he suggested I attenda college in Belgrade so I could qualify for work within theministry.' By 1948, Zlatko explained, he had finalised his studiesand was transferred to Zagreb.Just then, a timid knock at the door signalled dinner wasready, and their conversation – and a most intriguing conversationit had been – came to an abrupt end.His introduction to Frau Gehlen and her daughter Ingrid temporarilyrelieved Zlatko from the past – a past he had tried tobury, if possible, forever. Luckily, the conversation during hisenjoyment of the delicious food and red wine took a differentcourse. Somehow, Zlatko sensed that whatever Gehlen had instore for him would be revealed after dinner. A most satisfyinghour and a half of interesting discussions in French, Italian, Englishand even Russian (but not German) was enjoyed over dinner.He realised his hosts were really trying to avoid reminding him oftheir past.The revelation that Gehlen could speak Russian too came asa complete surprise to Zlatko. While Zlatko was entertaining theladies, he noticed Gehlen give a signal to his wife, after which theladies rose and bade them goodnight. The two men retreated intothe study, where they were served with coffee and brandy. Whilesipping his brandy, Zlatko inspected the books on Gehlen'sshelves. To his surprise, he found volumes dealing with leaders ofmany countries, and they were arranged in alphabetical order.A quick glance at the end of shelf revealed three books aboutTito: Armstrong's Tito and Goliath; Hamilton's With TitoThrough the War 1941-45; and Padev's Marshal Tito. Out of thecorner of his eye, Zlatko could see that Gehlen was watching himintently, trying to gauge his reaction. What he did not know wasthat Gehlen was really thinking of him. While Zlatko examinedeach book, Gehlen was wishing he could have had such a brightyoung man on his staff. He was now determined to try anything topersuade Zlatko to stay in Germany and possibly guide him tohigh office in the intelligence fraternity.'I didn't know Tito was so popular in Germany, general,’ saidZlatko.293

In a humorous tone, Gehlen answered, 'Somehow, I have asoft spot for your Marshal Tito. Though he was only a sergeant inthe Austro-Hungarian army, he ultimately proved himself a verycapable commander. As a matter of fact, I applauded his abilities,which don't seem to have been handicapped by a lack of propereducation. His excellent gift for music makes me wonder, andhow well he has mastered the piano. But let's continue with yourpast. It really is very interesting.' He asked what happened whenZlatko returned to Zagreb in 1948.Zlatko, relaxed by Gehlen's casual manner as well as a fewglasses of red wine, began explaining how he started to look forhis mother. Checking the list of concentration camps, includingJasenovac, he met with little success. ‘Then one day I received aletter from our solicitor, asking me for instructions on what to dowith the money which my father had left after the sale of ourhome. Surprised by this, I telephoned him in Vienna and learnedthat my father had been waiting to hear from me for months, thenhe took off for Yugoslavia. The solicitor had not heard from himsince, and that's why he got in touch with me. When I asked aboutmy father's intentions, I was told he'd gone to Belgrade to askMarshal Tito personally for help. Deeply disappointed that I hadn'treceived my father's letters, which according to his solicitorhad been sent to me, I suspected something odd. I just couldn'tunderstand it. ''At that time, with my father missing, and still unable to findmy mother, my fears increased. I was more than puzzled, so I gotin touch with Vladimir Bakaric, the leader of the Croatian executivecouncil. I explained to him what had happened to our family,and even mentioned Pijade's and Rankovic's promises to look formy mother. He was very sympathetic, but nothing came out ofthat meeting except that Bakaric suggested that I get in touch withRankovic directly. On my return to the office, I phoned Rankovic'sheadquarters, but he was not available, so I left a message. Iwaited for almost a week, but nothing happened. One day I decidedto give him another call. If I couldn't get through, I'd gopersonally to him in Belgrade. But his call came, and I was delighted,not realising of course what a shock awaited me.'294

'And then you received news about your father's prematuredeath, I presume,' asked Gehlen, in a steely voice.Flabbergasted by this terrifying suggestion, Zlatko jumpedout of his seat, almost shouting, 'What do you mean, prematuredeath, general?' He suspected that Gehlen might know somethingsinister about his father's death – or was he trying an intelligencetrick on him? Zlatko noticed that Gehlen appeared to be smiling,more perhaps with his eyes than his lips, but he was determined tomatch wits with the general, so he forced himself to calm down.'I'll answer your question in time, Zlatko, but first let me finishmy story. It'll make more sense then.''All right, so long as you remember that you owe me an explanationlater on, general.''You have my promise, Zlatko.' Gehlen, anticipating the possibilitythat his frankness would in the end entice this young, butextremely intelligent individual, regardless of his Jewish origin,began his story. 'I presume you've read about me, but whatever Idid might be misinterpreted or shown in a different light. As youknow, Zlatko, I was in charge of German intelligence on the Russianfront during the war. Several years before the war started, Iwas fortunate to establish contact with a valuable officer from theNKVD, and our association is still intact...'Zlatko politely interrupted Gehlen by coughing. 'I'm surprisedyou're telling me this, general. I could report it on my returnto Yugoslavia. My superiors would be delighted, believe me.'Zlatko might mean what he says, thought Gehlen, but, even ifhe does, it'll be useless to the Yugoslavs. Who would believefrom this Jew-boy that the famous Gehlen ever revealed the truth?On the other hand, it crossed his mind to tease Zlatko before hedelivered his final punch. 'I don't think that would be wise,Zlatko. After all, being in possession of your valuable medallion,you should know better.'However, Zlatko continued his probing to find what madeGehlen so confident. 'You know, maybe you 're wrong this time. Iknow I'm bound to protect other Jews as a holder of this medallion,but you don't qualify for that kind of treatment...295

Gehlen knew exactly what he meant, but only nodded whileZlatko continued, 'Let's assume I'm a devoted member of theYCP. What would you think then?'Whatever Gehlen was thinking at that moment, Zlatko wasunable to figure it out, nor could he see any change on his impassiveface. He was so cool and calculating that he could have beena poker player.'I don't think so, Zlatko. I never dreamed you'd consider meone of your trusted friends, but you should remember one mostimportant thing: I would never disclose anything to you or toanyone else unless I had a guarantee it was safe to do so.' With apolite smile on his face, Gehlen poured another brandy for both ofthem while awaiting Zlatko's reaction.Zlatko was aware Gehlen still had the upper hand. He realisedthat the general knew something dreadful, otherwise hewould not disclose confidential information. 'But I haven't givenyou any guarantee, general.''True, but there's no need for any guarantee. By the time Ifinish my part of the story, you'll have realised how right I am.'Gehlen continued, emphasising that the reason he had revealedhis penetration of the NKVD was to demonstrate his honesty. Hemade certain any information he passed on to his contact was notenough to endanger the other man's life, but just enough to stir theRussians to continue their propaganda about him, which mighteventually prove to be embarrassing. To tease Zlatko further,Gehlen indicated his readiness to reveal even more. He describedhow it had all started in 1927, when Germans exchanged officerswith the Russians. He also told him how many intellectuals inRussia had become disillusioned with the way Stalin manipulatedthe Communist system contrary to the teachings of Marx, Engelsand Lenin. Stalin had put out the contract on Marshal Tito's lifejust because he disagreed with his views.Thanks to that situation, they had become easy prey for theAbwehr, which used them to the limit, exactly as Zlatko's UDBAwas using its people at home and abroad, not to mention foreignersand other minorities within Yugoslavia.Some who were discovered working for the Germans weresent to Siberia, while others simply got a bullet. No matter what296

happened to them, the Germans always managed to get replacementsto pursue their purpose.'A few months before the end of the war, I could see the end.I spent a week with my family and decided that my wife and childrenshould go to Vienna, where my wife had relatives. I wasaware that they might have been casualties of the war, but at thetime it was the best we could think of. Am I boring you with mystory, Zlatko?''Not at all. I'm anxious to hear how you met my father.''As you can imagine, communications were the greatestproblem. We knew that, even if the telephones were working, wewouldn't be able to talk safely. The possibility of being tracedlater on played an important role. My wife and children were toleave immediately and, if they failed to locate her relatives, mywife would place a small advertisement on the north wall of theVienna Opera House. Every afternoon about four o'clock she'dpass that wall from a different direction, giving the impression itwas unintentional, but she wouldn't stop. If she noticed a blackcross near the pavement, she'd leave her address on one of thecavities agreed beforehand, something like a dead letter box. ''When my family left Berlin, I went to Bavaria. In one of thelocal deserted mineshafts, I deposited all my valuable documentsenclosed in metal cases. I know it sounds incredible. That's exactlywhat my soldiers thought, too. With their help, we sealedthe entry with concrete. Then we took off our uniforms andparted, with a promise to see each other a year from that day. Ireturned to Berlin and, as the war was over, I managed to hitchhiketo Vienna on my own. I was hoping that by then the situationwould be much clearer. ''On my arrival in Vienna, I found the home of my wife'srelatives but it was in ruins. Immediately after, I went to the ViennaOpera House. What a joy! I found a small advertisementsaying, "A reward for a lost golden medallion will be paid incash," It was followed by a phoney address and a name. I knewthis must be it. A lot of people were on the street, but somehow Imanaged to place a black cross on the pavement. Instead of leavingthe place, I hid myself near the cavity in the wall and waitedtill four o'clock in the afternoon. At that precise time, I saw my297

wife passing the advertisement and looking in direction of thecavity. ''At that moment I felt an intense urge to go and hug her, but Imanaged to restrain myself. She was being followed by a manabout forty years of age. I asked myself, What now, Reinhard?but by then it was too late. My wife deposited a piece of paper,unaware that she was being followed. She was cautious, but notenough. The sight of that man sent a shiver down my back. Hewas neither German nor Russian, more likely from one of theBalkan countries. Thanks to his decision to wait for whoevermight collect this piece of paper, I was able to follow my wife. Iwas sure the man knew where she lived and that knowledge worriedme a lot. ''By the time she reached the house at Franz Strauss Strasse49, where she stayed with my daughter and son, I'd decided towait until dark. Instead of waiting in the vicinity, I went for awalk and finished up in a small park not very far from the house.On the way to the park, I even managed to find out who ownedthe house – it was your father. As I walked along the path, I triedto recall your father's name. I knew it, but, being in a state of desperation,I could not recall it.If I'd had my files with me, it wouldn't have taken more thanfive minutes to realise that I could have saved his life.'Zlatko, surprised with Gehlen's suggestion, asked, 'What doyou mean by that, general?''Everything in time, Zlatko. Let me finish my story first andthen I'll answer your questions.'Zlatko, though disappointed, let Gehlen continue.'At about eight that evening, I knocked lightly on the doorand your father answered, making inquiries before he opened. Iintroduced myself as my wife's cousin, because we'd made an arrangementthat my wife would use her maiden name. Your fatherlet me in and invited me into his beautifully appointed study. Asyou can see, this study is a complete replica, except for some furniture.While I was waiting, he went to fetch my wife. ''Our reunion, as you can imagine, exposed us. Your fatherknew he'd been deceived. However, before I managed to tell himwho I really was, my wife asked me to produce the medallion298

which I wore – as you do. While he was inspecting it, I took theopportunity to apologise for deceiving him and told him my realname. He was shocked. I also told him I hadn't been able to tellhim at the door because my wife had been followed that afternoon.I thought at that moment that your father must have been aJew too, but I learned later on, of course, that it was your motherwho was Jewish. ''Then he told me about you and your mother Irene, and yourgrandfather Joakim. He told me when I asked him about the medallionthat he had been given one too, but it was you who wore itnow. If he'd told me who gave it to him I could have warned him,but I didn't ask about it. Then he told me about your mother's fate.Could you imagine how I felt at that moment? ''The government which I represented not long before was responsiblefor your mother's imprisonment, and yet my destinywas now in his hands. One wrong move, and I could have finishedin the Nuremberg trials. But I was wrong, terribly wrong.''It was then I learned about his concern for his fellowmen.Here I was, at his disposal, indirectly responsible for yourmother's disappearance, and yet he worried about my present predicament.He asked me about my plans, and I told him most ofthe things I thought he should know. He accepted them at facevalue. It seems to me the medallion had a great influence, despitehis initial anger, which he finally brought under control. Wetalked until midnight. Then he asked me how I was sure my wifehad been followed. The explanation I offered was accepted. Itstruck me then, and even now when I think of his being a doctor,that he was unusually aware of police surveillance methods. ''He suggested he should send a young boy from anotherneighbourhood to collect the deposited address tomorrow. Theboy would then go to the railway yard and bum it. On the wayback, he'd enter a house in the same street as the one where yourfather lived, but he'd leave through the rear. At the same time,your father would be waiting opposite that house. Once the boyhad entered, his pursuer would probably wait for him or else inquirearound the neighbourhood. ''Having determined that the boy was not known locally, hewould leave, and your father would then follow him to fmd out299

where he came from. Once we knew this, we'd be able to judgehow much time we had to finalise the second part of our plan... ''Believe me, I was stunned. I was now even more surprisedby his cunning. I proposed that I should follow the man, but he refused.His argument was that, if I was right about his being anagent, he'd probably have seen my picture somewhere. He evenforced me to dye my hair and shave off my moustache. I knewyour father was right, so I agreed. ''And would you believe it? Everything happened as your fatherpredicted. The agent followed the boy, inquired about himand later disappeared into the Russian zone. Your father was aseager as we were to leave Vienna, but for different reasons. Hevolunteered to sound out the Americans, and as a last resort Iasked him to use my bait – stored documents inside Bavaria containinga list of people inside the Russian secret service. Your fatherdid his part of the job splendidly, like a professional negotiator.At the beginning of his bargaining, he kept my name in thebackground. The American officer in question wasn't even interestedin hearing the rest of the story. Your father went to the USarmy intelligence unit and mentioned the documents. The US intelligenceofficer jumped sky high.'Gehlen was careful not to mention to Zlatko what was reallyamong those stored documents – plans for the atomic bomb Hitlerhad been unable to use in time.Gehlen went on, 'He got in touch with Washington whileyour father was waiting in an adjoining room. Luckily, AllanDulles was around. The officer was ordered to put me on the firstavailable plane to Germany, again mainly to avoid the possibilityof detection by the Russians, which could complicate the relationshipand the possible withdrawal of Russian forces from Austria.From there I flew to Washington. My family joined me later.''Before my departure from Vienna, I swore that, if anythinghappened to your father before I could open those boxes, I'd makesure nothing happened to you. It might look like an empty promisebut, believe me, I was determined to carry it out. I was inWashington three weeks before I had a chance to convince theAmericans it was the Russians they had to worry about. I also300

gave them the exact location of the mineshaft. Three weeks later,I received the metal cases full of documents.'There were two hundred and fifty-nine of them. Again,Gehlen concealed their real value from the Americans, sayingnothing about the atomic bomb. 'As I said, my family joined meand were living on the army compound, guarded day and night. Ifelt safe for the first time since the end of the war. I knew I had towork hard to gain the confidence of many who looked on me withsuspicion. Then I asked the Americans to let me sort the documents,which were mostly in German code, apart from a few inRussian code. They allocated a number of ex-Nazi officers andsoldiers, mostly prisoners of war, who helped me with the sorting.A very painstaking job. I was told your father was in the processof selling the house and leaving Austria on his way to Yugoslavia.''While I was in Vienna before we parted, your father told mehow you escorted Rankovic in the capacity of interpreter, and thatit was at his suggestion that your father go back to Austria andwait for news from you. That piece of information was crawlingat the back of my mind all the time, even when I was in America.''Now that I was in possession of my documents, I wentthrough them in chronological order. I knew something had happenedin 1937, but I couldn't recall it. As I was looking in thedocuments for a clue one night, after we finished our initial reportfor the Americans, I discovered the possible link to disaster. I gotin touch immediately on the following morning with Allan Dulles.He sent a cable to the American ambassador in Vienna. It wastoo late. Your father had already left and crossed the Yugoslavborder. The American ambassador in Vienna, as a result of thatcable, alerted his colleague at the American embassy in Belgrade.Unfortunately, we lost track of your father, at least for the moment.''Why such urgency, general? What did you discover in yourdocuments, and how was my father mixed up in it?''There's no simple answer to that, Zlatko.' Gehlen was lying,mainly because he could not disclose everything. That would leadperhaps to another disaster far greater than one dead body – morelikely in the millions. 'According to our information, your father301

knew a terrible secret – a secret which would cost him his life.Yours, too, if you ever found out the truth. That's why you noticedthose strange signals between Mosa Pijade and GeneralRankovic. That's probably the reason Rankovic instructed yourfather to go back and wait for news from you. If he hadn't, he'dprobably be still alive.'Torn apart, Zlatko could hardly speak, 'Could you tell methen, general, why my father died, and where his grave is?'Gehlen rose and walked to where Zlatko was sitting. He puthis hand on his shoulder and in a compassionate voice said, 'No,Zlatko, I can't tell you that. Not now. Maybe one day in the future.Who knows? I can tell you your father was butchered by theCommunists mainly because he knew a terrible secret...'Zlatko interrupted sharply. 'But I can't understand it. My fatherhelped Mosa and Tito. Why did they allow this to happen? Iwas told my father was murdered by the Holy Crusaders.'Gehlen almost lost control. 'That's rubbish, Zlatko. Your fatherwasn't even near Fruska Gora, the main base of the HolyCrusaders. I'll tell you what happened so you can judge for yourself.'Gehlen then told him the story of Pijade's plot to lure AntePavelic back to Yugoslavia. Gehlen also explained that the plothad actually been borrowed from Stalin's tried recipe namedTrust. Then he described a delegation led by one of the mosttrusted lieutenants, who went into Yugoslavia and remained theonly living soul who knew exactly what happened.'All those ex-military personnel scattered around Europewere gathering in Spain, France, Italy and Austria, urging theirleadership to take this opportunity and continue with the struggle,which would create further bloodshed. But the Roman Catholichierarchy was of a different opinion. That saved Pavelic's life.They immediately recognised one of the Communists' cheap devicesfor getting their hands on Pavelic. ''Apart from the Communists' success in burying those membersof the delegation, there remains one mystery – how did theymiss the leader of the group? This is not only beyond my comprehension,but also that of your own countrymen, Zlatko. Hisrole at that time will remain a secret forever. In saving his life, the302

Communists probably successfully launched him into the Croatianexile organisation, where he became their sleeper. What kindof explanation he offered to Pavelic on his return to the Vatican, Idon't know. Whatever he said accomplished one thing for certain– his failure to locate the Holy Crusaders no doubt saved Pavelic'slife. Being too close to Yugoslavia, as well as being a possibleembarrassment to the Vatican, Pavelic sought a way out ofEurope. His choices were limited. He certainly would have likedto go to the USA but, in accordance with American law, he waspolitely refused on the grounds that it had been he who had declaredwar against the USA. Desperately looking for sanctuary,Pavelic finally succeeded in migrating to the Argentine – thehome of the ex-Nazi fraternity. Though he was far enough fromYugoslavia, he always feared for his life. He became an incurableparanoiac.'Gehlen then interrupted his story. 'Who told you your fatherwas killed by the Holy Crusaders?'Zlatko, who had followed every detail of Gehlen's narrative,realised how well he had been informed. It occurred to him thatGehlen knew more, but for obvious reasons he mentioned onlythose things he could find if he looked for them. It was immaterialwho had really killed his father, because whoever did it was aCommunist. Why? As he looked Gehlen straight in the eyes, henoticed him waiting for an answer.'I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but I was thinking of what youjust told me, and it makes even less sense than before. I was toldabout my father's death by General Rankovic.' Zlatko told Gehlenhow Rankovic had related his version. According to Rankovic,Doctor Tauber had been seeking a meeting with Tito himself.Somebody in Zagreb told him that Marshal Tito was fighting theHoly Crusaders, who, if not eliminated, would represent a dangerwhich could in the long run threaten the very existence of Yugoslavia.Instead of waiting for the escort which was offered him,Otto Tauber left Zagreb on his own, to find Tito at Fruska Gora.During his trip, he was caught in a battle between enemy forcesand the partisans, and was obviously killed by mistake.General Gehlen could not believe that Zlatko would haveswallowed something like that. Why had he not asked the where-303

abouts of his father's grave? He could then have arranged an exhumationwhich would show that his father had been murdered.In spite of his astonishment, he decided to tell him more, givinghim some sort of lead – or should he perhaps lure him into stayingin Germany?While his mind raced, he decided to try first to lure him. 'Idon't know how to tell you the real reason why your father waskilled. So long as I'm an officer of BND, I can't disclose it, sinceit's confidential information belonging to this office. I can, however,assure you that your father died because he knew a terriblesecret. The secret, if revealed today, could upset the sensitive balancein Yugoslavia and create the possibility of yet another war. Idon't think my country is prepared to take such a risk. Nevertheless,one day, when I retire from the BND, or I'm forced to leavemy post for whatever reason, I give you my solemn promiseyou'll learn the truth. But I have to warn you that such a revelationcould cost you your life as well as all those in your circle ofintimates.'Zlatko now understood that Gehlen knew the whole truth. Hewas astonished by Gehlen's half-revelation, but sensed that behindit was something horribly sinister. It was obvious to him, althoughhe could not measure its magnitude, that the secret inquestion had already claimed the life of his father and must havea connection with Mosa Pijade. Gehlen's implication that hemight be forced to leave the BND made him realise under whatkind of stress the man must be living; yet he was offering Zlatkohelp. He puzzled about this, while mentally searching for a clue.He almost forgot Gehlen's presence, but the general reminded himof it with an abrupt question.'Why don't you stay with us in Germany? I'd be more thanglad to have you on my staff. If you choose to stay, there are numerousopportunities for a man of your intelligence and abilities.Being one of us, you'll be able to learn the truth about your father.Isn't that what you want, Zlatko?'Listening to Gehlen half-attentively, Zlatko gave the impressionof a person who was daydreaming, whereas he was actuallythinking about his mother. How could he ever forget her? 'Do youalso know what happened to my mother, General Gehlen?'304

Surprised with Zlatko's sudden change of subject, Gehlenadmitted he did not. 'I presume she was released, but what actuallyhappened to her is unknown, at least to me. If you give metime, I could find out.'What self-confidence, thought Zlatko. A complete strangerhad given him an assurance that he could find his mother – a puzzlewhich had remained unsolved for the past six years despiteevery attempt to solve it in his own country. Then he rememberedsomething. 'But you still haven't told me how or why you havesuch confidence in me.'Gehlen had been waiting for this. What would be the bestway to make it painless for Zlatko? 'If you insist, I have no optionbut, believe me, it isn't going to be pleasant. You mentioned youwere acting as an interpreter to Rankovic at the meeting withBrigadier Scott. Did you ever find out what happened to the prisonerson their return to Yugoslavia?' Gehlen's piercing eyes,watching Zlatko's face, found no cause for alarm. Now he knewthat Zlatko could not possibly be a member of the inner cell of theYCP.'To be honest with you, I didn't care to find out. I only knewthe prisoners were part of the regime which had been responsiblefor the torture and slaughter not only of Jews but of their owncountrymen. So far as I'm concerned, most of them were directlyresponsible, and it was my belief that, if found guilty, they shouldpay with their own lives. Maybe to you that sounds harsh andcruel, but if you'd had the opportunity to see what they did to theJews, you'd realise they were lucky to be spared similar treatment.'At this, Gehlen jumped from his seat almost shouting. 'It'sunbelievable. You were employed by the special branch of theUDBA and yet you don't know what happened to your countrymen.Let me tell you something. If somebody else told me whatyou just told me, I'd call him the greatest liar on earth.'Insecure, and sensing a storm on the horizon, Zlatko couldnever have anticipated nor believed that such a cool high-rankingGerman officer would lose his temper, unless there was somedreadful reason. 'What am I supposed to know to prove I'm notlying, general?'305

By now, General Gehlen was in an awkward position. He acceptedthe fact that, unless he spelt out exactly what he meant, hewould leave permanent doubts in the mind of this young Jew. 'Doyou realise that your government was responsible for one of thegreatest massacres after the war? You were part of it.' Gehlen almostspat this out.It had been natural to Zlatko that all involved in the humiliationand genocide of the Jews should be punished with a dose oftheir own medicine. He said, 'The Jews' only crime was their origin,which wasn't recognised by the Ustashe. It wasn't necessaryto slaughter them like animals just because they were Jews. Don'tyou think that because of what they did to countless numbers ofinnocent people, the prisoners should have paid the price?'Thinking seriously about the plight of Zlatko's mother,Gehlen could sympathise with his views, but there was no way itcould be justified. How could he approve of something that hadno relation to what had happened during the war?'I realise why you feel so strongly about this, mainly becauseof your immediate experiences, but there's no way you or anybodyelse can justify the murder in cold blood of nearly half amillion old men, women, young children and sick people. Do youreally believe that was the right thing to do?'Disbelief showing on his face, Zlatko asked, 'How do you arriveat that number? We were told that Allied forces in Austriaand Italy rounded up about seventy thousand prisoners. Wheredid you get your figure?'Now Gehlen was utterly convinced that Zlatko was truly ignorantof what had happened. 'What you've just said is correct,but the difference was made up by people who were trying to escapein the confusion before the partisans sealed the borders.They knew only too well what might happen to them.'Stalling for a moment, Gehlen prepared himself for a confessionhe knew would have to come out. 'We were responsible foratrocities too, but that was in war. What happened in Bleirburgwas after the war had ended. That makes a difference.'Zlatko's tear-stained face showed his unrestrained emotionfor all those who had been butchered. He collapsed into his seat.'My God, what did I do to all those innocent people? Why did I306

take part in it? What forced me to do it? Did revenge make me sohood?' He put his head between his hands as if trying to hide hisshame and remorse. His sobbing filled Gehlen's study.Though Gehlen felt sorry for Zlatko, he could do nothing.For a while, he let him cry himself out, then he moved closer.Patting him on the shoulder, he offered fatherly comfort. 'Youhave to remember, Zlatko, that our destiny is sometimes governedby invisible forces. Call it whatever you like – God, Moses, Mohammedor Allah – it's all irrelevant. Many people have condemnedGermans because we were governed by an evil man whosucceeded in making us to believe in what he was trying to do. Ican't offer any excuse, not am I willing to do so, but there willcome a time when guilt will be apportioned in the proper quarters.Your anger and possible thirst for revenge blinded your humanqualities. Those qualities are pushed aside at the moment ofweakness – that's the truth to which many fail to respond. Weought to pay for our mistakes and, unless we learn the decent wayto survival, we're all going to see our own destruction.'Comforted by Gehlen's softly spoken words, which tried toremove some of the blame from his shoulders, Zlatko realised itwas now too late to cry over the inhumanity of the regime whichhe represented. Even if he could, he would not deny his responsibilityor guilt, but he could not accept the guilt for those who ranaway from the post-war anarchy, and the introduction of a totalitarianregime which destroyed all human qualities and the wellbeingof the entire Yugoslav population. Now, as he analysed thewhole situation, he recognised why Gehlen was so openly talkingto him about his own past. There was no fear on his part thatZlatko might reveal it to the Communists. Even if he did tell hissuperiors, what purpose would it serve? To him, they were allguilty – as much as Gehlen, if not more. Taking into account thatit all happened after the war, it was obvious to him that thegreater sin was committed at a time when justice should havetaken place – in place of the blind hate and resultant genocide ofthe nation. Regardless of what he felt against those who were responsiblefor the genocide of the Jewish people in Croatia, Zlatkocould not justify the slaughter of innocent women, old men and307

especially children. The more he thought about it, the more depressedhe became.When he finally raised his head, he realised he was alone.Alone in a foreign country seeking justice for a man who had imposedmore injustice on his own people than the occupying forcesduring the war. It was evident that the reason for his father's deathmust bear tremendous importance, not only to him personally butto his missing mother and the Croatian people. As God was hiswitness, he swore no sacrifice would be too great in his search forthe ultimate truth.308

15ZAGREB 1951On his way back to Yugoslavia, Zlatko was deeply depressed.The fact that he had been able to extract very little fromFranjo Rukavina, would-be assassin, had no effect whatsoever.His depression was aggravated mainly by having learnt aboutwhat actually happened to four hundred and eighty-nine thousandpeople. Considering the fact that he had been acting as interpreterat the meeting with Brigadier Scott, in Graz, Zlatko consideredthat the terrible outcome was partly his own fault. He realised andadmitted to himself that his own drive for revenge, mainly becauseof what happened to his mother, had blinded his humanitarianbeliefs and prevented him from acting appropriately. Themore he thought about it, the lower his opinion of himself became.He accepted guilt despite the fact that the situation in Grazhad actually been beyond his control. Had he tried to raise hisobjections at the meeting, even in the capacity of an interpreter, itwould not have influenced Rankovic, although perhaps his approachwould have been more rational. On the other hand, if hehad tried, it would be less painful now. His intervention, no matterhow small and insignificant, would have given him satisfactionnow, even at the expense of jeopardising his own chances ofobtaining the regime's assistance in the search for his mother.After so many years, he was still looking for her, with no sign ofsuccess. During his quiet deliberations on the plane flying back tohis chosen homeland, it crossed his mind that Gehlen was capableof inventing such a story. After all, he had aimed to persuadeZlatko to stay in West Germany.Could he really trust him that much? Had he really been honest?Zlatko wondered. Having Zlatko in the BND, Gehlen wouldcertainly benefit a great deal, mainly because of Zlatko's expertisein the Siviet satellite countries. The UDBA had penetrated mostof their secret services. Taking into account that Gehlen hadserved Hitler, who had been an arch-enemy of Slavs and Jews309

alike, it would be convenient for the general to invent such an incrediblestory. If he had fooled him, what about the Americans?They would not swallow anything unless there was something bigin it for them.Thinking about this, he became confused. Yet somethingdeep down was urging him to accept the story at face value. Heasked himself whether it was insight or the burden of his ownguilt. What had influenced him to accept Gehlen's story? Then heremembered: if he had not heard the rumours in Yugoslavia aboutthose who were killed after the end of the war, he would probablyhave thought about the possibility of deliberate disinformation – aspeciality of all intelligence fraternities regardless of the politicalsystem they served.In this particular instance, he had to trust his country's formerenemy. That was the worst part. It was Gehlen who had initiatedthe conversation about the mysterious medallion, so how wouldhe have known, if he was not one of them? Or had he got it fromhis wife, as he said? There was also the possibility that Gehlencould have snatched it from some unfortunate soul at Auschwitz,thus saving his neck at the Nuremberg trials.There must be something bigger. Zlatko was convinced thatno Jew would ever give up such a treasure, no matter how muchhuman suffering had to be endured or the methods of torture.Then suddenly he slapped his forehead. Of course. How could hehave forgotten? It was Gehlen who had the plans for the constructionof an atomic bomb. That knowledge alone would havebeen sufficient to keep him alive.Once back in Zagreb, Zlatko dialled Onisil's number. He hadoriginally thought of sending a cable to Onisil from Pullach butGeneral Gehlen had persuaded him not to. Zlatko had a lot to talkabout, and Onisil was the only friend he could trust, at least withthis sort of stuff. Yet his phone remained unanswered. It was almostten-thirty in the evening when Zlatko decided to try callingagain. Knowing Onisil's lifestyle, Zlatko expected him to be homenow. Onisil was very strict in his observance of martial arts –early to bed and an early start in the morning.310

If Onisil's phone had been constantly engaged, it would havealarmed Zlatko because of his knowledge of how the UDBAworked. They usually took the receiver off the hook when theysearched premises. They insisted that by doing so they would givethe impression that the occupant was home. Then an impatientcaller might visit and instead of having one bird they would havetwo.While Zlatko was toying with the receiver, he pondered onGehlen's insistence that he should not contact Onisil before hereturned. What possible reason could he have had? It occurred tohim now that his initial shock had prevented him asking Gehlenthen and there for an explanation. Why had he been obsessed withsuch secrecy? Was it because he knew they had been tailed on theway to Ljubljana, or was it simply professional insight?In spite of what happened at Pullach, Gehlen must know thatZlatko would report to his superior officer about his stay, as wellas his ad hoc decision to go there in the first place without seekingconfirmation from his headquarters. Maybe Gehlen had insistedon switching their meeting to Pullach after he learned thatZlatko's car had been tailed on the way to Ljubljana? If he did,then the general knows quite a lot, thought Zlatko. Perhaps oneday he would be told that too. After all, he had had to wait sixyears to learn what had happened to the prisoners of war.It occurred to Zlatko that Onisil might be staying at Slavica'splace. Although he had known a number of girlfriends in the past,this time it looked very serious. 'The Bosnian Casanova finallygot caught' would be Zlatko's favourite joke, while Onisil wouldtry to play down his latest relationship.It was almost eleven o'clock when Zlatko decided to try Slavica'snumber. Her mother answered the phone, half-asleep, butnevertheless angry enough to put anybody off. Only after she hadrecognised Zlatko's voice did she hold back. Her motive was verysimple. She was eager to intimidate Zlatko, not because of hisorigin but for being a matchmaker between Slavica and Onisil.She actually had nothing to say against Onisil except that sheloathed the police. Even her neighbourhood took notice of twoyoungsters dressed in green leather overcoats – the visible emblemof the Yugoslav police.311

Slavica's mother let Zlatko do all the talking while she beganplanning her questions.'I must apologise, Mrs Horvat, for phoning so late. Could Ispeak to Onisil, please? It's urgent, but I promise it won't takelong.'No longer sleepy, Mrs Horvat could hardly conceal her outrage,despite Zlatko's apology. To phone so late was bad enough,but being persistent at the same time made her wonder what hewas after. She had never trusted that Jew, even less because heworked for the police. As far as she was concerned, Slavica's excusethat Onisil and Zlatko were employees of the special branchdid not make any difference.However, she would rather put up with their smart-lookinggreen leather overcoats than the grubby militia's plain uniforms,which indicated the lowest-grade policemen – the ones who werethe most desperate to nail down the regime's opponents. Is hepretending to be unaware of what has happened or is he aftersomething else? was Mrs Horvat's immediate thought. Perhaps hewas fishing, as always, or maybe he wanted to find out how muchSlavica knew? Who knows? If she prolonged the conversation,maybe he would come out of the woods.'I'm terribly sorry, but Onisil's not here. Slavica's not hereeither – not even in Zagreb.' Mrs Horvat paused deliberately andthen continued, 'As far as I know, she's on the way to Sarajevo.'At that moment, she felt the time had arrived to intimidate herlate-night caller. 'Even if she was here, she wouldn't talk to you,anyway.' She paused a few seconds to let the remark sink in.Stunned by her insult, Zlatko asked himself, What have Idone to her? Have I upset her in some way?But Mrs Horvat interrupted his thoughts. 'So what do youwant them for, comrade Tauber?'Zlatko was infuriated by her calling him comrade. 'Listen. Idon't understand you, Mrs Horvat. I did absolutely nothing to upsetyour daughter. As a matter of fact, it was I who introducedOnisil to her, mainly because of my high regard for her. So whywouldn't she talk to me?'Angered by Zlatko's emphasis on his foul matchmaking, MrsHorvat said, 'That's what you think, but don't be so sure.'312

Her grave tone suggested to Zlatko that he should expecttrouble. Somehow, he fell uneasy but decided to inquire a littlefurther. 'Could you be more specific, Mrs Horvat? You're talkingin riddles. I saw Slavica the day before my departure and, so faras I'm concerned, nothing happened then to suggest she wouldn'twant to talk to me now;''Well, that was almost a week ago, wasn't it?'Irritated by the rising of her voice, Zlatko was convincedsomething was dreadfully wrong. Knowing her bad temper, hesensed it would be far better if he were more polite. Then shewould calm down. Otherwise he would not find out anything untilhe saw Slavica. 'Yes, it was,' he admitted in a timid voice.'Are you trying to tell me you haven't heard what's happenedsince then?'Despite his unease, Zlatko's mind clicked. Of course, howstupid of me. But to make sure, he asked, 'What happened while Iwas away? Don't tell me they got married.'Mrs Horvat had to admit that in the beginning she had suspectedZlatko of trying to con her, but now she had changed hermind. She was convinced he was being totally honest with her.He would not be able to pretend so convincingly, because it washis friend's life. Mrs Horvat also changed her manner and said, ina motherly tone, 'When did you get back, Zlatko?'Zlatko realised that Mrs Horvat was fully awake now, and hesuspected he was heading for more than he had bargained for.'Tonight about nine. Why do you ask, Mrs Horvat?'Hesitating, Mrs Horvat tried to find the best way to deliverthe dreadful news. 'Well, I have good reason for asking. You'dbetter prepare yourself for the greatest shock of your life.' After apause, she continued, 'Onisil is dead!'Shattered, almost speechless, Zlatko could not believe whathe had just heard. Surely there must be some mistake. 'What...you must be out of your mind... My God... What are you talkingabout, Mrs Horvat?'Mrs Horvat's religious upbringing forced her to have somesympathy for this handsome Jew, who had enough courage tomention God. If it had not been Zlatko, but some other member ofthe Yugoslav police, she would have suspected ridicule, but313

Zlatko was different. She could see it now. It was commonknowledge that reference to God was forbidden to any governmentofficial, even in private conversation. However, her intuitionforced her to probe Zlatko a little further, despite his sincerity, tomake sure she had heard it right. 'Don't pretend, Zlatko. It doesn'tbecome you.''I'm not pretending, Mrs Horvat, believe me. What must I doto convince you? Should I beg you on my knees or what?''It won't be necessary, Zlatko.' She spoke with warmth in hervoice, realising that, in spite of her loathing for the police, thisyoung fellow was an exception. 'Why did you lend him your car,for God's sake? If it hadn't been your car, he'd probably be alivenow;'Not understanding what Onisil's death had to do with his car,Zlatko asked, 'What do you mean, Mrs Horvat? What's the connectionwith my car?' 'Come on, Zlatko. Everyone knows aboutyour old bomb.''What are you trying to tell me?' Zlatko was becoming impatient.Disturbed by his continual interruptions, Mrs Horvat said, 'Ifyou let me, I'll tell you what I know;' Taking a deep breath, shecontinued, 'Onisil died in a crash on his way to Zagreb, apparentlydriving your old bomb. He failed to negotiate a curve. Honestlyspeaking, I just wonder how you got to Ljubljana safely on theway up there. Slavica was told the car rolled a number of timesbefore it carne to a full stop. By the time me ambulance arrived,he must have lost a lot of blood. He was in a very serious condition,and two days ago he died from internal injuries.'Zlatko immediately thought of them being tailed by the Mercedeson the way up ta Ljubljana, and he figured there must besome explanation – but hold on, why had Mrs Harvat referred tohis old bomb?'That's impossible, Mrs Horvat. Onisil was driving my newBMW, not my old bomb. I sold my Zastava a cauple of weeksago.'Suddenly this rang a bell for Mrs Harvat. She rememberedthat Slavica had mentioned to her several weeks ago that Zlatkohad inherited some money and had purchased a new car. She did-314

n't know that it had been delivered to him on the eve of his departure.Nevertheless, she did not want Zlatko to know that Slavicashared most of her information with her, so she pretended tobe confused. 'That's news to me, Slavica told me Onisil was in thecompletely smashed Zastava, which I presumed was yours. It'srather strange, Zlatko, isn't it?' Instead of waiting for his reply,she continued, 'It was strange enough that they couldn't get himout of the car. They had to cut open the driver's door to get himout.'Mulling over what he had heard, Zlatko answered automatically,'Weird. Most cars lose their doors when they roll, especiallyif the car rolls down a hill. I'm as puzzled as you now. When Iasked Onisil to pick up my car, it wasn't the Zastava, that's forsure,'Mrs Horvat was satisfied with Zlatko's explanation. After all,he must know what they had driven on the way up. She was hopingSlavica's return would enable her to learn the truth, Somehow,she wished Zlatko had not called, not that late, yet not so soonafter the accident, 'I don't know anything about that. Franklyspeaking, it wasn't my business, I hope your comrades will beable to tell you the true story, Zlatko. Laku noc. Goodnight,'Responding automatically, Zlatko bade her goodnight, stillholding the receiver in his trembling hand, not registering thattheir conversation was over. Mrs Horvat's reference to the truthwas ringing in his ears. Looking out of the adjacent window nowpartly covered with snow, Zlatko's eyes moistened and tears beganto roll down his cheeks. How could this have happened? HadOnisil really died by accident or had he been killed? Zlatko'sthoughts were confused by his recollection of Gehlen's persuasivevoice; the general's words suddenly appeared like a distant echo:'If I were you, I wouldn't contact anybody. Not now,'A cigarette case lying nearby offered the only comfort Zlatkocould think of, at least at this moment. He lifted it and stared at itsinscription: 'To my everlasting and true friend – Zlatko, fromOnisil,' While he lit a cigarette, deeply inhaling the smoke,Zlatko's mind was searching. His memory worked like a computertrying to find a clue to his dearest friend's death. At thesame time, he was analysing the conversation with Mrs Horvat. It315

occurred to him that Onisil might have phoned Slavica to let herknow about his earlier arrival. It was quite possible that he hadtold her they had been followed, especially if he had seen theirpursuers again in Ljubljana. Zlatko was determined that, whateverthe real reason for Onisil's death, he was not going to sit and waitfor the solution of the mystery to come to him.Desperately though he tried to control himself, he could notstop the tears running down his face. 'What a mess,' he cried,'Why must I suffer so much?' He had already lost his grandfatherand his father, and he did not know where his mother was, andnow his best friend – a terrible shock. So many innocent peoplehad had to pay with their lives for those who continued in theircorruption. Wiping away his tears, he remembered that, when hewas a teenager, his father had always encouraged Zlatko to cryand not to be ashamed of doing so.It was almost three-thirty in the morning before, exhaustedand sick of chain-smoking, Zlatko fell into a light sleep. Lying ona couch, his last thought was directed to Onisil. He was certainthat, whatever the explanation he would be given the followingmorning, it would be far from the truth. It was almost daylight beforehe was in a really deep sleep.A continuous ringing in his ears woke him, but he was notsure whether it was a dream or reality. He reached for his alarmclock, but the ringing continued as fiercely as ever. Looking forthe phone, it occurred to him that his restless night had caused thequilt to fall over it, on the floor where he had left it last night,Pushing the quilt aside, he lifted the receiver and in a sleepyvoice said, 'Tauber speaking.'A female voice replied, 'Welcome home. I'm glad to hearyour voice, darling. Why didn't you contact me when you gotback, my dear? Don't tell me you've already forgotten me,'The teasing tone pierced Zlatko's shattered mind. Looking forhis cigarette case, he asked, half-asleep, 'Is that you, Veronica?'In a cheeky tone, Veronica replied, 'Of course it is. I can'timagine how men can so easily forget their loved ones, after onlya week away,'316

Not in the mood for an argument nor for so early a conversation,Zlatko remained silent, so she continued, 'When did you getback, my dear?'Although Zlatko detected concern in her voice, he was uncertain.It sounded genuine but, under the circumstances, whocould tell? He knew he should be happy that somebody hadmissed him. Gradually awakening, and glad to hear a voice, hesaid, 'Well, well. I can tell you really missed me. If you mustknow, I arrived much later than I planned.''So you haven't heard the tragic news yet?'Strange, he thought. He had forgotten his conversation withMrs Horvat, so he asked, 'What news?''About Onisil, my darling.'It did not take long for Zlatko to remember the dreadful newsbut, instead of letting Veronica know, he decided to pretend ignorance,hoping to learn more than he had last night. It was far betterfor him to know as much as possible before he turned up at hisoffice. By then, he would be able to judge whether it was an accidentor not. He made every effort to sound calm. 'What aboutOnisil?'His skill at pretence was extraordinary. His question soundedso honest, and his tone so true, that Veronica was convinced heknew nothing about what had happened to his closest friend.She decided it was better to let him know in person. 'Don'tworry now, darling. Take a shower, and I'll be with you shortly.I'll make your breakfast, and then we'll talk.''All right, but be snappy. I have to be in the office by ninethirty.'He was urging Veronica more out of the need to talk tosomeone than a fear of being late for work.On his way to the bathroom, Zlatko thought, What will happenif she finds out later that I heard the news from Mrs Horvat?Would he be able to pretend he had been half-asleep when sherang him?Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Zlatko,with his face half-shaven, went to open it. 'Who's there?'Veronica was surprised. She had never heard Zlatko ask sucha question before, so she teased him, slightly changing her voice,'It's room service, comrade Tauber.'317

Not recognising her voice, Zlatko stalled a few seconds beforehe unbolted the door. Disappointed by his cool welcome, Veronicasensed immediately something was wrong. Instead ofshowing her disappointment, she gave him a welcome kiss and aRussian-type bear-hug. Her spontaneous welcome indicated thathe was going to be very late for the office. Probably later than Ianticipated, he thought, while finishing shaving.In the mean time, Veronica prepared breakfast and the aromaticsmell of coffee spread throughout the apartment.Through the open bath room door, Zlatko asked, 'Is Onisil upto some mischief again? You never finished what you were goingto say, Veronica.''Onisil is dead, Zlatko.''What? That's impossible.' Zlatko turned his head slowly togive him enough time to compose himself, but his face showed apainful expression. Again he could not stop himself. Tears reappearedin his eyes, so he wiped them with his towel. He would notgave Veronica the satisfaction of seeing him in that state.Sensing his reaction, Veronica paused before answering andthen changed the subject, but without any response from Zlatko.When he finally emerged, Zlatko asked, 'What did you say?How did you learn about Onisil's death? What did you find out?'Convinced that he knew nothing, Veronica failed to registerthe sarcastic tone in his voice, mainly because she had not expectedhis questioning. 'Not much really,' she lied. 'I wouldn'thave known if it hadn't been for Slavica.'She explained how she had rung Slavica, trying to learnwhen Zlatko would be back. Quite naturally, Slavica had beenupset, and Veronica offered to pay her a visit, not suspecting whatshe would learn once she saw her. She was told that Onisil's father,Djemal Bijedic, chairman of the Bosnia and Hercegovinaexecutive council, had invited Slavica to his son's funeral. Hepaid for her trip to Sarajevo and, according to Slavica, she was tostay with Onisil's parents at least a week after Barjam, theChristmas festivities of the Moslems in Bosnia.Impatiently, Zlatko interrupted. 'Do you know how it happened?'318

Irritated by his persistence, Veronica was trying to find a wayout, which was not easy. If she told what she had learned, hewould suspect her of being planted, and that was the last thing shewanted him to believe. On the other hand, he might discover itlater, and that would certainly ruin their relationship forever.'No, but I'm sure the guys in your office will be able to tellyou more than I can. Whenever something like this happens,there's a lot of rumours.' Then she mentioned the crash.For a moment, Zlatko concentrated on what Veronica hadsaid about the guys in the office. What made her so sure theywould know more? How could she be sure he would be told thetruth? His way of thinking was different now that he had beentold by Gehlen things he never dreamt of. He doubted Veronica'ssincerity. He could see why Slavica had reacted as she did. Afterall, how could she have known he had sold his old Zastava? Butthe fact that they had driven to Ljubljana in his new BMW couldnot change the bitter reality that Onisil was dead. How had his oldcar turned up in Ljubljana? He had sold it to a man from Mostar.Zlatko broke his silence, saying, 'That's very strange, Veronica.'Veronica, unsure of what he was referring to, interrupted.'What's strange, Zlatko?' It was only then that Zlatko's statementhit home. If Zlatko thinks it's strange, he surely must have a goodreason, and I want to learn about it too, thought Veronica.However, Zlatko decided to tell her a different version ofwhy it seemed strange to him. 'You know as well as I do howgood a driver Onisil was. Although he never drove the Zastavaover the speed limit, I saw him behind the BMW's steering wheelon the way to Ljubljana. We were travelling at a hundred andthirty kilometres an hour. It was a joy to see him in total commandof the car. Of course, he had enormous ability, thanks to hist'ai chi. Absolutely incredible control of body and mind. So howcan you expect me to believe such a story?'Looking at Zlatko like some incredible phenomenon whichhad appeared before her, Veronica barely managed to ask, 'Whatare you talking about? Whose BMW was it?'Zlatko suddenly realised no one could have known about it,except Onisil and, possibly, Slavica. Zlatko explained that he had319

not told anyone he had bought the BMW; he wanted to surpriseher on his return from Austria.Veronica accepted Zlatko's explanation, but she couldn't understandhow his old Zastava could have been involved in Onisil'sdeath. 'But Onisil wasn't driving your new car, Zlatko.'That was exactly what he was waiting for. 'Whose car was hedriving then?'Veronica could not believe her ears. 'How come you ask me?I don't know I didn't give him a car, so how could I know? Slavicatold me that Onisil was driving the Zastava on the way toZagreb, and she assumed it was yours. She was upset because sheexpected that you'd have looked after it. After all, how manytimes did it let you down in the past? Do you remember our jokesabout the car and a pair of overalls? Slavica's tone suggested sheheld you responsible for Onisil's death. If it wasn't yours, how doyou expect me to know whose car he was driving?'Looking at Veronica, Zlatko could not penetrate her enigmaticbut beautiful face. Her eyes stared straight at him, suggestinghe might be wrong.'That explains it,' he said in a whisper almost like a personwho did not want to be heard.Veronica was puzzled. 'What do you mean, Zlatko?'Zlatko's mind switched to the mysterious car which hadtailed them on their way to Ljubljana. 'Nothing, my dear. Just athought. I was thinking how easily a person can get knocked offin this country.' He deliberately suggested the possibility to getVeronica's reaction.She could hardly hide her astonishment. Absolutely unbelievable– a man who occupied still a responsible position withthe special branch of the Yugoslav police suggesting somethinglike that. 'You must know more than I do. Do you?'Veronica's piercing eyes were staring at him, but he sensedthat he finally had her in the position so vividly described byGeneral Gehlen. He knew the time had arrived to discover herreal role in his life. To accomplish that, he had to wait. A fewhours would be sufficient to find out about her. After all, what didhe really know about her? She had never questioned him abouthis job, or even Onisil's, and yet she was unduly knowledgeable320

about aspects of their activities. Due to the sensitivity of theirwork, neither he nor Onisil discussed it in front of anybody, yetVeronica had made pointed allusions which suggested familiaritywith his job. The suspicions he had had before his trip were nowaggravated. If she was a plant, she was heading for a surprise. Noteven Onisil had known his most secret thoughts; in fact he hadonly ever shared them with his father when he was alive.However, the possibility that he might be wrong made himuneasy. What certainty was there that Veronica was actually oneof them – an inner-cell Communist given orders to sound himout? If he decided to avoid her deliberately, it might unnecessarilyhurt her. To be on the safe side, he said, 'I know very little really,but, believe me, I'm going to find out.'Veronica appeared hurt by the harshness of his reply. Zlatkowondered whether it was because of his previous remark, whichcould vindicate Slavica's accusation, or was it because she suspectedshe had not been told the truth?'I wonder how long I'll have to wait to find the truth.' Thesadness in her voice reflected her mood, but Zlatko could see thatany further conversation could spark an argument. He excusedhimself by saying he would have to leave, as he was already latefor the office. He left the apartment hurriedly.Veronica, who appeared occupied with tidying his kitchen,welcomed this way out. She needed time to think on her own.Instead of requesting the official car from UDBA headquarters,Zlatko used public transport. His journey by tram would nottake long, but long enough to prepare himself for a stormy day.Half an hour later, Zlatko arrived at his office. He delayedreporting to his chief under the pretext that he had to finalise thedraft of his interrogation. He hoped to receive a call. If he did, itwould confirm his suspicion about Veronica once and for all. Thecall did not come through as expected, so Zlatko changed hismind. He slowly rose from his comfortable seat, gathered hishandwritten notes and walked out of his office to see his superior.'Welcome back, comrade Zlatko. What kept you so long inAustria?'321

Zlatko immediately realised that his chief must have beenunaware of his trip to Pullach, or was he pretending too? It wasvery hard to see any change in his boss's face, so he opted to use asimple intelligence trick. 'Didn't Onisil tell you I went to Pullachinstead?' If this is an act, then it's a bloody good one, thoughtZlatko.Assuming that Zlatko was unaware of Onisil's fate, GeneralCvetkovic said, 'Sit down, comrade Zlatko. When did you getback from Pullach?'Studying his chief's face, Zlatko noticed his uneasiness andthe nervous movements he was making in his chair behind hisenormous desk.'It was exactly nine-thirty last night, comrade general.' Zlatkoknew he would not be able to pretend he did not know aboutOnisil, but an early disclosure might spoil his plan to avenge thedeath of his friend. He also hoped to learn more about Veronica,one way or another. Seeing that his boss was struggling with howto proceed with his intention to tell him about his friend, Zlatkowent on, 'What's so important about the time of my return, comradegeneral?'Before Cvetkovic could answer, his phone buzzed. Irritated,he lifted the receiver. 'Yes, Zdenka, what's up?'From where he was sitting, Zlatko could not hear Zdenka'sexcuse for interrupting their meeting, but he eagerly awaited thegeneral's reaction.'Not now, I'm busy. Tell her I'll give her a call as soon I'mfree.' The general almost hung up, but Zdenka must have anticipatedit. He took his fountain pen and scribbled a phone numberon a pad without repeating the numbers. It was obviously a deliberatemove to hide the information from Zlatko. Zlatko could tellthat the general knew where this mysterious female was callingfrom. Otherwise, why all the secrecy in writing it down?The mysterious lady caller had not phoned from her usualplace, or the general would have known her number. Zlatkocounted five digits and, to his knowledge, only chiefs and theirassistants would be allocated a five-digit telephone number. If itwas Veronica, then the telephone number must be his own. Thegeneral would not know every number by heart. It was Zdenka's322

duty to call home numbers if necessary, and Zlatko's number wasno exception.If it was Veronica who called, what was she still doing in hisapartment? It had been almost two hours since he left her there.Why had she waited so long? Was she trying to decide betweenher love or her loyalty to the party? Whatever it was, he wouldfind out, thought Zlatko.The general interrupted his thoughts. 'I presume you've heardwhat happened to Onisil, otherwise I wouldn't have asked youabout Austria. How would I know you were in Pullach? As youcan tell, Onisil never delivered the message to me.' The generalwas lying, and Zlatko knew it.Cvetkovic rose from his seat, and Zlatko knew there was noway he could possibly gamble now – not with his boss. While thegeneral was pouring slivovitz for them, Zlatko grabbed the opportunity.'You 're right,' he said. 'I did learn about OnisiI's tragic deaththis morning from Veronica.' Zlatko deliberately lied also andcontinued, 'I instructed Onisil to let you know about my whereaboutsimmediately on his arrival in Ljubljana.'Cvetkovic handed over a drink without responding, butZlatko's piercing eyes noticed a change in the general's face. Hiseyes nearly popped out. Cvetkovic, who would normally sip hisslivovitz, was gulping it. His knuckles had turned tight fromsqueezing his glass. The momentary lapse disappeared as soon ashe began to stroke his Mexican-type moustache.Cvetkovic composed himself and remarked, 'Onisil waskilled a few days ago, apparently intoxicated. He failed to negotiatethe curve at Krsko and rolled over the side some ten metresbelow the road level. The whole area is almost inaccessible, so ittook almost an hour before his body was freed from the wreck.''But Onisil never touched alcohol, comrade general,' protestedZlatko.'That may have been true in the past but who knows whatmight have influenced him to take it up? Maybe he thought youwouldn't be coming back. Being alone in Pullach, those fascistswouldn't pass up an opportunity to try to persuade you to changesides!'323

This comment struck Zlatko like a slap in the face. Onisil'sdeath began to make sense – a lot of sense.The general continued, 'His accident was apparently discoveredby a road repair gang who noticed the freshly broken rails.Obviously he died instantly, as reported by our doctor. Unfortunate.He was young and had a good future here. Judging from thephotos taken at the scene of the accident, it seems the old bombremained almost intact. Unbelievable. If you 'd like to see thephotographs, they're in the basement. It's a terrible mess, believeme. He was reliable and punctual, and yet, for some inexplicablereason, he was fatally negligent.'Zlatko jumped from his seat almost shouting. 'What do youmean, negligent, comrade general? He was one of the best driverswe've ever had. How could anybody describe him as negligent?'Zlatko's piercing eyes were staring at the general's, but thegeneral, who sympathised with Zlatko, suddenly changed thesubject.'Do you have your report ready for Marshal Tito, comrade?''Yes, I have,' said Zlatko, grudgingly. Placing it on his superior'sdesk, Zlatko turned towards the door. He knew it waspointless to argue with the stubborn general. Before he reachedthe door, however, he turned and said, 'Do you mind if I take afew days off? I left my car in Ljubljana and I'd like to fetch itback myself. I have to see Onisil's parents. It's too late for the funeral,anyway.'The sorrow displayed on Zlatko's face and also the possibilityof a clash convinced the general that it would be best to grant hima few weeks' absence to give him time to cool off. In a fatherlytone, he said, 'It's all right with me, comrade Zlatko. I can understandyour feelings. I, too, lost many friends during our strugglefor freedom.'Before Zlatko left Cvetkovic's office, his chief walked towardshim and extended his hand. Expressing his sympathy, hesaid, 'Once you see the pictures, you'll be satisfied there's no evidenceof foul play. Look after yourself, and come and see mewhen you get back.'Since the chief's waiting room was deserted, Zlatko exchangeda few words with Zdenka, Cvetkovic's attractive secre-324

tary. On the way out, her intercom buzzed. He could clearly hearhis chief's voice ordering her to get in touch with Veronica immediately.Now he knew what Veronica's intentions were, but whyhad she called from his apartment?Walking along the corridor which led him to the records section,the chief's words were still ringing in Zlatko's ears, 'there'sno evidence of foul play.' How strange for his superior officer tomake such a fundamental mistake. Or did he say it deliberately topersuade him from pursuing it further? Whatever his real aimwas, Zlatko was still determined to dig out the truth. He was moreconvinced than ever that there had been foul play, mainly becauseof the mysterious car which tailed them on the way to Ljubljana,but also because of his chief's mistake. His plan was already formulated.As he reached the records section, he identified himself andrequested to see the pictures. During his examination, he noticedthat one had a rough edge. Comparing it with the others, he foundthat it was short about ten millimetres. The picture had been cutwith scissors instead of the guillotine used by the photo developmentbranch. Why? Looking at the photographs, he noticed thatthe driver's side door was missing from the body, yet there was nosign of a door near the wreckage. Sifting the photos one by one,he finally located one showing the side door resting on a smalltree crown situated at the edge of the cliff. It had perhaps beenhurled aside, accidentally landing on the tree.Closer inspection of the photo revealed that it had been cutexactly at the position of the door handle. Why would someonecut this particular picture and leave the rest untouched? On turningit over, Zlatko noticed it had the office stamp and a numbercorresponding with the file listing. He was convinced that whoevercut it had had a good reason to conceal something. It wasobvious it had been cut afterwards, otherwise it would have beendeleted from the file.Returning the pictures, Zlatko said in a very firm voice,'Fairly messy accident, don't you think?'The clerk on duty nodded, not fully aware of who was involved.325

Once Zlatko had reached his office, he began to develop hisplan. He found among his maps one which showed part of Slovenia.From the file which contained a list of the photographs, helearned the exact location of Onisil's crash. A Minolta mini camera,a handy gift which he had received from General Gehlen, wasfinally put to good use.The next couple of hours were spent filming everything andanything he could lay his hands on. Luckily, his office was alwaysstacked with a great number of confidential and top secretdocuments dealing mainly with penetration methods and resultsregarding Eastern Bloc intelligence operations. If the Western intelligencefraternity were to possess this information, they couldlearn exactly how the Russians were operating.The following morning, Zlatko waited for the arrival of theelderly lady who cleaned his apartment. After she confirmed thatshe had seen Veronica leaving his apartment the previous day accompaniedby a man with a toolbox, Zlatko was convinced thathis apartment had been bugged.Without even looking for the bugs, Zlatko hastily hired a carthrough the police network and quickly left Zagreb. He headedstraight for Ljubljana. This was the most important trip he hadever made. Its outcome would seal the decision which was tochange his whole life.He set out for the site of Onisil's accident, carrying with hima pair of powerful army binoculars, a spade and a rope with asmall anchor attached. He meant to use the equipment to locatethe side door of Onisil's car, hoping to confirm his suspicions. Ifhe found them dented, he would flee Yugoslavia. After all, it wasnot his real home – he was French by birth. He then admitted tohimself that he had no patriotic feelings towards Yugoslavia. Itrepresented only the suffering of his people and the humiliationimposed by successive dictatorships.Whilst driving, he kept his eyes glued to the road. Every nowand then, out of the corner of his eye, he looked up at his rearvisionmirror. He was sure no one would stop an unidentified policecar, since the registration number belonged to a high-rankingofficer.326

When he reached the proximity of the accident, he sloweddown and kept his eyes open, looking for broken rails.At that time of year, Slovenia was covered by deep snow.Both sides of the road were heaped with piles of snow depositedthere by ploughs. At regular intervals, openings were left in thesnow banks to allow vehicles to cross or make U-turns. Throughone of these openings, Zlatko saw the broken rails ahead but, onreaching the location, he realised that the nearest outlet to theedge of the road was five hundred metres away. He would have topark the car behind the snow piles and walk back. Fortunately,when he parked the car, it was invisible from the road.Now he began his laborious preparations. First, he detachedhis car's number plates and, wrapping them in a sheet, depositedthem in his briefcase. Then he changed into skiing overalls andstuffed his folded clothes into a duffel bag. Locking everything inthe boot of his vehicle, and armed with the rope, binoculars andspade, he slowly began to move in the direction of the smashedcar.It took him about twenty minutes to reach the wreck, becausethick snow made it necessary to descend the slope with extremecaution. When he reached the Zastava, which was similar in colourto his own, he inspected it closely. He brushed off the snowand took a good look. It was dented all over. It seemed to him thateverything had been well taken care of, except for one thing. Ashe bent down to look under the driver's seat, he noticed an unusualsmell. He sniffed around. His nose led him to a small pieceof worn army blanket stuck under the driver's seat. There was nomistake: there was definitely a trace of chloroform.All that remained was to locate the driver's side door. Hescanned the area. Soon he located the tree with the door restingagainst it. It was within throwing distance from the wreck, so heknew that, if he could attach his rope anchor to the tree, he mightloosen the door. Tightly securing his small pronged hook to therope, he threw it in the direction of the small tree. He repeatedthis several times before the anchor finally took hold. Once secure,Zlatko had only to pull on the rope and, hopefully, the doorwould be shaken loose. All to no avail. His frantic tugging onlyshook layers of snow away.327

Zlatko tied the rope to the smashed car and considered thesituation. Once the snow was gone, he could see the door clearly.He resorted to the binoculars. Focusing them on the car door, hecould clearly see a deep dent, with black paint running the entirewidth of the door. They had had to use cutting tools because thedoors were jammed and they wouldn't have fallen off like regulardoors.Now he knew Gehlen was right.He began again pulling vigorously on the rope but, ratherthan loosening the door, he disengaged it from the crown of thetree only to see it fall over the cliff. Well, that does it, he thought,and, throwing the rest of his equipment in the same direction, hereturned to his parked car.After changing his gear, he successfully thumbed a ride froma truck driver half an hour later and was on his way to Ljubljana.The truck driver dropped him off near the railway station and afew minutes later Zlatko walked out of the men's toilet blockdressed in civilian clothes.From the railway station, he made a local call to make surehis car was available. He made another to the border station atSentilj – the last outpost on the Yugoslav side. In a military tone,he asked to speak to the commandant, and a few seconds later headvised him of the arrival of a colonel from Belgrade who was onhis way to Graz. To convince the commanding officer, he introducedhimself as General Rankovic's assistant. The mere mentionof Rankovic's name was sufficient for the commanding officer toaccept Zlatko's request He asked for the registration number.Zlatko gave him the number from the plates in his briefcase.Fifteen minutes later, Zlatko was driving in the direction ofthe Sentilj outpost. On a deserted stretch of road, he stopped for afew minutes and exchanged his number plates for those of hisabandoned car, and also changed into a colonel's uniform.The operation was executed with military precision. By thetime he reached the outpost, a few cars were waiting for the normalinspection. Instead of parking his car in the queue, he bypassedthem and stopped at a signal given by an armed guard.Zlatko requested to see the commanding officer, to whom he presentedfake documents which completely fooled him. Not even328

asking the purpose of his trip, the officer ordered a soldier to raisethe camp, and a few minutes later Zlatko was on the Austrian sideof the border.There, he instructed the officer to make a call to MajorStrossenberg in Vienna, while he waited in his car. It was notlong before Zlatko was instructed to continue to Graz. Everythingwent smoothly. Now he was ready for the last ritual.While he waited for the Germans to organise a trip to Germany,Zlatko wrote a short note to Veronica.Dear Veronica,Since I'm convinced that your love for me was bugged, Idecided to give you a present. I hope you realise nowwhat kind of relationship you could have had if you hadchosen to be as honest as I was. I wish you all the happinessin the world, hoping my present will remind youof me as long you keep it.Once yours, ZlatkoLooking back in the direction of Yugoslavia, Zlatko's mindreturned to the girl he had loved so much. His regret was not toopainful. He had never given himself completely to a relationship.Nevertheless, despite the knowledge that he was free, he feltempty now. He had left behind something sacred to him – hismother, whom he had never found. And now he knew why. Theydidn't want him to find her, but he hoped General ReinhardGehlen would.PULLACH 1952Cold and windy weather interrupted the usual silence in theearly hours at the BND's Pullach headquarters. Inside its tiny hospitalit was warm and silent. The silence would occasionally bebroken by a nurse's footsteps – the sound of rubber-soled shoesagainst me corridor's polished floor. She was not as busy as usual,but she would frequently check her sole patient. In his sleep, thepatient would talk, but it was not in German. Very peculiar in-329

deed, she would say to herself. If he's a real German as his papersand name indicate, why is he talking in a foreign language, forGod's sake? She could not understand it, but from time to timeshe would hear similar words. What a nightmare it must be, shethought, repeated night after night...After a while, she would recognise two words – 'Mama' and'Tata' – and realised that the mysterious patient was talking abouthis mother and father. Something dreadful must have happened tothem, was her immediate conclusion. What would cause a grownman to say the words night after night? His presence in Pullachwas a mystery too. Although it was not the first time she hadknown of strange men being operated on in this tiny but wellequipped hospital, he was an entirely different sort of patient.Being a person of great patriotic fervour, and with a deep sense ofduty, she had never questioned the presence of any patients, norwas she told of their background.However, this time she felt there was something add. Thoughshe suspected it, she was reluctant to accept the possibility.Mostly on her own in the hospital, and leading an isolated privatelife, which was one of the conditions of her mysterious employment,she quite naturally craved any communication, no matterhow slight. To her, this necessity was extremely important in carryingout her duties, and yet her superiors deprived her of that essentialneed in her relationship with those who were given intoher professional care and attention. Somehow, the officials overlookedthe need to preserve the identity of those who were herenot to recover from illness but to hide their past by changing theirfacial appearances. 'How can I ever help or comfort these unfortunatebut desperate souls?' she would frequently ask herself.As her patient – Wolfgang – ceased his night talk and settleddown, she would return to her small office, but her ears weretuned to any further sound coming from him. Out of the manypatients she had looked after during the two years she was here,he was the first one she had cared so much for. Feeling somewhatguilty, she wondered whether it was duty or something deeper?On many occasions she would be confused by contradictorythoughts, sometimes thinking of him with passion and sometimes330

feeling that her concern was simply devotion to her calling.Whatever it was, she knew deep down she cared a lot.At seven precisely, she silently sneaked into the ward, tryingnot to disturb Wolfgang. Three beds lined against the wall wereready made but still empty. The fourth was occupied by Wolfgang.What a patient. His bead was swathed in bandages in whichthree slits had been cut. Behind the mask she observed unusuallybeautiful hazel eyes. What a handsome man he must be, shethought secretly. She almost visualised him as Rudolph Valentino,whom she had admired from her early childhood. The ideahad crossed her mind several times during the fast three weeks.She opened the holland blinds. Grim though it was, daylightflooded the ward. By the time she reached the last window, herpatient had woken up. Half-asleep, he noticed his nurse's angelface and ready groomed hair. He immediately thought, Oh, whatlovely hair. What I'd give to loosen it even if only for a moment.And then his roving eyes would scrutinise her equally beautifulfigure, which was even more striking. What a pity, with such astriking shape, to be just a nurse. He also thought frequently abouthis friends in Zagreb. He could visualise their reaction if onlythey could see Helga. He compared her with Veronica, whom hehad left behind. He realised that Helga was even more beautiful,not to mention her sincerity and good nature.Realising that her patient was awake, Helga greeted him in acheerful mood. 'Good morning, Wolfgang. Did you have a goodsleep?''Good morning, Helga.' Looking straight at the window,Wolfgang pretended that he had been innocently caught staring ather. He continued, 'The weather doesn't look encouraging, but oneshould never complain about it. It didn't affect my sleep at all.Thank you for your concern.'Pleasantly surprised by Wolfgang's courtesy, Helga wished toprolong their conversation, sensing his imminent departure.'You're right. It's seldom beautiful weather at this time of year,but at least it's warm in here and comfortable.'Each of them sensed that their light conversation only servedto hide secret thoughts.331

By now, Zlatko alias Wolfgang was fully awake. It was arare opportunity for him to talk to Helga. He sensed she had beenavoiding him lately. 'I agree, Helga, but my concern is much moreimmediate.' In a cheeky tone he continued, 'Having an attractivewoman like you around, I really don't care about the weather.' Hecasually glanced in the direction of the window. Amazing, hethought, how my compliments are always received with a tinysmile, but enough to complement her sensuous mouth.Helga secretly appreciated the compliments mainly becausethey sounded so genuine and yet so serious. Most complimentsshe received in the nearby village she considered only as invitationsto share simple pleasures, nothing more serious than that.'I always thought you were more of a comedian than a professionalinsurance investigator,' Helga teased him, laughing.Wolfgang laughed himself, despite the mask which restrictedhis facial movements. 'I was right, Helga. If you make me laughso early in the morning, my whole day should be as bright as sunshine.'He glanced out of the window again, hoping to see a ray ofsunlight through the dun grey sky.In the process of tidying up die quarters, Helga had movedcloser to his bed, hoping to see Wolfgang's unusual eyes onceagain. Today was her last opportunity to see his eyes, unless hechose to contact her. His bandages would be removed in her absence,and he would then leave die hospital, and possibly Pullachaltogether. It was a normal security procedure which was repeatedtime after time.As she moved closer, pretending to tidy up near his bed, notrealising that she was within reach of his strong hands, her eyesmet Wolfgang's. Before she could move out of his range, he puthis arms around her waist and slowly pulled her towards him.Pretending to protest, she said, 'You're very fast, Wolfgang. Iwonder what your wife would say if she suddenly came into theward?'Sensing her curiosity, Wolfgang's detective mind could easilysee the trick she was using to find out if he was married, so he decidedto tease her a little. 'I don't think she'd take it too seriously.Being in a profession like mine is a job handicap. I'm confrontedwith similar situations almost daily.' Looking straight into her332

eautiful dark eyes, he could see a trace of disappointment, almostlike a beginner caught bluffing in a poker game.'Pity I can't see her photo, at least.' Helga was pushing him toan admission. Expecting a trap, Wolfgang prolonged her curiosity.'That would be impossible.' Unaware of Wolfgang's sillygame, she inquired, 'Why? Don't tell me you never carry her picture.'Muffled laughter interrupted Helga's words, and Wolfgangwas ready to tell the truth. 'How could I show you her picturewhen I'm not married?'Helga was taken by surprise. He had almost convinced herotherwise.In the mean time, Wolfgang drew her body closer to the edgeof his bed. Looking straight up into her eyes, he could not stophimself from saying, 'Pity I can't give you a kiss, my beautiful angel.'Trying to disentangle herself from the human vice of Wolfgang'shands and the long slender fingers pressing hard againsther firm body, Helga's face almost touched Wolfgang's chest,covered with thick black hair. This contact aroused a sensation inher that she had never experienced before. As soon as she managedto free herself from his embrace, she said, 'You can kiss melater on,' indicating to him how she felt.Wolfgang noticed a slight tear in the corner of her eyes andhe suddenly realised how cruel he had been. How could he possiblykiss her with this mask on his face? As she parted from hisgrasp, her sweet face blushed, and only then did Wolfgang realisewhat kind of woman she really was. How many women of her agewould react like this? Not many, for sure, he thought, comparingher with girls in his past.While he waited for breakfast, he went into the bathroom.His eyes peered into the mirror. God knows how many timesduring the last three weeks he had been anxious about his newlyacquired face. What would he look like? Handsome as before, orugly?Today was the last time he had to ask himself the question.The doctor was coming to cut off his mask. Then he would beable to see the results. Perhaps then he would be able to fulfil his333

desire, despite strict Pullach rules, and kiss the beautiful Helga,even if only to say, 'Auf wiedersehen.'After breakfast, Doctor Steiniger arrived, accompanied byanother man, who was pushing a wheelchair. While they werechatting, Steiniger informed Wolfgang that his bandages wouldbe removed shortly. The wheelchair confused Wolfgang, whowas capable of walking, but he was told the bandages would beremoved at the cottage where he would spend a few more weeksbefore spring. Wolfgang had no choice but to sit in the wheelchair.He was pushed outside the hospital building into a waitingbus, which took him to a designated cottage on the other side ofPullach. It was a nicely decorated, cosy cottage, where a fireplaceradiated warmth and partly lit the dark lounge room.All that was missing was his beautiful angel, Helga. He wasinstructed not to get in touch with her. It would mean her instantdismissal, and her chances of getting another job anywhere inWest Germany would be remote. He had to consider his safetyfirst, as a blown identity could lead to premature death. In this, heknew that Gehlen was right.In the meantime, the Pullach workshop finalised Wolfgang'sgenuine German passport, accompanied by an original Australianvisa. Nothing was to be faked except Wolfgang's job recommendation,and that was only partly false. During his last weeks inPullach, he had been briefed on insurance procedures and jobtechniques, so he was equipped with sound knowledge whichwould enable him to find employment once in Australia.According to the plan, Wolfgang would travel to Frankfurt.There, he would join a group of insurance people on the way toNice, where he would stay two weeks, gradually exposing hisnewly acquired face to the sun. From there, he would travel bytrain to Genoa and, once aboard the Greek liner Queen Frederika,he would sail to Australia, his chosen homeland. In Australia,Wolfgang would be met by Gehlen's friend, Detective SergeantBarry Johnson, a member of the Victorian CIB and the Australianrepresentative of Interpol. After that, Wolfgang would be on hisown. He could, if he wished, keep in touch with Gehlen by usinga faked name or code, and post office box address only.334

Plans for his post-operation holidays and departure fromEurope were carried out with usual German precision. Every detailwas taken care of. He was assured that, if he acted strictly inaccordance with the set of provided guidelines, there was no wayUDBA's agents could trace him. The BND was aware of UDBA'sactivities in Europe and even the USA, where they were lookingfor Zlatko, but BND was sure that Zlatko's final choice would bebeyond UDBA's wildest dreams.General Gehlen and his staff for the Balkan states weremonitoring UDBA's probings around various capitals in Europe.Some UDBA activities were monitored in the Pullach's neighbourhood,but did not last long enough to cause any alarm. Thecomplete silence of the German press, and the tight-knit communityat Pullach, possibly persuaded them to look elsewhere – invain, of course.The day before Wolfgang's departure, Gehlen organised asmall gathering, a sort of farewell. Apart from Frau Gehlen,Ingrid, Gehlen's daughter, Doctor Steiniger and Gehlen himself,there was a director of the foreign investment section atDeutsches Versicherung Gessellschaft, Herr Schneider. AtGehlen's request, he had provided a job recommendation and arrangedan employment record. Wolfgang's personal file stipulatedthat, in the event that someone tried to trace Wolfgang's background,BND was to be contacted immediately, so Wolfgangcould be warned in time. During his farewell, nobody mentionedWolfgang's departure except Gehlen, who proposed the toast.Wolfgang's only worry was his mother, but Gehlen assuredhim he would try to find her as soon as Wolfgang settled in hisnew homeland. Gehlen also warned him that this operation wouldrequire a lot of patience, especially now he had defected. Hismother would be watched twenty-four hours a day. There was nodoubt they had tried everything possible to cover up her existence,and this was possibly why Zlatko himself had failed to locateher whereabouts. Gehlen's assurances and genuine concerngave Wolfgang enough strength to leave Europe for good.Doctor Steiniger warned him about the sensitivity of thegrafted skin joints and advised him to use the provided creams,335

exposing his face gradually. Otherwise, damage would result andultimately disclose the operation on his face.The following day, Wolfgang was escorted in an unmarkedcar to the private jet take-off point. A waiting plane took him toFrankfurt. There, he joined an insurance group which travelledvia Lufthansa en route to Nice. While this company paid holidaymeant a fortnight of leisure, fun, drinking and ultimately a returnto their branches for most of the participants, for Wolfgang itmeant farewell to Europe – and then he would be sea-borne toAustralia. Well-wishers were making tremendous noises at theGenoa wharf.336

16THE QUEEN FREDERIKA 1952Loud blasts from the Queen Frederika's sirens gave the signalfor her departure to Australia via the Suez Canal. The glitteringwhite 22,000-tonne liner would provide Wolfgang withtwenty-two days of recreation, leisure and entertainment on histrip to Australia. Thanks to his inheritance, and the hefty sum hehad received from Gehlen, mainly payment for copies of top secretdocuments belonging to Iron Curtain countries, Wolfgangwas travelling first class.The first stop at Malta was only long enough to take on a fewmore passengers. From there, they sailed to Piraeus, where theypicked up more passengers, predominantly country girls seekingmarriage in Australia.Looking at them as they came aboard, Wolfgang noticedmany pretty faces, but none attracted him above the level of casualobservation. His trip through the Suez Canal was memorable,since he struck up a friendship with the Wagners, a German coupleemigrating to Australia.With the Wagners, Wolfgang felt almost at home again. Anengineer by profession, Abraham Wagner had a lot in commonwith Wolfgang. Jews, his family had been imprisoned in a concentrationcamp, but fortunately he had been sent to Sweden tohis mother's relatives well before Hitler created the Third Reich.His wife, Inge, was a teacher of music before she married and,because of her family's rejection of Abraham, the Wagners haddecided to emigrate to Australia to start a new life.The three of them became very popular on the ship. Theydanced until the early hours of the morning. While Abrahamdanced with Inge, Wolfgang would dance with any female, regardlessof age, as long as they were willing to dance. Occasionally,Abraham would let him dance with Inge, who was very proficient.At the beginning, the musicians did not mind, becausethey hoped the long trip would wear them down, but soon theyrealised it would go on and on unless they did something about it.337

In the hope of reaching a solution acceptable to both parties, theypolitely joked during the day while in vicinity of the trio. It didnot work. Then they learned that Abraham and Inge were actuallyeconomy-class passengers with no claim to first-class facilities.Wolfgang was the stumbling block.As a first-class passenger, he was entitled to invite guests toshare first-class facilities. Gradually, thanks to Wolfgang's generoustips, they worked out a scheme whereby the famous threewould leave after three in the morning.Leaning on the white-painted railings spotted by creepingrust, Wolfgang observed the slow progress of the QueenFrederika. Even the usually choppy seas of the Indian Ocean appearedcalm to him this morning. Such slow progress, quite theopposite of a fast liner, was justified now that she was approachinga vacant berth at Fremantle – Wolfgang's first contact withAustralia. Instead of being heartened, Wolfgang felt only hollowexcitement. There was a sadness plaguing him under the surface.It had haunted him since the Queen Frederika left Piraeus his lastsight of Europe. That was at least one cause of his present state ofmind. Whenever he was on his own, his mind would be preoccupiedwith thoughts about the fate of his unfortunate mother – thereal reason for his empty reaction. Only God knew what he wouldgive to be with his mother.The ship's loud whistles brought him to reality - to the shoresof Australia, his new homeland.By now, the railings were lined with other first-class passengers,mostly speaking English. Their happy chatter did not preventhis hearing sounds of many European languages belong. Itwas a great disappointment to him when ignorant persons referredto them as Serbo-Croats. He remembered his father's remarksabout the Croatian struggle for freedom, and the recognition ofhis beloved country as one of the oldest nations in Europe.He realised that such a cosmopolitan mixture gave the QueenFrederika a multinational flavour – a ship taking numerous migrantsinto, not a promised land, but a land of plenty and sunshineand, above all, a land free from the political tensions so commonin many countries in the still war-torn Europe. Static made it hardto understand the ship's female announcer, who broadcast in dif-338

ferent tongues. Consequently, everybody asked their fellow passengersabout instructions which had already been given. However,most of them understood that they would have a few hoursto explore Fremantle. The fortunate ones might enjoy a quick taxiride to Perth. Wolfgang was one of them, so, with Inge and Abrahamas guests, armed with German-made cameras, they hurrieddown the gangway to hire one of the army of waiting taxis.What they saw in Fremantle and Perth was not impressivecompared with Europe, but they realised that Australia was ayoung country, and they could not expect spectacular buildings.Besides, they were in Australia not to judge the architecture, butto start a new life. The security and peace of mind Wolfgang hadbeen seeking was now right before him. So far from his oldhaunts, who would ever think of looking for him here?When they returned to the ship, Wolfgang let his friends jointhe queue at the gangway while he settled the taxi fare. Patientlywaiting his turn to identify himself to the officer on duty, whowas checking the identity of passengers, he noticed two women.They must have been new arrivals, because he had not noticedthem earlier. Observing them from a distance, he noted that onewas in her early fifties; the other was probably in her late twenties.Despite their age difference, they had something in common– both were elegantly dressed and wearing light coloured summerhats – similar to one his mother had worn many years ago.Thoughts about his mother instantly brought tears to his soft eyesand caused a choking feeling in his throat.Quite naturally, he assumed the women had to be mother anddaughter on a pleasure trip to Melbourne, or possibly Sydney.Something inside him urged him to move closer, but the throng ofpassengers before him created an insurmountable barrier. By thetime he reached the officer inspecting passports, both ladies werehalfway up the gangway. When he got his passport back andrushed forward, they had disappeared into the ship's side opening.He knew it would be useless to try to learn more about them now,but he was sure that once under way he would find them again, atleast the younger one. She had impressed him so much he couldunderstand his initial reaction.339

When the Queen Frederika was under way again, there wasno sign of them. It was almost like looking for a needle in a haystack.Later, he tried to enlist Inge's and Abraham's help in findingthe young woman. He did not fail to notice how conspicuouslythey exchanged glances, but was preoccupied with trying todetermine how he could find her. Such beauty; he had never seensuch a totally appealing, lovely, attractive woman.Inge and Abraham encouraged Wolfgang to attend one of theEnglish classes at a level designed for professional people whowere reasonably proficient in English. Not in the mood to disappointhis friends, Wolfgang promised to turn up in class a day aftertheir departure from Fremantle. To his astonishment, he discoveredtheir real motive: directly before him was the youngwoman who had mysteriously disappeared just before he managedto reach the end of the gangway at Fremantle the previousday. She was so beautiful that Wolfgang was almost speechless.He just could not believe it. Judging from her appearance, hereckoned she should have been a model. He was sure that if shewere in Europe she would never teach. Facing her like a primaryschool pupil, Wolfgang forgot he was standing in front of apacked classroom whose students were waiting for instruction.To help him out of his awkward situation, the marvellouscreature spoke in a soft velvety voice, 'Could you possibly introduceyourself, please, so I can enter your name in my roll book,Mr...?'Realising his rudeness, Wolfgang mumbled, 'Yes, of course,how stupid of me. Accept my apology, please. To be honest, Ididn't expect such a beautiful teacher. I am Wolfgang Braun,' Heslightly bowed, but noticed she was blushing.Looking down at her roll book to hide her reaction, she spokeagain. 'You can take a seat, Mister Braun, please.'Satisfied she had entered his surname correctly in the register,Wolfgang obeyed her request as though ordered by a shoutingcorporal. The other students broke into spontaneous laughter,while Wolfgang never took his eyes off the teacher. He waslooking at her with a cocky expression, and he noticed that whenevertheir eyes met she would immediately turn her head in thedirection of the porthole or her roll book.340

At the end of the session, when everybody rushed out, Wolfganggrabbed the opportunity to speak to her. 'I'd like to apologiseonce again. Let me assure you it wasn't intentional. I was caughtby surprise. I never expected, not even in my wildest dreams, tohave a teacher as beautiful as you.' His emphasis on the last wordsounded so personal she blushed again, but he continued, realisinghis words had hit the spot. 'By the way, I gave you my name,but I still don't know yours.''Oh, forgive me. I introduced myself at the beginning of thecourse but I forgot you joined us only today. I'm Jennifer Bell,and I'm teaching on behalf of the immigration and labour department.'Satisfied for now with knowing her name, Wolfgang wonderedif he should invite her for a drink or two. At that moment,the door opened and Inge and Abraham entered, looking for him,wanting to get his impressions of Jennifer.On seeing them together, it did not take Abraham long to figureout what Wolfgang was after. To help him out, Abraham saidto Jennifer, 'My wife and I would like to invite you for a drink.'Looking in Wolfgang's direction, Abraham added, with mock innocence,'You too, Wolfgang, if you have time.'Not recognising this was a set-up, Jennifer nodded. 'It'll bemy pleasure.' Sitting in the Queen Frederika’s overcrowdedcocktail bar fifteen minutes later,Jennifer was eager to find out how much they knew about herbeautiful, sunny and, above all, lucky country. 'Now I understandwhy you didn't take any notes, Mister Braun.'Embarrassed by her continually addressing him as MisterBraun, Wolfgang suggested they call each other by their Christiannames. Jennifer agreed.By dinner time, what used to be the famous trio had becomean equally noted quartet. Their dancing became a sentimentalscene for elderly couples, who watched the young people movingacross the floor with such poise, precision and elegance, almost atballroom dancing standard. The quartet reawakened memories,and it was natural for the elderly couples to greet the end of eachdance with loud applause.341

For Wolfgang, these few days – six to be precise – beforethey reached Melbourne were the most treasured experience hehad ever had with a woman. She shared his views on manythings, so they became closer and closer as each day passed.The night before they had to say farewell, Jennifer and Wolfgangwere on their own after dinner. Standing on the weatherdeck near the rails, exposed to the summer moonlight, they heldhands, looking at the horizon. It's amazing, thought Wolfgang. Hehad never failed to steal a kiss or two on the first date, and yetwith Jennifer it was different. Somehow he sensed that such anapproach would endanger his prospects, and he was not preparedto jeopardise them. Being the only child of an affluent family,Jennifer was different from the other women in his life.He knew he must treat her differently, and yet he cravedsomething more than holding her hand. Tonight was his lastchance. Looking at her, his eyes slowly moved over her shapelyfigure. He did not stare, but he was aware of the curvaceousbreasts hidden by her primly designed gown. It struck him as odd.Every time he met a flat chested girl, she exposed herself to theextreme, and yet those who had something to show would coverthemselves to hide their precious treasure.'I believe we'll be in Melbourne tomorrow, Jennifer.''You're quite right, Wolfgang.'Moving closer, Wolfgang spoke softly in what he used to callhis never-failing tone. 'Before we part, I'd like to tell you something...'Jennifer moved closer too and put her index finger to his lips.She was very close, close enough to hug, and yet Wolfgang restrainedhimself.He said, 'During these few days I've experienced something Inever believed possible. You might not understand me now, but ifyou let me love you forever, I'll prove it to you.'His throat became dry, almost preventing him from furthertalk. He moved closer to Jennifer. Their bodies touched. Withouthesitation, he gently took her adorable face in his hands andmoved his lips closer. He could feel her trembling, and naturallythe excitement radiating from her passion excited him as well. It342

was similar to the intense emotion when his stepfather had suspendedthe golden chain with the medallion around his neck.Strange, he thought: during his trip he had seen many girls,who brushed by him in passageways whispering all sorts ofpromises, giving him exotic names, sometimes of national heroesor film stars or even glamorous toreadors. Some had plucked upcourage to leave notes under his door, while their inviting lips andcheeky expressions sought to seduce him. But it was this youngwoman, who had not even known of his existence, who made asmashing impact in a very short time.Kissing her passionately, Wolfgang felt Jennifer making aneffort to disentangle herself from his firm grip, but nature hadother plans. She almost reached her boiling point as Wolfgang'shands explored her body. She had heard many stories from girlfriendsabout European men. Now she could believe them. Shehad never experienced such electrifying sensations. She suddenlyrealised she was no longer in control. Unable to resist Wolfgang'spersistent movements, which found sensitive spots she had notpreviously been aware of, she realised she was now in the handsof an experienced man. Her kisses became equally passionate.She knew that, if Wolfgang persisted, she would not be able to restrainherself.As they parted for a moment, worrying whether they couldbe seen, Jennifer gasped, 'Do you remember our first meeting,Wolfgang?''How could lever forget it? I really made a fool of myself.'Pointing her finger, Jennifer teased him further. 'That was myfirst impression. Now I have to admit I've changed my mindabout you.''I'm glad.' Wolfgang happily lifted her bodily off the deck.'That's exactly what I was waiting for.' Lowering her, he kissedher again and again. He knew he would have to act fast before shechanged her mind.As he led her towards his suite, Jennifer knew what was goingto happen. She knew it had to take place sometime, and whatwas the point of not enjoying the advantage of having an experiencedman?343

On the way, Wolfgang told her a few things about his background,but not the real origin or the reasons for his migration toAustralia. Jennifer realised immediately she had captured a youngman who meant what he said, but how could she agree to meetinghim in her own home town – a city where practically everybodyknew her or her parents?She knew many would reject her relationship with this youngGerman, not only because his country had created the holocaust,but mainly because he was an immigrant. Maybe, she thought, itwould be better for him to find out for himself. For now – and, ifpossible, forever – she would bury her anxiety. His strength, logicand, above all, his intelligence drew her closer and closer by aninvisible force. By now, they had missed their customary dance,but they much preferred an evening alone.While they were sipping champagne in Wolfgang's suite,Jennifer was amazed to find herself relaxed, probably because shehad come to terms not only with his desire but with her own too.Passionately they kissed, not realising that in a few hours it wouldbe sunrise. Making love for the first time was Jennifer's hiddenfear, but in Wolfgang's hands she experienced only sheer ecstasy.Inge and Abraham, on missing their friends, suspected ahappy ending. Although they missed their company, they werehappy too; at last they had succeeded in finding the right partnerfor their beloved friend.Just before the Queen Frederika entered the port of Melbourne,Jennifer set a date for their reunion at her home in Frankston.She left her telephone number for Wolfgang. They embracedeach other and had an emotional farewell. Leaning on therails, Wolfgang watched her descent down the gangway to greether parents. She turned her head several times and waved, sendinghim a discreet kiss. Wolfgang got the message. She neededtime to prepare her parents about his relationship with her, and hecould not blame her, because their whole future rested on herfamily's acceptance of him. He certainly would not go againsttheir wishes, no matter how much he loved Jennifer.Inge and Abraham were met by Jewish friends, who guaranteedto support them until they found themselves proper jobs.344

While Wolfgang waited in the queue for customs, he noticed thetowering figure of a heavily built man, looking in his direction.He immediately thought, 'That must be the contact Gehlen spokeof before I left Pullach.'345

17MELBOURNE 1952Once on the other side of the customs barrier, the gentlemanapproached Wolfgang, introducing himself, 'Barry Johnson. I presumeyou're Mister Braun.'Wolfgang nodded. They shook hands.Beckoning to a parked taxi, Barry said, 'Welcome to yournew homeland. I hope you'll like Australia. I've made a reservationfor you at the Hotel London. It's in the heart of Melbourne,and you can stay there until you find something more suitable. I'llbe in touch with you tomorrow. Bye now.'Sitting in the rear seat of the taxi, Wolfgang could not believehe was twelve thousand miles from his beloved Croatia. He beganto wonder how he was going to like this country. He did not knowJohnson, of course, but he appeared to be a cool character, a typicalAnglo-Saxon, Wolfgang thought. The welcome had beenmatter-of-fact, so Wolfgang's mind switched to Jennifer. He understoodthe smartness of her move in inviting the three of themto her parent's home. From her description of her parents, he assumedher father would be a hard nut to crack. .Wolfgang's prospects in Australia appeared much brighterthan an ordinary immigrant's. Apart from being fluent in English,he had considerable sums of money deposited in the USA andEngland. He enjoyed financial independence. He could actuallylive on interest but, to his industrious nature, that seemed to beout of place. He felt he must occupy his mind and use his youthfulenergy in a more constructive way.He hoped that in the end such activity would give him achance to gradually ease the tension and thus provide an opportunityto push his bad memories to the back of his mind. Being usefullyemployed might help him gain enough strength to divorcehimself from the solitude of mind imposed on him by the tragicdeaths of his grand father and stepfather, and of his friend Onisil,and the mysterious disappearance of his mother.346

A few weeks of peace in Australia made him realise that allhis flirtations in the past had been the result not of his age but ofthe delicate facade behind which he kept hidden the tormentedstate of his mind. Twelve thousand miles away from the source ofhis unhappiness, he craved a change which would help him enjoylife to the full, especially the sincere relationship with his newfoundlove, Jennifer. Surrounded now by new faces and genuinefriends with no connection to his past, it seemed he would be ableto reach his goal, but he needed time to heal his deep wounds.In a short time, Wolfgang and Barry became very close, despitehis first impression of Barry as a cold individual. Though afew years older, Barry represented the ideal person to ease thetransition from the past to the future. Ready to advise Wolfgangabout problems common to newcomers to Australia, Barryachieved something no other person had, except his dear motherand his stepfather.Wolfgang had been in Australia long enough to know that,without suitable connections, he had no chance of getting an officejob. Not that he loathed manual work as such but, consideringhis training, he felt it would be wasted if he settled for anythingless. Barry readily agreed to help him find suitable work and arrangedan interview with the manager of the investigation branchat the Royal Victorian Insurance Company, Robert Maloney.Several days later, Wolfgang arrived at precisely ten-thirty inthe morning at the RIV head office at 260 Bourke Street, Melbourne.His smartly dressed and neat appearance impressed Maloney'ssecretary Elizabeth. His polite approach and appearanceattracted an admiration she could not hide. She was delighted tosee this unusually handsome man. It was clear to him, while shephoned her boss, that he could become her very close friend. Sheseemed indifferent to his ethnic background.Minutes later, Wolfgang was ushered into Maloney's richlyappointed office, introduced by Elizabeth, who quietly disappearedafter Maloney requested a cuo of tea for himself and coffeefor Wolfgang.Maloney exchanged pleasantries, making sure Wolfgang wascomfortably seated in a chair facing him. In very efficient execu-347

tive fashion, Maloney wasted no time. 'I presume Johnson toldyou about our association – and, I might add, I trust his judgement– but I have to ask you some questions. Just a formality, ofcourse. What type of work did you do in Germany? You don'thave to go into great detail,' he added, glancing at his watch, indicatingit would be a brief interview. 'A summary will do.'Sensing a trace of doubt in Maloney's voice, Wolfgang wonderedwhether this would be as easy a walk as Barry had suggested,or was he heading for something more difficult? Quiteobviously he was in the company of a shrewd man; he realisedthat Barry had underestimated Maloney.'Well, I've been involved with security arrangements and allkinds of insurance investigations.' Wolfgang briefly began outliningeach activity he had been coached about in Pullach.'Hm, hm, not bad at all. Quite an interesting range of responsibilities.Do you have any references from your employer? Themost recent will do, Mister Braun.'Sliding his hand slowly into the inner pocket of his jacketand producing an envelope, Wolfgang explored Maloney's face.He rose from his comfortable seat, while Maloney only pushedhimself on his castor-legged chair closer to the edge of his desk.Without raising his huge frame, Maloney extended his righthand, accepting the envelope.'The company I worked for was the only one I served. It was,I suppose, my apprenticeship,' Wolfgang said in an apologetictone and, anticipating Maloney's move, he handed over his fakedrecommendation. This gave him an opportunity to take a closerlook at the man.Maloney, in his late fifties, appeared to be extremely fit andstrong. He had a big frame even by European standards and yethis hands were smooth – unusually so for a man of his age.Seated again, Wolfgang's piercing eyes fixed on Maloney. It tookhim only a couple of minutes to read the translation and to scrutinisethe original recommendation in German, but the expressionWolfgang expected to see was not there.'Very nice recommendation, indeed, Mister Braun,' was hisonly comment. Funny, thought Wolfgang. Maloney's remarksounded genuine, yet his Anglo-Saxon face remained cool and348

expressionless – a total enigma to Wolfgang, who was encounteringhis first professional contact in Australia. Thinking for asecond about Maloney's short comment, Wolfgang thought, Whatis he talking about? The recommendation was the best he couldhave got. Puzzled by the remark, Wolfgang tried to visualise himselfin Maloney's place. Surely he would not have reacted thesame way.Wolfgang's puzzled face and silence gave Maloney a chanceto elaborate. 'Seems to me, Mister Braun, that your general managervalued your services dearly. Frankly, I'm wondering why hefailed to persuade you to stay.' Pausing to let the implication sinkin, he came straight to the point without waiting for Wolfgang'sreply. 'It puzzles me. If I had to persuade someone, it'd be difficultfor them to turn it down. Yet a company with such a reputation,a real gem in your industry, failed to do that with you. Unthinkable.Don't you agree?'Leaning over his desk, Maloney's piercing eyes met Wolfgang's,who could hardly hide his feelings. He was stunned. Maloney'sbold approach left him speechless. He was wonderingwhat would come next. He knew no half-answers would satisfythis old fox, that was for sure.'Let me assure you, Mister Maloney,' Wolfgang almost exploded,like a medieval gun, trying desperately to control himselfand yet eager to continue, 'though I deliberated over it a longtime, the more I thought about it the more I became convincedthat leaving was the only sensible solution.'Maloney's expression changed dramatically, while his eyestried to penetrate Wolfgang's mind. His persistence intensified ashis expression changed. 'I would've thought that a decision likethat needed serious consideration' – probably a reference to Wolfgang'sage – 'but the fact remains, you decided to leave a securejob, with unlimited opportunities, and your homeland as well.That's the aspect I must take into consideration before I can offeryou employment. After all, a sound judgement is essential. I hopeyou can see my point.'What a nerve, thought Wolfgang, his heart sinking. He hadcertainly caught him off guard. Thinking about Maloney's argument,he could see his point but, frankly, he had not expected349

Maloney to go so far. What he had been led to believe would be aformality had turned out like an intensive interrogation by the policein Zagreb. Wolfgang understood now that his answers couldseriously jeopardise his prospects. Failure would put a lot ofstrain on his friendship with Barry, and that was the last thing hewanted to do.Instead of being straightforward, Wolfgang decided to provideambiguous answers which would lead Maloney up the gardenpath. 'I agree with you, Mister Maloney. My job was securetill that point, but so far as opportunities are concerned, youshould let me be the best judge of that,' he snapped.It was too late. Wolfgang knew now he was heading for ashowdown. Maybe it's best this way, he thought. Perhaps hewould be able to confirm Maloney's stand regarding Jews. Hisfew weeks in Australia had given him an insight, and ample evidenceof how and why his future would be marred by individualswho simply loathed immigrants, especially more successful ones.Maloney interrupted his thoughts. 'I'm not sure, MisterBraun, that I understand you.'Wolfgang was quick to respond. 'It's not a question of unlimitedopportunities. It's a matter of to whom they will apply. Havingan unusual background is bad enough, but being a Jew is adisaster. The narrow-minded belief that Germany got itself introuble because of the Jews cannot outweigh what they did to us –even if we forgive them.'Pausing for a moment to compose himself from the shock,and obviously embarrassed, Maloney took a deep breath and continued.'Let me ask you something, if I may. What makes you sosure that you'll be treated any better in this country than in Germany?'Maloney's softer tone did not stop Wolfgang from saying tohimself, Bloody bastard, he's not giving up. What is he up to? Hemust have some reason for being so persistent.Giving the impression of being hurt, Wolfgang said, 'Before Imade my decision to leave Germany, I explored the alternativesfirst. To my mind, a young country like Australia would not be sobigoted as many European communities. I assume I'll be judged350

on merit rather than my ethnic origins. Apart from that, I've alwayslonged for a warmer climate. Australia was my first choice.'Impressed, Maloney could hardly hide his satisfaction thistime. Wolfgang's logical explanation should have been almostperfect, but the fact that Maloney traced some sort of tension inWolfgang's behaviour puzzled rum. Then he attributed it to a sensitivitycreated by the course of the interview and, no doubt, atroubled past. His shrewd mind raced to find way to exploit this.'Fair enough, Mister Braun. I'll give you a try. As you're notlooking for preferential treatment, you can start right at the bottom.By doing so, you'll familiarise yourself with our work environmentsand procedures. At the same time, you'll preserve yourlight to personal recognition and your acceptance by other staffmembers in this company:'Happy with the prospect of his first job in Australia, Wolfgangsaid, 'Thank you very much for your favourable consideration,Mister Maloney:'Maloney's face gleamed with satisfaction. Ah, he thought,How often have I been able to get someone so cheaply? Someonelike Braun. 'And now let me see,' he said, '...about your salary.Since you're willing to start at the bottom, you'll be paid tenpounds a week. How does that sound to you, Mister Braun?'Without thinking seriously, Wolfgang said, 'I'm happy to acceptyour generous offer.' He sensed that the salary offer Maloneyproposed was a cheap catch but, being well-off, he was not preparedto make a big deal about it. The main thing was to get hisfoot in the door. If he considered his friends back in Zagreb, noneof them would receive half of what he was getting. Australianpounds converted into Yugoslav's relatively worthless dinarswould make him an instant millionaire.Maloney rose from his seat, indicating the interview wasover. On the way out, he extended his hand, and said, 'Let mewish you a happy stay with us. If you ever experience any problems,I'm here to help you.'Half an hour later, Wolfgang was on Bourke Street again, butthis time very happy. Walking in the direction of the tram stop, hewas thinking about all that had happened since he escaped fromYugoslavia. Although he would have to start over and sort out his351

life again, he did not mind it now. He knew his qualities and hardwork would earn him the recognition he had lacked since 1945.Now that he had got himself a job to start with and a nice cosyflat in East Melbourne over looking a beautiful park, his life wasfinally heading in the right direction.Once in his fiat, Wolfgang dialled Jennifer's office number.Her sweet, velvety soft voice answered. 'Jennifer Bellspeaking.''It's me, darling, your friend.' In a teasing tone, Wolfgangcontinued, 'How are you?''Now that you've phoned, really great. I missed you. Anyluck with the job?' 'Not to worry, dear. I start next Monday.'With pleased excitement in her voice, Jennifer said, 'That'swonderful, Wolfgang. You must have made the same impressionon the manager as you did on me.''I called to invite you to lunch.'Jennifer's laughter interrupted him. 'All right, my dear. Pickme up about twelve thirty. I'll be ready for you.'The emphasis on her final words did not escape Wolfgang.By now he almost sensed her desires as if he had known her fordecades. 'See you then,' he whispered. He sent her a few loudkisses over the phone. 'I love you, Jennifer,' and, without waitingfor her response, he gently replaced the receiver.Tears welled in his eyes as he remembered his pledge to findhis mother first before thinking about himself. His few weeks ofhappiness had almost made him forget her.Sitting in the Lygon Bistro, in inner-Melbourne Carlton, Jenniferand Wolfgang sipped Chianti and ate ravioli, happily chattingbetween bites.'How are your parents, Jennifer?''All right, thank you. Why do you ask?'Stalling for a moment, Wolfgang went on, 'I accepted yourinvitation rather in haste. I'm wondering now if I've made a wisedecision, that's all.'Jennifer's face clearly indicated she was at a loss to understandWolfgang's remark. She almost choked on her pasta.'What's wrong? Have I said something I shouldn't, dear?'352

'Not at all. I'm afraid of rejection. Could I be right?' Wolfgang'spiercing eyes were surveying Jennifer's, looking for a clue.Nothing showed, not even a flicker.By now, Jennifer was convinced something must have happenedto Wolfgang to make him ask such a question. Determinedto stop him from entertaining such ideas, she put her soft hand onhis, trying to reassure him he was wrong. 'I don't know what'shappened to you, but let me assure you my parents are civilised.As soon as I told them about my invitation, they agreed to meetyou. They've always respected my decisions and, unlike manyEuropean parents, they've hardly interfered with my life. Oh, yes,they've given me advice, but it's been entirely up to me whether Itook it or not.'Partly satisfied with Jennifer's answer, Wolfgang was stillworried, because he had led Jennifer to believe he was German,rather than a Croatian of Jewish origin. It bothered him greatly. Ifhe had to deceive others to save his neck, okay, but could he deceivehis love and, through her, her parents as well? 'I asked aboutyour parents because I expect them to reject me – not just becauseI'm an immigrant: my real reason is far deeper, and I'd like you toknow it, at least a part of it.''Is it really necessary, Wolfgang?'Wolfgang examined Jennifer's face, but there was no sign ofany double meaning. 'But it's not mat simple. I...''Shh, shh,' Jennifer put her index finger on Wolfgang's lips. 'Idon't want to know.' She sensed something serious enough tospoil their love. 'We all have a past. I hope you can accept that.'Wolfgang was not satisfied, mainly because he expected itwould come out into the open one day, and that might be to hisdisadvantage. However, he had no choice now; 'Okay, but don'tforget I offered an explanation.''I'll remember, dear,' smiled Jennifer.The visit to Jennifer's parents' home in Frankston, one ofMelboume's seaside suburbs, turned out much better than Wolfgangexpected. He struck up an instant friendship with Jennifer'sfather, Brendan Bell, a retired barrister. Her mother Elizabeth wasa different cup of tea, but Wolfgang was confident of winning her353

over too. After all, he knew ways around women regardless oftheir age or tastes.After their first meeting, Wolfgang was invited every Sundayfor dinner and, in return for their hospitality, Wolfgang would invitethem to The Orchids, the exclusive restaurant in South Yarrarun by his friends, Ingrid and Abraham. Not having been able toget a job as an engineer, Abraham had pooled all his savings andinvested in a restaurant which would soon become the meetingplace of Melbourne's connoisseurs – a gourmet's Mecca.Wolfgang had played an important role, providing deficit financingat very low interest. To compensate for the low interestrate, Wolfgang was not allowed to cook for himself. They insistedon his patronage free of charge until he got married – somethingthey had not anticipated would take such a long time almost twoand a half years.In summer, Wolfgang spent the weekends at Jennifer's home,and they made midweek visits to The Orchids. There, Jennifer'sparents tasted different dishes from every part of Europe. Fromtime to time, Wolfgang would accept an invitation from Barryand his family, who owned a small cottage at Ulladulla, on theNew South Wales south coast.Though Wolfgang enjoyed the carefree atmosphere, he realisedthat sooner or later he would have to make a move – he couldnot avoid his responsibility to Jennifer for too long. The thoughtof asking her father for permission to marry scared him. He didnot want to lose Jennifer and he would not dare go against herfather's decision. He was tormented by the knowledge that hisbackground might work against him, mainly because he hadwaited too long.More than two years had passed since his arrival, with nonews from Gehlen. Wolfgang's post office box was waiting forthe delivery of important news, but nothing came, not even a letter.Just before Christmas, Barry and his family visited Jennifer'sparents to invite them all to his farewell party. He was going to betransferred to the USA for three years and, as soon he knew of it,he urged Wolfgang to ask for Jennifer's hand. He hoped to be best354

man at the wedding. He was already Wolfgang's best mate, andhis squash and golf partner.Lately, Wolfgang had noticed how easily Jennifer becametired. It worried him. Whenever he asked, she would say she wasall right. Even her parents avoided talking about it. One summernight while everybody was sitting on the veranda of the Bell residenceonly a week away from Christmas, Wolfgang grabbed theopportunity. A few minutes later, he and Jennifer were strollingalong the beach, their favourite pastime after a good dinner. Takingadvantage of the hot weather, children from the neighbourhoodwere taking a quick dip before nightfall.As they walked hand in hand, Wolfgang inquired about Jennifer'sday at school, desperately trying to plan how to begin theconversation he had had in mind for so long. His fears about Jennifer'sfather had gradually disappeared; he knew the old man respectedhim, and this save him the courage to go ahead. Barry'sdeparture had certainly hastened his decision.'Can I ask you something, Jennifer?' He continued, trying tofind enough strength to break the barrier that had existed betweenthem for nearly two years, 'I have to ask you tonight.'Jennifer turned in his direction and came to a halt. 'Why areyou so serious, my dear Wolfgang?''Let me ask you a hypothetical question,' mumbled Wolfgang.'If you found something odd in my past, would you marryme, Jennifer?'Jennifer's eyes almost popped out. 'You've never asked me tomarry you, Wolfgang.'Holding her close, Wolfgang said with emotion in his voice,'I'm asking you now, my dear Jennifer, but I still want you to answermy question.'Knowing very little about Wolfgang's past, Jennifer hadsensed for a long time that there must be something strange aboutit but, whatever it was, it was no concern of hers. 'If you think Iwant to listen to your secrets, forget it I'm old enough to knowthat a man of your age, if he's not married, must have somethingin his past. But I do love you dearly. Isn't that enough?' Shesounded irritated.355

Wolfgang put his arm more tightly round her waist and loweredhis head onto her soft shoulder. 'Jennifer, I love you. Maybemore than words can say. But I'm scared that what I have to tellyou might hurt you, and that's the last thing on the earth I'd wantto do. Please try to understand, for pity's sake.'Seeing Wolfgang almost sobbing for the first time, Jenniferbecame convinced there must be something dreadfully sinister inhis past. She lowered herself till she could see Wolfgang's face inthe semi-darkness of the summer night. 'I understand you, mydarling, but I can't lose you now. I've known for a long time thatthere's something troublesome in your past, but I'm satisfied that,whatever it is, it's not your fault. So why must you complicatethings?'With sadness in her voice, Jennifer recalled their first night inWolfgang's suite aboard the Queen Frederika. Just before morningshe had been wakened by Wolfgang's talking in his sleep.Although she could not understand a word, she had known he wasnot speaking German. She gave a deep sigh, and said, 'Maybe Ihave something to hide as well. How would you react if I toldyou?'Jennifer's question did not register with Wolfgang. His absent-mindednesswas not noticeable as they strolled side by side.He was obsessed with talking to somebody. If it was not possibleto converse with Jennifer, he would certainly talk to anyone whowould listen – Jennifer's father, perhaps, when they reachedhome.Finding Brendan Bell sitting alone, Wolfgang joined him,while Jennifer went inside. She was tired again and, kissing themboth, bade them goodnight.'Mister Bell, could I talk to you?' pleaded Wolfgang.'Yes, of course. But why are you calling me Mister Bell? Callme by name as I call you, Wolfgang.''Maybe, but I have to talk to you first.'Seeing Wolfgang's serious expression and recognising hisgrave tone, he said, 'All right. I'm ready to listen, but we ought togo inside. This isn't the place for a serious talk.'356

As they rose from their seats, Brendan Bell put his hand onWolfgang's shoulder, giving him fatherly encouragement, possiblysensing Wolfgang's intentions. Once in Brendan's study,Wolfgang was offered a comfortable seat and, while he filled hispipe, Brendan poured a brandy for himself. Wolfgang indicatedhe would rather have a cold beer.'Now that we're on our own, I'm listening.' Brendan spoke ina calm voice. 'I don't know where I should begin, Mister Bell.''Well, from the beginning.' With a trace of jest in his voice,Brendan urged Wolfgang to relax.'When I introduced myself, I used an assumed name. I'm notGerman by origin.' Deliberately pausing, watching for Brendan'sreaction, Wolfgang realised soon he would not interrupt his testimonyunless it was necessary, so he went on. 'Unfortunately, Ican't tell you my real name – not yet.'Beginning with Mosa Pijade's visit to Vienna, Wolfgangwent on to his inheritance of the medallion and right up to his returnto Zagreb, after what appeared to be the successful conclusionof negotiations for the repatriation of the prisoners of war.Then he mentioned what he learned in West Germany, but he didnot name General Gehlen. How could he? He had given a solemnpromise never to reveal Gehlen's identity.Brendan was stunned, but remained silent, patiently waitinghis turn. He just could not believe Wolfgang had been assistantchief of the UDBA. He was not aware of the prisoners' fate, althoughhe was a member of the RSL and had been in Austria atthe end of war.'How could you have served a regime like that, Wolfgang?''I didn't have any choice, Mister Bell. I was desperate to findmy mother. Who would have suspected that the Yugoslavs wouldround up all those who tried to leave the country and shoot themin the name of victory? I wasn't seeking such a revenge, but I didI feel that those who were responsible for crimes against the Jewsduring the war should be punished. What would you have done ifyou'd been in my position, Mister Bell?'Confronted with such a complicated dilemma, Brendan couldonly sense Wolfgang's agony. 'Fair enough, but why didn't you357

give the job away later on, whatever it was?' Disgust clearly surfacedon Brendan's face.'If I'd known what I know today, I wouldn't have served theregime. I only wanted to find my dear mother,' said Wolfgang. Atthe mention of his mother, his eyes moistened, and tears rolleddown his face.Bell felt sorry for this young fellow, who had experiencedhardship at a time when other children were enjoying normalchildhood. There was absolutely nothing he could do for him butcontinue the conversation in the hope that he would graduallycalm down. 'But what happened to your father?' he asked.'I don't know,' whispered Wolfgang in a choking voice. 'Itseems like an invisible conspiracy against someone who devotedhis entire life to the betterment of his fellow men.' Wolfgang describedhis father's return to Zagreb and, by recounting contradictorystories he had collected from Doctor Bakaric and GeneralRankovic, he tried to reconstruct what had actually happened,how his father had gone to the Fruska Gora, where Tito was presumedto be fighting the Holy Crusaders.Bell's mouth dropped open like the mouth of a boy who hadjust heard about a Martian invasion. 'What did you say? HolyCrusaders? Are you sore you're not getting confused with medievalhistory?'Wolfgang, thanks to General Gehlen, knew the story by heartnow. 'No, Mister Bell. The Holy Crusaders were Tito's invention.His determination to lure back Ante Pavelic and get rid of the religiouspopulation which wouldn't be of any use to him in postwarYugoslavia inspired him to instigate the Crusaders.''How was your father actually killed, Wolfgang?''Who knows? I was told he was killed in cross fire betweenthe partisans and the Holy Crusaders, and I believed it then.''Doesn't seem possible, Wolfgang.'Remembering his conversation with Gehlen now, it struckWolfgang as odd how the body of his father was found in a lonelyhot along with all those who had been sent by the Croatian clergy.'Not really. The partisans were dressed in Holy Crusaders' uniforms.There were ten men in the sounding team. One of them358

eturned to the Vatican to warn Pavelic and his place was takenby my father, who would have recognised Tito.''Very clever, indeed. So you never found out where he wasactually buried?' 'I don't know what to believe. It might be anotherillusion.'Not really sure what Wolfgang was driving at, Brendanasked, 'An illusion?''Well, for all those years, my father and family believedMosa Pijade was our true friend, yet he deceived us.''What about your mother, then?''That's another mystery. She was imprisoned in a concentrationcamp named Jasenovac. I tried to find her. She was released,but she's vanished. According to Doctor Weber, they suspectedher of discovering a terrible secret known to my father. While Iwas in Germany, I was promised she'd be traced. She's alive, butwhere? The same man who promised to find her gave his wordhe'd let me know why my father was killed.'Brendan, deep in thought, managed to ask, 'How could youtrust such a man, Wolfgang? Is it possible he could betray youlike Mosa Pijade betrayed your father and ultimately yourmother?'Raising his head, Wolfgang looked in Brendan's directionand then touched the medallion, pressing it against his chest, notreally sure what to do. He was uncertain how Bell would react onlearning he was not German but Croatian, of Jewish origin.'The man who gave his word was in possession of this.'Slowly, Wolfgang unbuttoned his shirt and revealed the shinygolden medallion. Anticipating Bell's interest, Wolfgang disengagedit from the chain and handed it to him for closer inspection.Astonished by Wolfgang's revelation, Brendan took the magnificentlycrafted medallion and laid it on the open palm of hisleft hand. He immediately spotted the engraving of the Temple ofJerusalem.As a Freemason, he could imagine the importance of thisstrange medallion. After all, Solomon's past had been responsiblefor the creation of a bond between men known as the fraternity ofskilled masons and tradesmen, which later became the basis ofFreemasonry. Handing over the medallion, Bell was at a loss359

what to say, especially now that Wolfgang was ready to tell thesecond part of this unusual story, so he sought a way out. 'Haveyou told Jennifer about your past, Wolfgang?''I've tried on many occasions, but she's refused to listen. Itried to describe my past to make sure she was fully aware of theterrible consequences which might surface one day, but it's beenuseless. She won't listen. Somehow, I get the feeling it isn't mypast she's worried about, but something else, much more devastating.'Wolfgang noticed Brendan's sudden change of expression,but could not comprehend it. Without waiting for his response, hecontinued. 'The main reason I opened my heart to you is that Iwant to ask for your daughter's hand. It took me a long time tosummon the courage, because I realised I'd need to disclose mypast, which, if it's ever revealed, could lead to an early death.'Brendan Bell rose from his seat and slowly walked in the directionof his study doors. Opening them slightly, he slylyglanced up and down the corridor. Convinced nobody was eavesdropping,he silently moved the doors behind him, leaving themslightly ajar. He approached Wolfgang, stopping a few paces infront of him. 'Listen, Wolfgang. I'm fully aware of the consequencesif I give you my permission to marry Jennifer. I realisewhat a terrible life you were living, which of course was beyondyour control. You were honest with me, and I feel obliged to followsuit. Especially now that I know how serious you are. But beforeI give my blessing, let me tell you something. If you chooseto abandon your marriage proposal, I'll understand.'Taking another sip of brandy, Bell seated himself in theleather-upholstered sofa facing Wolfgang's armchair. His voicetrembling, he spoke very softly and yet very clearly. 'Jennifer representseverything to us in our unfortunate life. I don't know ifyou noticed, but Jennifer is taking drugs. She's suffering from acare disease and, if the diagnosis proves right, it's incurable. Thedrugs make her existence bearable. Her love for you is actuallywhat keeps her fighting back.'A short break and another sip of brandy gave Brendanbreathing space. He seemed to be trying to fight an invisibleforce. 'When you were trying to tell Jennifer about your past, it360

was she who was suffering most. She realised whatever was inyour past could not outweigh her future. To her, it was natural torespond with equal frankness, though that would jeopardise notonly her love, but her life, too. When I retired, it wasn't becauseof my health, but because of hers. I wanted to be with her asmuch as possible.'Tears appeared on Wolfgang's face, and he lowered his headto avoid looking at Brendan.'I was against Jung's suggestion that she be allowed to work,but he convinced me in the end. Although we tried to conceal theseriousness of her condition, she suspected it. She's an extremelyintelligent girl, and after we saw a German psychiatrist, ErnestKretchner, who gave us hope, I agreed that she should have otherinterests. When you came along we noticed a tremendous improvement.'Completely unaware that Jennifer was ill, Wolfgang asked,'What's she suffering from, Mister Bell?'Bell lifted his head and, with a tremor in his voice, whispered,'It seems to be a brain disease something like Alzheimer's.It's too early to tell yet, but when she's forty there'll be no doubt. Iwon't live long enough to ease her suffering, but the knowledgethat she'll be in good hands has certainly eased my anxiety now;'Not familiar with the strange disease, Wolfgang was determinedto pursue his relationship with the beautiful Jennifer, whowas going to die, as her father pointed out, very slowly but painfully.Whatever she had left, he decided to share his life with hereven more determinant than ever. Kneeling before Bell, who sankeven deeper into the sofa, Wolfgang scarcely managed to mumble,'Could you give me your blessing? I'll make sure yourdaughter will lack nothing so long I live.'Bell raised his head again in disbelief. A young man who hadsuffered so much was ready to take on a responsibility that noother man would consider. Though he liked Wolfgang because ofhis other qualities, he admired him now. What courage. To takehis daughter to the altar, even though she would not be capable ofbearing children, nor would she be able to return his love in thelast years of her life. If she were fortunate enough to live beyondher fifties, she would need constant medical care.361

To make sure he had heard Wolfgang correctly, Bell said,'Are you absolutely sure?'Without thinking, Wolfgang accepted Brendan addressinghim as son, and in a firm voice replied, 'Yes, I am.'Brendan rose from his seat. Wolfgang rose, too. They embraced,forming a human bond. Their tears emphasised theiremotional state, although for different reasons. Who could possiblyblame them? While the father was happy with the prospect ofprolonging Jennifer's life, Wolfgang cried because of the sense ofguilt which had punished him already, and yet continued to do so.Jennifer's destiny had got them together despite their vastcultural differences and origins, which did not matter now.Through the partly open door, Elizabeth Bell observed the sentimentalpledges between the man she loved so much and a youngfellow who radiated genuine warmth. She could hardly controlherself, but on the way back to her bedroom she became calm. Itwas a tremendous relief to her to know that the future of her beloveddaughter would be in hands of this remarkable young man,who despite Jennifer's illness was eager to share whatever wasleft in her life. Incredible.362

18MELBOURNE 1973Observing the loading of the precious cargo of industrialdiamonds into the Metropolitan Security Service trucks on 12thFebruary 1973, Wolfgang scrutinised every move made by themembers of the wharf gang. At the beginning, he could hear theopenly grudging talk about having been summoned so early in themorning, but he was not concerned. He knew his company provideda hefty bonus for their inconvenience. The MSS guardswere positioned at each window and exit while on the outsidemany were patrolling the area around Dock Warehouse No. 8.The entire operation should not have lasted longer than an hour,but Wolfgang knew it would take longer because the wharfieswanted more money.The high-pitched sound coming from the pager under Wolfgang'sjacket alerted him. He pressed the off button on the smallunit attached to his belt. The loading noise below him preventedothers from hearing the signal. Giving an order to one of his company'ssupervisors to replace him, Wolfgang left in the directionof the stairs leading to the ground floor. Not far from the stairswas the warehouse's sole telephone, mounted on one of the pillarssupporting the roof. As he approached the phone, he wonderedwho would be calling the office this early. It was not yet eighto'clock. He was sure it would not be Jennifer, as he had left her athome fast asleep. When he picked up the receiver, his hand beganto tremble. He was not surprised. This had happened before. Beinga fugitive kept him tense. He never knew when he might haveto face the possibility that finally they had found him.'Good mormog, Diana. What's so urgent? Couldn't it wait tillI got back?''Good morning, Mister Braun. We've had a call from MisterJohnson. He asked me to contact you. He's leaving Melbourne inan hour and would like you to give him a call. It's urgent. I presumeyou know his phone number?''Yes, I do. Thank you. Bye now.'363

Before Diana managed to return his goodbye, Wolfganghung the hand piece in the cradle. While he dialled Barry's homenumber, he wondered how long it would take to get rid of this uneasyfeeling every time he was contacted urgently. Having beenhunted for so long, twenty-one years to be precise, he was concernedthat they might still be looking for him. He had thought hisnervousness would gradually disappear, but now, seeing histrembling fingers, he believed it was a false hope. While waitingto get through, he asked himself what possible reason Barry couldhave to call him so suddenly? Was it yet another false alarm?He remembered the first time in 1971, when a German intelligenceofficer in Canberra contacted him about political developmentsin Yugoslavia. It seemed to the BND to be the real thing,but Wolfgang proved to be right. Hard-core Communists werepensioned off and other Croatian leaders of the Yugoslav CommunistParty, who had tried to introduce real self-government,were imprisoned. To impress Croatian émigrés, the Yugoslav regimesent a number of young Communists abroad to sell a newproduct, the Croatian Spring Uprising, yet another creation basedon Trust.Finally, when he got Barry on the line, Wolfgang burst out,'What's up, Barry?'Barry noticed Wolfgang's worried voice and, in a relaxedtone, said, 'Nothing to worry about, Wolfgang. I just received acall from Canberra, and I thought you'd like to know; I'm not goingto tell you too much over the phone, but meet me at the airportand I'll fill you in then. I'm leaving at nine. Not to keep youin suspense any longer, I can say it's to do with the arrival of yourteacher next month.'Hearing the word 'teacher', Wolfgang's heart began to poundfaster. Incredible: his teacher – Onisil's father, Djemal Bijedic –was coming to Australia. He replied, 'Yes, of course. I'm on myway right now.''See you at the airport cafeteria.'Half an hour later, Wolfgang and Barry were sipping coffeein the airport cafeteria.364

Barry said, 'Bijedic is the prime minister of Yugoslavia andhe's coming to visit Australia. I thought you'd like to meet him.'In disbelief, Wolfgang said, 'Prime minister?'It's true, Wolfgang. He's coming next month and he'll be theguest of our newly elected prime minister for two days.'Aware that invitations to heads of government were takinglonger than when Whitlam had been in office, Wolfgang couldnot believe it. 'How could our PM invite him so quickly, Barry?'Barry smiled. Then he reminded Wolfgang that it was BillySnedden, former minister for immigration, who had invited Titoto visit Australia. Tito, of course, would not risk his life in acountry littered by extreme right revolutionaries seeking revengeagainst him. So in 1967, Tito politely declined the invitation.Now that there had been a change of government, Tito decided tosend his prime minister, whom he could sacrifice to prove that theAustralian Liberal government was tolerating extremists in thesame way as the British did during the rise of Adolf Hitler.Wolfgang admitted Barry was right. If anybody understoodthe Balkan mentality it was he, Zlatko Tauber alias WolfgangBraun.'I'd give anything to meet him, but won't it be difficult?''Yes, but given that our government will be concerned for hissafety, maybe I can arrange a meeting for you. As I understand,there'll be a number of private security agencies involved as wellas the federal police, and even ASIO, but I think I can get aroundthat.''In that case, go ahead.'Satisfied with Wolfgang's reaction, Barry said, 'That'll be all,then. When I get back, I'Illet you know;'The flight number for Canberra had been announced. Shakinghands, they parted.Just a week away from Bijedic's arrival, Wolfgang, on theway to the office, heard the dreadful news – he was stunned. Herealised immediately that the latest development might not onlyseriously jeopardise his prospects of meeting Bijedic, but alsocould in fact cause the cancellation of Bijedic's visit. The newswas short and sttaightforward: the attorney-general, accompanied365

y Commonwealth policemen, had raided the ASIO headquartersat 469 St Kilda Street in Melbourne. Although it was not clear tothe public at this stage why and what possible reasons the attorney-generalhad for such an unprecedented move, it was perfectlyclear to Wolfgang.Since his arrival in Australia, Wolfgang had noticed a dramaticincrease in the activities of Croatian right-wing organisations.He had discussed it with Barry, but Barry attributed hisalarm to the fact that Wolfgang was of Jewish origin and thereforesensitive on issues relating to Nazism. It took Wolfgang quitea time to convince Barry of the harm that might occur if such activitieswere not curtailed.In 1967, the Australian immigration minister went to Yugoslavia;a diplomatic relationship was established and the invitationissued to Tito to visit Australia. Naturally, Yugoslavia objectedto the existence of any Croatian organisation, regardless ofits objectives, and, as a result, abused Australia's hospitality bystationing numerous agents across the Australian continent. ToWolfgang, their presence was an invisible shadow which, to him,threatened imminent danger. After all, he had served them forseven years; it was a long time ago, but he suspected their methodswere now more sophisticated and therefore harder to detect.The agents, who were in Australia as active units of the UDBA,were in place not just in order to spy on their countrymen, butalso for using pressure and, if necessary, resurrecting the feareddirty tricks.Wolfgang eagerly awaited Barry's return from Canberra,where he was to have a meeting with the director-general ofASIO, which was responsible for Bijedic's security. Only thenwould he be in a position to analyse the impact of the raid, mainlybecause many Western intelligence organisations had cut off theflow of information to Australia. Some even saw the unprecedentedraid as a leftist coup inside ASIO.While UDBA's agents, the federal police and ASIO wereguarding all the entrances and exits leading to the eleventh floorof the Lakeside Hotel in Canberra on 22nd March 1973, WolfgangBraun was nervously pacing across Djemal Bijedic's suite.366

Although he had prepared himself for years to disclose the terriblesecret he learned in 1968, when he received the mysteriouspackage from Germany his last gift from Gehlen – Wolfgang wastrying to figure out the best way to deliver it to Bijedic and to anticipatehis reaction. At the same time, a succinct cable, decipheredfrom German and translated into Croatian, was burninghis jacket pocket.Sent in 1937 by Jose Ramos, general secretary of the SpanishCommunist Party, to Joseph Stalin, the incredible cable had foundits way to Gehlen. Wolfgang also learned that the cable and thesaving of Tito's life in 1951 enabled Gehlen to obtain in 1954 thefamous Khruschev Manifesto – the valuable blueprint of Stalin'satrocities against his own people. A copy of it bore a price tag setby the CIA of one million dollars in US currency – yet anotherGehlen achievement.As the guest of honour at a dinner at the Lodge, the Australianprime minister's residence in Canberra, Bijedic was equallynervous. He had agreed to Zlatko's request to meet him tonight. Itwas Zlatko's last opportunity, since Bijedic would be leaving thefollowing day for New Zealand. Under normal circumstances, hewould have declined, mainly because Zlatko was a fugitive andtraitor against the regime Bijedic had served so faithfully.Zlatko had given assurances that he could prove how andwhy Onisil had been murdered in 1951. That alone was sufficientto justify the secret meeting. After all, Bijedic had been Zlatko'steacher during the war, and there was a certain bond betweenthem despite Zlatko's assumed treachery. Bijedic was aware ofthe consequences if the UDBA agents managed to tape his conversationwith Zlatko, but it was Barry Johnson who persuadedhim to give Zlatko a chance. Johnson guaranteed there were nobugs in his suite.Bijedic was nervous at dinner. He was determined to cut itshort to accommodate the late-night meeting. Under the pretencethat he was suffering from jet lag, he managed to leave the primeminister's residence just before midnight. By the time he reachedthe Lakeside, his heart had begun to pound faster. A few minuteslater, he entered his suite and was standing in front of a man hewould never have recognised if he had seen him on the street.367

Zlatko rose from his seat, leaving his pipe on the coffee table,and crossed the floor in Bijedic's direction. He said in Croatian, 'Irealise how difficult it must be for you to grant me this chance toclear my name, but I'm confident that by the time I disclose toyou the circumstances of your son's death, you'll be happy withyour decision.'Bijedic looked at the middle-aged man before him, not reallysure it was Zlatko. His appearance had changed drastically; yethis Croatian, with its Bosnian clarity, convinced him of Zlatko'sidentity. There was no doubt in his mind this was the real Zlatkobut, instead of extending his hand for the customary handshake,Bijedic waited for an explanation.Zlatko understood this as a sign to continue with his revelation.So once again he repeated the story he had been told byGehlen in 1951, and the one he told Brendan Bell in 1954.When, with the backing of Ramos's cable, Zlatko had finisheddisclosing the terrible secret which had claimed the life ofhis father and his best friend, Bijedic collapsed on the sofa. Sobbingquietly, he realised now why Zlatko had fled Yugoslavia. Hetoo felt shattered, deceived by the man he had served so faithfullyfor so long – Marshal Tito. It was clear that Doctor Tauber, a manhe had never met but had heard about, had been butchered mainlybecause he and Mosa shared a terrible secret. While Mosa soldhis body and soul to the Communist doctrine, Tauber was a differentbreed. He knew no money in the world would buy his silenceand, as a result, his silence was gained by putting him todeath.As Zlatko revealed that Onisil had not been aware of the terriblesecret, Bijedic realised how bitter he was. Onisil's life hadbeen sacrificed because he had been suspected of knowingsomething he did not know. Maybe it had been a warning toZlatko to keep quiet if he learned about it. What a waste, thoughtBijedic.Zlatko collected his pipe and, on the way out, said, 'There'ssomething I'd like to ask you in return,' He paused, and continuedas Bijedic lifted his head. 'I was promised by the man who sentme this cable that he would help me in finding my mother. He368

failed me badly. He never succeeded in carrying out his promise,although he may have tried.'Bijedic, who was pained as deeply as Zlatko, rose from thesofa and crossed the floor till he stood in front of his visitor. 'If it'sin my power, I give you my word I'll fulfil your request.'Zlatko knew he could rely on Bijedic. The prime ministerbelonged to a Bosnian generation whose word meant more than awritten contract. That was one thing he had learned while hidingin Bosnia during the war, and he had experienced it in his friendshipwith Onisil.'It's about my mother. I know why I failed to locate her manyyears ago. They did everything in their power to conceal her existence.Would you be prepared to find her for me? I could provideenough money for you to retire in the West afterwards, if itbecame necessary.'Of course, Bijedic would not deny Zlatko's request, but themention of money hurt his Bosnian pride. If there was anythinghe could do for his friend, he would never accept money. However,Zlatko was an exception; he was not even a Croatian but aJew, and at the moment he sounded like one.'All right, Zlatko. I'll try, but it'll take time. I can't go aroundasking questions about your mother. As a matter of fact, since1971 security arrangements for senior officials travelling insideYugoslavia have been tightened. It'll be virtually impossible forme to do this, but I'll find a way. Trust me.' Extending his hand,Bijedic shook hands with the man who, half an hour ago, had appearedto him to be a traitor. 'How can I get in touch with you if Ineed to?' inquired Bijedic.'I have a post office box in Melbourne – number 925. I presumeyou'll have no problem memorising the number?''You 're light. I'm proud you remember the most importantdate in Croatian history.'Zlatko was flabbergasted. His teacher had almost set asidehis blind devotion to the Communist gospel, in which there wasno room for Croatian history. He sensed that this shift originatedfrom the revelation about Onisil's death. As they parted, Zlatkonoticed Bijedic's emotional state and was sure he would find his369

mother, no matter how long it took. He hoped it would happenwell before Jennifer's health deteriorated.BELGRADE 1973On his flight back to Belgrade from New Zealand, DjemalBijedic still felt the impact of a distant echo from Australia –Zlatko's gloomy, incredible revelation, which burdened his mind.He realised how hastily he had accepted the responsibility offinding Irene von Tauber, and how difficult it would be. A thousandthoughts raced through his mind while he sought the tightsolution. What would he tell his wife about the tragic death of hisson? How would she take it? If he had to rely on her, should hetell her the truth or only a part of it?One thing was clear to him from the beginning. Whatever hetold her, from then on he would have to depend on her help. Consideringany mother's devotion to her son, he knew he could trusther that much. After all, there was no alternative.The twenty-hour flight in the jet specially provided by JATgave him enough time to think it over. Unbelievable, and yet soreal. To have sacrificed the life of his son without even being sureit was necessary.By the time he was close to Yugoslavia, he had reached yetanother decision. He was anxious to seek revenge. He knew itwould be impossible to punish those who were directly responsiblefor his son's death, but there must be another way. He hopedthat by seeking revenge, even if he sacrificed his own life, hewould be able to hurt the corrupt system which bred the hypocrisyhe had so faithfully and unquestioningly served inside and outsideYugoslavia. His revenge would be directed against the individualwho was directly responsible for his personal grief – MarshalTito.Bitter after so many years of suspicion, he recognised for thefirst time how other people who had lost loved ones in similarsituations must have felt. His bitterness was not only because ofthe sinister plot carried out against his son after all, he himself onmany occasions had instigated similar plots against others – but itwas, he believed, shaky evidence, hardly enough to justify the370

killing of their own breed. As a member of the inner cell of theJCP, Bijedic was aware that similar methods were used by thelower echelons of the party against their relatives, but he couldnot find justification for the murder in cold blood of his belovedson. As one of their best field agents, Onisil had been the mostpromising talent within the UDBA.Bijedic realised that it was because he hadn't known the reasonsfor his son's death so many years ago that he still felt as bitteras if it had happened yesterday. The sadness which filled hisheart was most distressing at a time when he had reached thehighest position he could. All those in Yugoslavia, he thought,who believed the Communists were not human beings, and didnot possess feelings, were wrong. They should look at him as anexample. Broken by grief and personal suffering, he too showedhuman qualities.For months after he had settled back into his routine, he carefullyplanned his every move. He was aware that one wrong stepcould lead to premature death. Now that he knew the truth, hecared very little about himself, but enough to carry out his promiseto the Jew – who had possibly been the cause of his son'sdeath. Apart from his promise, he made a firm decision that, oncehe had helped Zlatko find his mother, he would defeet to the Westand disclose the terrible truth which would eventually set Yugoslaviaon the path to war.Contemplating various moves, he finally devised a workableplan. Firstly, he would organise a committee which would collatethe history of all political prisoners in Yugoslav territory duringthe war. His aim was to produce an encyclopaedia for youngergenerations. According to the plan, each republic would have itsown committee members drawn from different areas to ensure areliable report. That would give him a chance to oversee its operationswithout being suspected of ulterior motives.Within eighteen months, the committees were functioning,but not to his satisfaction. One of the accepted handicaps within aproletarian society is its byproduct – inefficiency. So long as theywere carrying out their jobs he did not mind, but it was Zlatkowho had to put up with the delay, not he. The committees slowly371

separated into groups as well as ethnic minorities and, as a result,Jews were on their own. That was exactly what he was after. Hewould, from time to time, show an interest in the committee's activities,but he never touched the question of Jews, at least not directly.One of the main problems was that all prisoners had beennumbered during the war. In accordance with Nazi directives,even prisoners themselves were forced to address each other withtheir numbers instead of their given names. Surprisingly to Bijedic,the Communist takeover of the concentration camps hadnot changed this policy for a while. Nevertheless, it was longenough to complicate his search. His tedious and painstakingchecking of records took longer than anticipated, but his effortswere crowned by partial success.One day, he came across a number he believed belonged toIrene Tauber's. Records failed to show her release under thatnumber or under her name, so he was forced to employ anothermethod. Soon he realised he was back to square one. Strange, hethought, the number of the released prisoners corresponds to thetotal number of prisoners in Jasenovac and yet there is no sign ofMrs Tauber. It was now that he began to believe that the authorities,aware of her husband's plight, had concealed her existence.Testing every possible theory, he finally came up with anotheridea. Maybe she had been released under her maiden name;but then he remembered Zlatko telling him that he had tried everything,but without success. Obviously, the authorities had takenevery precaution to hide her in case Zlatko got that far. If she hadbeen released under her maiden name, surely Zlatko would havepicked it up.Something was puzzling Bijedic, and yet he could not put hisfinger on it. What was her maiden name? He had never askedZlatko that. Though Zlatko had provided him with a phoney contactname and the number of his Melbourne post office box, Bijedicwas reluctant to use it. It would be too dangerous. Then heremembered that Zlatko's parents had actually been married inZagreb. Out of a handful of photographers it ought not to havebeen hard to pick the right one but, as small businesses like that372

had changed hands many times since the war, it was no longerpossible. Again, he was at a dead end.Thinking about it one night, Bijedic's wife suggested a differentapproach. She remembered that Zlatko had told them in Sarajevoabout his mother being a highly sought-after painter beforeher marriage to Tauber. To check the newspapers from 1928would be a much easier job. She soon found an article praisingthe talent and extraordinary style of a Miss Neuman. What awoman my wife is, thought Bijedic. Why couldn't I have come upwith such an idea?Through a visit the following day to Zagreb's police headquarters,Bijedic's wife finally surmounted the main obstacle.From the records, she found that Mrs Tauber had been released in1945 under the name of Neuman but, because of her mental condition,she was sent to a sanatorium for disturbed persons atVrapce, near Zagreb. There, she spent a few years, until thesanatorium become overcrowded. She was transferred to an oldmonastery near the port of Pula on the Adriatic coast, on the IstrianPeninsula. The monastery had been converted to a mentalrehabilitation centre with low-security status. There, she was encouragedto pursue her interest, and finally she was allowed topaint. Bijedic's wife's quick check of the list of patients revealedthat Mrs Tauber had been released from the centre in 1964. Shehad since been living quietly in one of Pula's inner suburbs.Because of his position, it was impossible for Bijedic tocontact her directly.The Yugoslav regime was scared of an assassination attemptnot only on his life, but on any official, so they took no chances.All were closely watched. To overcome this restriction, he had torely on his wife, who knew only a part of the truth about theirson's death. He did not tell her why he had been killed, but ambiguouslyreferred to a terrible secret Onisil was supposed to haveshared with Zlatko. As a result of Onisil's death, Zlatko had fledYugoslavia in time to save his own life. He was now living inhiding in New Zealand.When the prime minister took his summer leave at the holidayresort in Opatija, the Bijedics were within reach of the port of373

Pula. Long before their arrival, Mrs Bijedic had had an interest infresco paintings. To gain some experience, she would paintwhenever she was free of official activities. Once they arrived in anew city or a country town, Mrs Bijedic would inquire about localgalleries. Some times, it was possible for her husband to attendtoo, but his state engagements very often forced him to leave hiswife on her own. Luckily, he could trust her that much. Many officialswould not dare to work so closely with their wives, but inBijedic's case it was different. He had married her for love, astigma for a devoted Communist. Apart from that, they had acommon interest now – to revenge the death of their beloved son.On one such occasion, Mrs Bijedic met the owner of a smallprivately owned gallery, who invited her to see what he had to offer.Once inside, it was easy to spot Mrs Neuman's paintings. Inquiringabout the almost forgotten painter, Mrs Bijedic was toldthat the paintings were government property and not for sale. Shepretended to be surprised, and the owner explained that the artistwas being mentally rehabilitated and still under treatment, andonly the government could sell her work. The money raisedthrough her paintings would be used for her upkeep and furthermedical treatment.The shrewd proprietor noticed Mrs Bijedic's eagerness to buyone of Irene's paintings and, knowing her husband's political influence,he hoped to win her support for Irene's plight and thusfind a way to sell her paintings himself. He volunteered to arrangea meeting between them, saying he had no control over MrsNeuman's private arrangements. Mrs Bijedic, suspecting theowner's connection with the UDBA, declined such an arrangement,fully aware that Mrs Neuman must be under constantUDBA surveillance. Instead, she sought advice from her husband.For safety's sake, contact would not be made until next summer,when her husband would visit Pula officially to open thepopular folk song festival staged in Pula's magnificent amphitheatre– a three-storey high circular ring wall with numerous archopenings the size of a large window. The arches would be decoratedwith colourful lanterns of different shapes, sizes and colours.The numerous lights at night created a magnificent sight.Though the wall was partly ruined due to age, harsh weather and374

negligence, it was quite visible during the day, but almost impossibleto see its imperfections in the lantern lights at night. Thewhisper of the light breeze coming from me Adriatic would beaccompanied during the festival with guitars and tamburas. Thecombination of a perfect setting, lively music, the songs and themood of the people created a memorable occasion for all participants,artists and audience alike.The gallery owner and Mrs Neuman received an official invitationto the festival a few days before its opening. It was impossibleto have a conversation about Mrs Neuman's past, but MrsBijedic took her time. Their first unobserved meeting took place,ironically, in a convent where Mrs Neuman was restoring frescopaintings. With its large garden cultivated by nuns, and with lot oftrees and shrubs, it represented an ideal setting for sensitive talks.After inspecting Irene's progress inside a small chapel, they settledoutside in the shade of a willow tree, sipping soft drinks.Mrs Bijedic was convinced it was a perfect opportunity forher to make the crucial approach. 'Would you mind, Mrs Neuman,if I addressed you by your husband's surname?'Surprised by such a straightforward question, Mrs Neumansuspiciously surveyed Mrs Bijedic's face. The suggestion appearedgenuine, but she was frightened at the prospect of hearingthe sound of her beloved husband's surname. With shivers downher back, she remembered the strict order given by the officialwho had said to her long ago, 'You will be given an early releaseproviding you never discuss your past with anyone. If we learnabout a breach of this condition, you will be placed in the highersecurity sanatorium and spend your life without any privileges.''How do you know I was married, Mrs Bijedic?''I can't tell you exactly how, but I can tell you why, if youagree.'Mrs Neuman hesitated to ask Mrs Bijedic why she had insistedon their meeting, and why she was interested in her past.Could it be possible the government wanted to know if she hadever disclosed her past? As her thoughts went back to the day ofher release, she remembered how she had broken her solemncommitment once a long ago, but it was virtually in exchange forinformation about her beloved husband and son. Now, the situa-375

tion was repeating itself, but with a difference, and – what wasmost important – she had been asked in a very unusual manner.Was it yet another provocation, or could she trust this unknownlady?She had been told last summer by the gallery owner that theprime minister's wife was interested in her paintings. Now beingasked such a provocative question, she had to consider thewoman's interest in a different light. Certainly, members of theCommunist Party would be asked from time to time to performdirty work for the party, but would she lower herself to such arole? Why would she try to provoke her? What possible reason orgain could she have to do such a thing? She did not look like aperson of low standing.All sorts of thoughts raced through Mrs Neuman's mind, buther repeated glances at Mrs Bijedic revealed her indecision.Doubting the wisdom of asking any further questions, she decidedto give Mrs Bijedic an opportunity to lay down her cards.Suspecting that Mrs Neuman must have been warned againsttalking about her past, Mrs Bijedic added, 'Do you realise, MrsTauber, that my husband was your son's teacher?'Stunned by the revelation, Mrs Tauber's heart started poundingso violently that it was practically audible. Her woman's intuitionsuggested that Mrs Bijedic must have valid reasons forsuch questions. 'For God's sake, how do you know my Zlatko?'She could no longer pretend, not now.'It's rather a long story, Mrs Tauber.' Looking around the almostdeserted convent gardens, Mrs Bijedic continued, 'If I remembercorrectly, it was just two years before the end of thewar...'As she paused for a moment, thinking where to start herstory, Irene had enough time to ask, 'Do you realise I'm forbiddento talk about my husband and son?''That's news to me. Do you want me to continue?'Reluctantly, Irene agreed. 'Yes, so long as you understand itwasn't I who started this conversation.'Poor woman, thought Mrs Bijedic. They must have reallyscared her. For a few seconds she wondered, What can I say? 'I'maware of the consequences, for you and for me, but believe me I376

have a good reason, a very good reason.' At that moment hervoice almost failed her. Trembling as she had when she firstheard about the death of her son, Mrs Bijedic was unable to continue,but Irene took over the conversation.'Why did you tell me about my son? He was assassinated inWest Germany in 1952 by a former Nazi officer because of hisJewish origin.' Sobbing bitterly and wiping her tears to composeherself, she continued, 'And I've been told since 1945 that myhusband was killed by Ustashe forces because of me.'Flabbergasted with this revelation, Mrs Bijedic guessed immediatelywho might have brainwashed Mrs Tauber – the neverfailingdirty tricks department of the UDBA. Amazingly, thedates were correct, but far from the truth. 'I'm not sure who toldyou those lies, but let me assure you your son is alive and well.'Mrs Tauber leaned forward seeking the support which MrsBijedic so readily provided. Guiding her towards the gardenbench they had left a minute ago, Mrs Bijedic sat close to her.Mrs Tauber's pale face become white and her fragile bodywas shaking from shock. She was close to collapse, but managedto ask, 'How can I believe you?''I know it's hard for you to believe anything after so manyyears of suffering, but let me tell you what I know and then judgefor yourself.'Mrs Tauber only nodded, signalling Mrs Bijedic to continueher explanation.'I, too, used to have a son, who was your Zlatko's best friend.What I'm telling you now is not only for your son's sake, but formy son's as well. He was suspected of sharing some terrible secretwith Zlatko. My Onisil was unaware of it, I'm sure. Nevertheless,it was he who paid with his life.'Their eyes full of tears, both ladies trembled from the effectof their grief.'Why do you tell me all this, Mrs Bijedic? Even if my son isalive, how could I possibly reach him? How could I see him?Looking at her, Mrs Bijedic thought for a moment. What ismore painful? The knowledge that my son is dead or Mrs Tauber'sdiscovery that her son is alive but impossible to reach?377

'Don't despair. Absolutely nothing is impossible. Of course, itdepends upon your courage and determination.' Mrs Bijedic bither tongue. How could she be so cruel as to say this to Mrs Tauberafter all her years of suffering inside and outside concentrationcamps and sanatoriums?She was ready to apologise, but Mrs Tauber interrupted herpolitely. 'How do you think I survived so long? God is my witnessthat I had the courage to get me through. If I hadn't had enoughcourage, I would never have left the concentration camp, not tomention the horrible sanatoriums where I had to pretend to be insane.'Realising what she had done, Mrs Bijedic said in an apologetictone, 'I'm sorry I've brought back bitter memories. It wasn'tmy intention, believe me. I've been aware of your plight sinceyour son described it to us a long time ago.' She told how Zlatkohad revealed the story to them one winter night when all the familywas sitting around the fireplace before bedtime.Zlatko's vivid description of the mood, setting and actualhappening was so real they had almost been able to see it. Hisextraordinary gift in representing an individual's character and reactionswas evident, especially the stoning of his mother by theyouth organisation, members of the Ustaska Uzdanica, the CroatianFascist Youth Organisation, dressed in brown uniforms andurged on by the sick minds of their elders, who blamed the Jewsfor everything opposed to their ideals. It was then that all thoselistening had realised how much Zlatko loved his parents.'That night,' recalled Mrs Bijedic, 'all of us in the house weresharing the blame. We felt ashamed of our own countrymen, wholet others suffer such an incredibly inhuman act. Even my owngrandfather, who was considered a seasoned and hardened person,cried like the rest of us. The pain Zlatko was going through, tellingus all this, was plain to see. Naturally, he was upset knowingit all, and yet so helpless. At one stage, he admitted, he was preparedto give himself up in return for your freedom. It was myhusband who convinced him it would be fruitless. They'd bepleased because they would have two Jews instead of one.'Mrs Tauber was deeply moved by what she had heard. Notbecause it was Zlatko who had said them a long time ago, but be-378

cause they came from a woman whose husband was responsiblefor so many innocent people being tortured or sent to prison orcollective farms, not to mention all those who were forced toleave their beloved country to be humiliated in foreign lands.How cruel and inhuman had been their destiny, thought Irene. Tobe told by someone who deserved no sympathy, but only punishment,was a paradox.'What can I do now? How can I reach my son?''You can't. Your son wishes to get in touch with you and persuadeyou to leave Yugoslavia.'In a desperate tone, Irene said, 'But how can I leave this hell?They wouldn't let me go – never. How could he get in touch withme?'Thinking about Irene's desperate questions, Mrs Bijedic triedto figure out a practical way. 'You think they wouldn't let you go?Oh, yes, they certainly would. They're after Zlatko's skin. Theysuspect he shares the terrible secret for which your husband andmy beloved son were murdered.''What secret are you talking about? Who murdered my husband?What does your son have to do with it?'In a patronising tone, Mrs Bijedic said, 'Don't worry about itnow. I can't tell you any more, because I don't know myself:Maybe you know something from the past? What you shouldworry about is providing an address and a name – not your own –so Zlatko can write to you. He'll be able to tell you more once youreach him.'With incredible strength, almost like a coiled spring, MrsTauber leapt from the bench. Her first thought was, That's it! NowI know why I was told all this nonsense: so I would betray mybest friend – the only lady who knows my past and someone Itrust. 'So that's it. You fed me with all this claptrap to find outwhether anyone knows about my past. Is what you've told me trueor not?'With a friendly smile, sensing Mrs Tauber had got it allwrong, Mrs Bijedic said, 'It's true. Everything I've told you todayis true,'Irene's face remained calm, but inside she was raging.Searching for her bag, Mrs Bijedic opened it and produced a379

small pouch, and handed it to Mrs Tauber, 'It's from Zlatko. Youcan check it yourself:'As soon Mrs Tauber saw its contents, she knew immediatelyMrs Bijedic was telling her the truth. The small photograph of theJewish medallion bore an SDS inscription identical to the onewhich Zlatko had worn. She could clearly see the rim of the medallion.Otto engraved it, himself, with his surgical knife: ToZlatko, 1937. Only those who looked at it closely, and knew itwas there, would discover it.Irene turned over the small picture and read Zlatko's instruction,signed 'Your chick', the nickname given to him when he wasfive years old.Dear em,Trust my messenger.Your pilicOn her way home, Mrs Tauber was absolutely sure Mrs Bijedichad told her the truth. It occurred to her, just before she gaveMrs Bijedic the address for Zlatko to contact her, that the Communistsecret service would not have kept her under surveillancefor so long without good reason. Now, she was positive her sanitywas intact. Despite her suffering and humiliation, she had beenable to survive, but she still had to pretend to be insane.It was wonderful after all these years to think that she wouldbe able to see her son and possibly learn why her beloved Ottohad been murdered. Maybe she would find out where he wasburied. Thank God all those years of desperation and waiting hadnot been in vain.MELBOURNE 1976Several weeks later, on the way home, Zlatko parked his carin Elizabeth Street, by now almost deserted. A few metres fromhis parking spot was the GPO. His ritual, as it was tonight, hadbeen repeated at least twice a week since April 1973. The occa-380

sions in question were usually late nights at his office. Turningthe key in PO Box 925, he opened a small black door which revealeda single envelope inside. At last. After all the years ofwaiting and waiting, he had never given up, and now he wasabout to receive the news he desperately wanted. His handsstarted to tremble, and his body began to shake. His face perspiredwhite the strong August winds dried his sweat-soaked face.The letter, posted on 24th July 1976 in Vienna, was signedby Bijedic, who had fulfilled his promise. What Zlatko did notknow was that Bijedic intended to pass vital information to one ofthe Western intelligence services as his revenge against the politicalsystem he had served so blindly, yet faithfully.381

19PULA 1977Through their prearranged channel of correspondence, IreneTauber and Zlatko alias Wolfgang succeeded in exchanging anumber of letters without their being intercepted by the police.Wolfgang's letters were written in such an ambiguous way thateven Irene had difficulty, at least in the beginning, interpretingthem correctly. The dates were years old, and the quality of thepaper could easily have fooled an experienced policeman as to itsvintage.Even if any letter were intercepted, they would not lead policeto Irene, nor to Wolfgang. As a safeguard, they used nicknames,and in the text there would be reference to the sequentialnumber of the letters. The entire route of the correspondence hadbeen further complicated by employing two stopovers before theletters left for their final destination. Irene would post her lettersaddressed to her girlfriend, who lived at the port of Rijeka, one ofthe busiest commercial ports in Yugoslavia. Then her girlfriendwould post it to Italy. From there, it would be sent to the post officebox in Melbourne, which was registered in Barry Johnson'sname. Irene would receive Wolfgang's letters via one of Rome'sprivate art galleries, which supplied Irene with canvas, pictureframes and painting material. The frames were wrapped in old invoices,letters and newspapers to protect them from damage. Itwas just a matter of being careful when unpacking – a task forwhich Irene had a lot of patience and time. As soon as she hadread and interpreted each letter, she would memorise its contentsand destroy it.Later on, she would prepare her answers and mail her lettersfrom different mail boxes, at different times and in disguisedhandwriting, an easy task for a gifted artist. In spite of her deepconviction that she would be subject to further persecution onceshe made a move to leave the country, Irene was surprised whenshe turned up at the local branch of the ministry of the interior.382

She was given the requested application form, which shepromptly filled in and handed over at the passport section.The officer on the duty greeted her with a sympathetic smileand said in a patronising tone, 'Where are you heading for,grandma?'Relieved by his casual tone and the possibility of avoidingthe usual police scrutiny, Irene gave an ambiguous answer. 'Tosee the birthplace of my ancestors.'Not even looking at her form lying on the counter in front ofhim, the officer said in a cheerful tone, 'Well, well. You certainlyknow how to talk in riddles. I have ancestors too, but you're supposedto be telling me, where are yours?'Sensing she might be heading for trouble, Irene spoke timidly,'Jerusalem, of course, officer.'Surprised, the officer could not hide his disgust. Poring overthe neatly filled-in form to make sure the old lady was not pullinghis leg, he read out the entire form loudly, attracting the attentionof those standing in the queue behind Irene – very embarrassing,indeed. The main reason for his surprise was that he knew thatpeople of advanced age usually hardly travelled beyond Italy,Austria or the Iron Curtain perimeter, and yet this old lady wastaking a much longer journey.Confirming her statement by reading her duly sworn form, hespoke in an authoritative tone, cold and uncompromising. 'I'mafraid you'll have to wait at least three to four weeks, if not more.After all, you're not just visiting Israel, you're leaving Yugoslaviafor good.'Irene's heart sank to its lowest but the officer continued, seeingthe obviously disturbed expression on her face, 'What aboutyour entry permit, comrade Tauber?'Oh, how she hated that word 'comrade' only God knew, butthere was nothing she could do about it. It was common practiceto address everybody in that manner, inside or out of a governmentoffice. .'There shouldn't be any problem, officer, because I'm a Jew.Once I have a passport, the permit will be granted within hours.'It did not escape the officer how Irene had emphasised thelast part of her sentence, but he refused to pay attention to her de-383

liberate provocation, which obviously implied the Israeli consulate'sefficiency. The officer picked up her form between his fingers,giving the impression it was something dirty. Maybe,thought Irene, he does not like Jews.'That will be all, comrade Tauber.' His friendly tone hadchanged dramatically and his initial patronising approach had disappeared.'Who's next? You, comrade,' he said, pointing to theperson behind Irene.Naturally, Irene was upset. She could not even ask him aboutcustoms requirements. Not now; She well knew that once the officerhad ordered the next person standing in the queue to comeforward, it was pointless to ask anything further. Such an approachwould provoke him, and that could lead to trouble the lastthing she wanted. On the other hand, she considered herself verylucky. Her remark about Israeli efficiency had hit the target, therewas no doubt about that. She left immediately. The officer hadconfirmed her suspicion about the feelings held in the departmenttowards Jews.Once outside the building, and thinking about the possibilityof leaving this worker's paradise, Irene was relieved for good.Although she did not have a passport yet, Irene hoped thatZlatko's prediction in his first letter would eventuate. His claimthat they would jump at an opportunity to catch up with him gaveher hope of seeing her son again after all this time.The opportunity to spend her last days in freedom with herbeloved son and daughter-in-law filled her with a joy she hadnever experienced before. Even the word 'joy' had been almostnon-existent in her vocabulary. At last she would be able to talkto them freely, enjoying their responses and sharing their happiness.Above all, she would be able to find out what had causedthe premature deaths of her husband and Zlatko's friend Onisil,and what the terrible secret was that had plagued their lives.Zlatko was right. It did not take them long. Irene was summonedto the ministry within a week, and her immigration to Israelwas arranged with the utmost expediency. She could not believeit. What had seemed distant and impossible now became areality. The only thing left was frantic packing. Zlatko told her toleave everything behind. There would be no need for anything384

except a few valuable items she could not be without. As a result,her devoted letter service relay her girlfriend in the port of Rijeka– inherited everything.Armed with her new passport, an Israeli entry permit andtravel-light luggage, Irene left Yugoslavia by train for Rome.Once across the border, she looked back into Yugoslavia andvowed never to return to that hell until the proletarian regime wasreplaced by a democracy. The regime had decimated not onlyCroatians of Roman Catholic religion but also Croatian Jews,Moslems, and even Orthodox adherents born in Croatian territory.She paid her homage to the Basilica at the Vatican and lit a singlecandle, the only one left in the shop, presumably because of itshuge size and hefty price.This was her last salute to Otto von Tauber, the man she hadloved so much. Though she was happy that she would be joiningher son, Irene was acutely sad because she still did not knowwhere her beloved husband was buried.On her arrival at Tel Aviv airport, she was greeted by thefamily of Isaac Abels, whom Zlatko had met through businessconnections in Melbourne. She received from each member of thefamily a bouquet of red, white and blue flowers, their colours representingthe Croatian flag. The Abels' kindness and hospitalitywere meant to make her feel at home – the home of her ancestors– and it was her first taste of democracy.Her stay in Israel was memorable, because Abels, a retiredMossad officer, took her everywhere. From Tel Aviv, Haifa andJerusalem, to the Kothel Ma'aravi, the Wailing Wall, the most sacredplace to Jews in the world. Irene also paid a tribute to VadVashem, the Mount of Remembrance, dedicated to the six millionJewish victims of Nazism. In laying a wreath for them, Irenethought about her beloved father and about Otto. What an incredibledestiny for a man who had dedicated his life to help hisfellowman, only to be murdered because he shared the knowledgeof some terrible secret.The next day, Irene left Jerusalem for Galilee. She thought ofher unfortunate father. Only God knew how he would havewished to live here and work in one of the kibbutz, living in sim-385

ple comfort instead of having to take his own life to prevent hiscapture.MELBOURNE.1977At the same time, Wolfgang was busy in Melbourne withpreparations which could be described, in any language, as anextraordinary welcome. His planned security precautions werelike those usually reserved for VIP arrivals. To him, his motherwas more than a VIP – to him, his mother had always been theMIP: the Most Important Person.To finalise his arrangements, Wolfgang relied on Barry'shelp. The Tullamarine airport management allowed him to use thebasement of their newly completed building as the final meetingplace. First, Wolfgang purchased a new ambulance and outfittedit with three armchairs in place of the two beds. One of his employees,a racing car driver in his spare time, was put in charge ofrefurbishing the ambulance's engine. His love of cars led him tomake various engine modifications which improved the ambulance'sperformance remarkably. Two days before Irene's arrival,they all carried out a rehearsal with military precision.Early on Thursday morning, 13th January 1977, the ambulancewas parked opposite one of the service lifts leading to theflight floor. Its sole occupant was locked in side, and the heavilytinted windows prevented would-be peeping torns from peekingin side.On the ground floor of the Tullamarine airport building, fourmen dressed in airport security uniforms patrolled the area leadingto the basement. Two were positioned in the vicinity of theservice lift, while the other pair stood near the exit doors leadingto the basement stairs. One of Wolfgang's friends, a retired policemanfrom the Victorian CIB, had been sent to Tel Aviv towatch over Mrs Tauber and make sure she was not being followedor, worse, accosted in any way. He was to do this withoutmaking himself known to her, so as not to alarm her. Zlatko hadgiven him a recent photo of his mother. Once the man had identifiedher, if he saw anything suspicious, he was to alert the driverby two-way radio.386

When Irene arrived, Jennifer and Margaret and Barry Johnsonwould meet her and lead her to the basement, where Wolfgangwould be waiting. Wolfgang would have given anything tomeet her first, but Barry advised him strongly against it. The factthat Irene's passport had been processed with such expediencysuggested that the Tito regime wanted him badly. It was decidedthat, once Mrs Tauber had passed through customs, her luggagewould be collected by an RVI employee, who would deliver it toWolfgang's home in Frankston. On the arrival of the party in thebasement, Irene, Jennifer and Wolfgang would be seated insidethe ambulance. When they departed, they would be followed byMargaret and Barry in an unidentified police car equipped with atwo-way radio. Instead of going home straightaway, the wholeparty would proceed to Abraham's restaurant, where they wouldhave a lavish lunch. Then they would travel in different cars toFrankston. This would give them an opportunity to recheck ifthey were being followed.Everything went as planned, with one exception. Armed withrecent photos of Jennifer, Margaret and Barry, Irene would beable to identify them to make sure that she was leaving Tullamarineairport in the right company. The rehearsal Wolfgang andBarry held beforehand enabled them to find out how much timewas involved once Irene left the customs area. There was no roomfor slip-ups. One wrong move, and all the years of successfullyeluding his pursuers would be lost forever, not to mention thepossibility of other lives being put in jeopardy as well.Irene was confident of recognising her escorts. As a giftedartist, it was not difficult for her, despite her age, to memorisefaces and spot them even in a crowd. As she walked from customs,she was amazed at the large crowd gathered the other sideof a wooden panel to meet new arrivals. Barry's towering figurewas easily spotted and, by the time she reached the end of therails, provided for the easier exit of passengers, Irene was greetedby Jennifer.Though in her early fifties, Jennifer's slim build made herlook so attractive that Irene could not believe her eyes – she wasmuch prettier than the recent photo Wolfgang had sent her in Israel.387

Jennifer, recognising the old lady, approached her while theJohnsons waited in the background. 'Welcome to Australia,mother.''Shalom, Jennifer.' With open arms, the old lady embracedJennifer, who returned the embrace.Margaret, who was patiently waiting her turn to greet the oldlady, could not take her eyes off these two who were completestrangers a few minutes ago. Now they were embracing eachother, talking in excited voices. Seeing them crying, she, too,burst into tears. Poor Barry, she thought, not even looking at herhusband, who had been subjected to such an emotional feminineoutburst.While he was pretending to be busy with checking the airportlounge, Barry was glad Margaret did not have time to look at him.If she had, she would have noticed his own emotional state. Evenhe, who seldom showed any emotion, was unable to control hisfeelings. Looking around, he saw that many passers-by weresmiling approvingly at the joyful reunion of the old lady and herfamily.In the mean time, Wolfgang was nervously pacing back andforth in front of the service lift which was destined to bring hismother into his arms. He could not have anticipated what wasgoing on two floors above him. The tightness he felt in his chestwas almost choking him, and he hoped it would not be too longbefore his dream came true.Impatiently, Margaret rushed over to the two women, whowere both crying and laughing like schoolgirls, and greeted Irenein similar fashion. Barry, who did not want to get too involved inthe scene, could not resist the urge to embrace Irene also.Looking around, Irene whispered in Barry's ear, 'Where'sZlatko?'Barry, leaning closer to her, whispered back. 'He'll be with usshortly, Mrs Tauber.'As they began to leave, Irene inquired about her luggage, andwas told that everything had been taken care of. Jennifer and herfriends were amazed at the extent of Irene's English. She explainedthat it was, the result of her student days in Paris andRome, where she had studied. 'But that was such a long time ago.'388

Once in the lift, Jennifer told Irene Zlatko's assumed name,but left it to her whether she would call him Wolfgang or Zlatko.In the mean time, Barry stayed behind with his friends to makesure everything went as planned. It gave him the opportunity toescape a repetition of the emotional outburst. As the Australianrepresentative to Interpol he had often come in contact withYugoslav agents and the representatives of the UDBA's specialbranch and he was surprised at not seeing any of the broad Balkanfaces he had become familiar with. However, although it nowseemed as if taking all his safety precautions might have been fornothing, neither he nor his discreetly placed companions relaxedtheir surveillance.A few minutes later, Irene and Jennifer arrived in the basementby the lift at Tullamarine airport. The lift doors opened wideto reveal a middle-aged man standing in the opening.'Shalom, my dear em.' With outstretched arms and tears inhis eyes, Zlatko rushed towards the long overdue meeting with hismother.'Zlatko! Zlatko, my dear son.' She threw herself in his arms.Embracing her tenderly, Zlatko could not refrain from sobbing.'Shh, don't cry, my son. It's your mother. Let me take a goodlook at you.' With tears of happiness, she leaned forward, andZlatko supported her while she touched his face with her gentlefingers.Zlatko's plastic surgery stitches were gone long ago, and noone, not even his mother, would be able to trace them.Embracing his dear mother and Jennifer, Zlatko said, 'Letsgo, em. I’ve been waiting for you a long time. God is my witnesshow hard I’ve prayed for this day.'On the way to the ambulance, Irene studied Zlatko's face.He's changed so much, she thought. Of course, she mused, he wasonly nineteen when I saw him last. Now that he was fifty-three,his hair greying and thinning, she might be fooled by his appearance,but his voice and his warmth could never escape her instinctiverecognition. She was amazed how he had managed tokeep his weight down, but at the same time she felt his strength ashe supported her during the short walk to the car.389

Reading his mother's thoughts, Zlatko teased her. 'Em, em,my dear em. Couldn't you recognise your own son?' His tone removedany doubt in his voice.Irene sensed he was teasing her.He had forgotten for a moment his plastic surgery of a quarterof a century ago in Pullach. How stupid of me, he thought,placing his fingers on his face to feel where once he had hadstitches that were now untraceable. 'I've changed, em, haven't I?'Irene looked up to him again and mentally calculated thetime since 1943. 'Yes, you have, but your voice is taking me,' shesaid in a trembling voice, 'almost thirty-four years into my past.'Their reunion sparked an emotional outburst in Jennifer, whoremembered with sadness the death of her parents a few yearsago. She knew they would have been happy to see Wolfgang encircledby his mother's fragile hands. After all those years of desperation,pretended insanity, suffering and humiliation, they hadfinally been reunited with each other. Jennifer was overjoyed togain another mother in place of her own. It was an almost unbelievablesight – the old lady who looked so frail and yet had beenso determined that she had cheated not only death but her enemies– the enemies of her beloved husband and son, and of the Jewishpeople.As the door of the ambulance opened and the collapsiblesteps were lowered, Irene was absolutely astonished. The vehicle'sinterior was decorated with flowers more beautiful than anyshe had seen. She turned to Zlatko, trying to say something, butZlatko anticipated her concern about the expense and gently puthis index finger to her lips. Once inside, they buckled their seatbelts. The driver carefully shut the rear doors and, only secondsafter starting the engine, began driving slowly, giving Barry andMargaret, who had just arrived, enough time to start their car andfollow them.Looking around, Irene could not hide her astonishment. 'It'sabsolutely beautiful, Zlatko. It must have cost you a fortune,' shesaid, pointing to the orchids near her seat. 'Was it really necessary?'Picking a rose, she smelled it and gave to Jennifer. 'Youknow I'd be happy just to see you, Jennifer, and your wonderful390

friends,' and, pointing at Barry's bouquet, she said, 'that wouldhave been sufficient, my dear son.''Yes, I know, em. But this is my happiest day, and the flowersare only a token.' Zlatko did not mention another set of flowersarranged, in the restaurant they were heading for, nor thirtyfourflower arrangements at his home – the true welcoming place.The day after her arrival, Irene was sitting on the balcony ofZlatko and Jennifer's home in Frankston overlooking Port PhillipBay, relaxing before her son's return. It was a warm summer eveningwith the sun dipping below the horizon, and she knew Zlatkowould be home soon. He had mentioned the night before that nextSunday they would leave for his summer retreat somewhere inNew South Wales. It was in another bay he regarded as the pearlof the south coast, unspoiled by commercial development.She recalled the lavish lunch she had had the day before, andthe hospitality of Inge and Abraham. The Orchids had beenclosed that particular lunchtime just to accommodate them and asmall number of Zlatko's friends – a sort of family gathering. Theseafood she chose had been superb.She could not believe Zlatko was well-off enough to affordsuch extravagances. She tried to calculate how much her lunchwould have cost in Yugoslav currency, but soon lost count – ithad run into millions of dinars, by now worthless. She realised,though she had been here only a few days, how Zlatko had madea good choice in choosing Australia – a country of plenty – for hisnew homeland, and how fortunate he was to have Jennifer, whowas beautiful and extremely kind.The doorbell signalled Zlatko's arrival. Irene's thoughts returnedto the moment. As she rose from the cane-upholstered seat,Zlatko opened the sliding screen leading to the balcony. Dressedin panama shorts, he looked exactly as she remembered him backhome.'Good evening, em.' Giving her a kiss, Zlatko raised his hand,pointing in the direction of the bay. 'How do you feel in your newhomeland?'Irene, with motherly appreciation, followed his gesture.Turning to him, she said, 'When I left Croatia I knew it would be391

much better here, but what I've actually found is far better than Iexpected.'Happy that his mother recognised Australia's advantages,Zlatko invited her in to have dinner. Over the meal, they discussedeverything, including what they were going to call Zlatkofrom now on. It would not be fair, said Jennifer, to use his assumedname. Not now. If friends asked about the discrepancy,they would be told that Zlatko was the same as Wolfgang inGerman.After dinner, they settled in the spacious lounge. Zlatkoserved cold beer. Jennifer knew instantly that the most importantmoment in her life was at hand. Like it or not, she was about tolearn her husband's real identity and origin. She was not worried.The years she had spent with Zlatko had proved his qualities,which were more important than his background. She knew thatwhatever he had to say would be of great significance to Irene,and equally interesting in her case since she would be hearing itfor the first time.Zlatko rose from his comfortable seat and began pacing thelounge room. He began by reminding his mother of Mosa Pijade'svisit to Vienna. He revealed that, from documents he had receivedfrom Germany, he could prove Mosa had lied to them. Mosa hadbeen on his way to Moscow, not Karlove Vary, as he had ledthem to believe.Irene remembered it as if it had happened yesterday. Whatshe did not know was that Otto and Zlatko had met in Pijade's office,and how Zlatko had become General Rankovic's interpreter.Hearing Rankoivic's name sent shivers down Irene's spine. Responsiblefor the repatriation and genocide of thousands of unfortunatesouls, he had been given the tag Alexander the Terrible.When Zlatko mentioned him, he felt responsible himself forthe genocide. Jennifer tried to convince him it was beyond hiscontrol. How could he have known what the partisans would doto the unfortunate victims?Irene, however, reminded silent. She believed that somewherealong the line somebody in their family had been part ofsome terrible crime, and they had to pay for it. 'Maybe we're des-392

tined to suffer because of this,' she said 'What do you think,Zlatko?'Jennifer could not understand. Was it possible that Irene wasactually accusing her own son? Or was something else troublingher? Her thoughts were interrupted by the firm tone in Zlatko'svoice.'The possibility has very often crossed my mind, but ourtragedy began a lot earlier.''That may be true,' agreed Irene, 'but did you ever inquireabout the prisoners' destiny?'Desperately switching the conversation to his father, Zlatkoaimed to cover up his thirst for revenge. 'Not really. I was preoccupiedthen with finding my father. I believed that together we'dbe able to locate you.''But what happened to Abba, Zlatko?' interrupted Irene.Taking a deep breath and a sip of cold beer, Zlatko thoughtfor a moment, trying to figure out where to begin his explanation.Then he talked about how he had been posted to Belgrade on hisreturn to Yugoslavia, where he attended the intelligence course. Itlasted about three years.Irene cut his story short, asking in disbelief, 'And during allthat time, you never inquired about your father?''It wasn't necessary, em. Soon after my arrival at the capital, Iwas told my father had been shot by the Holy Crusaders.'Flabbergasted by this strange revelation, as her father hadbeen years before, Jennifer thought for an instant that Zlatko wasmistaken. 'Holy Crusaders? They're part of medieval history,aren't they?''Yes, but that didn't stop Marshal Tito from resurrectingthem.'Puzzled, Jennifer and Irene listened intently to Zlatko'selaboration. When he mentioned Tito's real purpose – to lurePavelic and get rid of the religious population – the theory aboutthe Holy Crusaders began to make sense. Jennifer realised howturbulent the history of Croatia had been. She recalled discussionslong ago with Zlatko's friends, which had turned into bitter arguments.She had been delegated to do research which confirmedZlatko's statements. They were flabbergasted as much as she393

when they learned that Croatia existed as a united state a hundredand fortyone years before King William I seized the throne ofEngland.Zlatko went on to describe how Stalin had put out a contracton Tito's life, and delegated him to go to Vienna. He told how hemet General Gehlen, who had known Otto, and as a result negotiatedGehlen's surrender to the Americans.He then told them about Gehlen's possession of a medallionsimilar to his own, with the SDS inscription on one side and apicture of the temple in Jerusalern on the other. Zlatko also revealedthe story of his plastic surgery, his faked job recommendation,and why he had insisted on talking to Jennifer before heasked for her hand. The fact that Gehlen had promised, once heretired, to supply information regarding his father's death, he leftto this moment.'How does Onisil fit into all this?' inquired Irene.Without a word, Zlatko abruptly stopped pacing. He crossedthe room to a beautiful painting and pressed a hidden button. Theframe moved outwards. Zlatko placed his hand underneath andthe painting pivoted at ninety degrees. Being suspended from onecorner, it rested diagonally, revealing a small vault with a combinationlock. He opened it and slid out a metal box. Though Jenniferknew about the existence of the vault, she had never askedabout it. She sensed it contained something very important, otherwiseZlatko would not have made the alterations required to installanother vault in the house. She was right. Zlatko walked tothe coffee table and began carefully to lay down yellow-stainedsheets of various sizes.As he placed them in front his mother, Jennifer put on herreading glasses and moved closer. Unfortunately, what she sawwas written in riddles, scrambled words which did not make anysense to her. Zlatko began by identifying each document andsaying a few words about it. The first was the transcript of JoseRamos' cable informing Stalin about Broz being wounded, andthe prospects of his forthcoming operation. Then another cableconfirmed Broz's death due to the lack of medical staff; a nursewho had had to be kidnapped arrived too late.394

Irene's expression changed. What she had just heard was unbelievable.But when Zlatko produced Stalin's invitation addressedto Mosa Pijade, there was no doubt in her mind. Shecould read Russian well enough to understand Stalin's motives.Though Zlatko had no proof that Broz had been substituted, Ireneput the pieces of this unusual jigsaw puzzle together. Quite naturally,they could not let her Otto see Marshal Tito. He would haverecognised him immediately, as he had done in 1928 when he sawhim for the second time, twelve years after Broz had been capturedon the Russian front. The fact that Tito – Josip Broz-Tito –could not speak proper Croatian nor Irene szomorúan moslygott.Serbian or even the Zagorje dialect was immaterial now.The statements of foreigners, who claimed that during thewar Tito spoke German with a Viennese accent, began to makesense, because Tadeusz Lubitzky's father owned a porcelain factorywhere young Tadeusz spent his late teens until his fatherwent bankrupt. Others, like Doctor Tauber, who knew aboutBroz's shortsightness, would have been surprised that Tito's sighthad improved with age.Zlatko even mentioned the letter Slavica had received fromher girlfriend, who got her first teaching post in Kumrovecsrtaight after the war, which said, 'It was amazing how Kumrovecvillage is different from other villages in Zagorje province. In myvillage there are only younger people. When I asked them wherethe older ones were, I was told they had been killed by the Germansbecause of Tito's origins.'Zlatko produced Padev's book. The fact that Padev had usedmodified spelling to represent Croatian pronunciation confirmedthere was no mistake. Zlatko opened the book at page 22 andshowed it to an astonished Irene. Irene quickly spotted the sentenceunderlined in red: 'Broz was born in Klanyetz in the earlynineties.' She handed it to Jennifer, who could not believe it.Something was tickling her mind, and now she remembered.'Tell your mother about the television program the BBC did aboutTito, Zlatko.'But Zlatko had remembered something from his mother'spast. 'Can I ask you something, em? Do you remember your fa-395

ther crying to make you become a music teacher instead of apainter?'Not understanding what connection it could have with Tito'spast, Irene outlined how her father Joakim had bought her a grandpiano when she was seven, but Irene's teacher from Poland persuadedher father to let her pursue painting instead. Though Irenewould have been an equa1ly good music teacher, discipline andlong hours were not her forte. She abruptly stopped her story.'Why did you ask, Zlatko?'Before Zlatko could respond, Jennifer stepped in. 'The BBCprogram was dedicated to Tito. According to the narrator, Titowas capable of playing solo piano at concert level. It seemednatural to me then, but now that I know he left his village whenhe was sixteen, I can't understand how he could possibly havebeen so good. Zlatko told me Broz's father was so poor he hadhardly enough money to buy a fiddle.'Irene smiled sadly. What Zlatko had told Jennifer was true.No matter how gifted Tito was, it would have been an impossibletask to teach a youngster of sixteen to play the piano at concertlevel. Tito spent two years labouring on building sites, fought inWorld War I, had a four-year prison sentence, then became involvedin the International Brigade, led the partisans in WorldWar II and masterminded the post-war reconstruction of Yugoslavia.To become a concert player after starting at such a latestage would have been impossible even for Chopin. Irene wasconvinced that Zlatko was right. Otto had paid with his life becauseof the illusion that Pijade and Tito were his best friends.What a terrible price to have paid for something he never knew.'But I still can't understand what Onisil had to do with this,'said Irene.'Absolutely nothing, em. He was killed mainly as a warningto me. If the meeting had taken place in Vienna as originally arranged,everything would have been all right. But Tito had beenwarned by his contacts in East Germany not to underestimateGehlen. He learned only after my return that it was Gehlen himselfwho had saved his life. He suspected he knew of his Polishorigin. Onisil's death should have silenced me forever, or at leasttill I found you, but they misjudged me.'396

Everything was now clearer to Irene. 'Did you ever find yourfather's grave, Zlatko?''No. I was told it would be pointless to look for it. The partisansor the Holy Crusaders stacked the corpses together in a singlepit.'Irene, her eyes full of tears, was looking at Zlatko, who couldhardly hide his own emotions but remained in the lounge room afew moments while his mother, on the way to her bedroom, wascomforted by Jennifer. As he watched them leaving, he thoughthe should be the happiest man on earth, having a superb wife andlife companion, and now his almost-lost-forever mother. Deep insidehis happiness, however, was a hollow emptiness.It was very early as Wolfgang drove along Bourke Street onhis way to the office. He noticed for the first time the majesticbuildings of Victoria's Parliament House dominating the easternapproaches to Bourke Street from its elevated position. Strange.he thought, I never noticed before how striking those buildingsare. He recalled that during previous journeys along this road hehad cursed the labouring traffic and the endless delays. The majestyof the buildings was in stark contrast to their drab and uninspiringcounterpart at the opposite end of me street Spencer Streetrailway station.He wondered why the street was so empty even at this earlyhour. The width of the street with its distinctive tram-lines runningdown the middle made it seem even more deserted.The glare from the rays of the rising sun was reflected fromthe brightly polished surface of the tram-lines and this impairedWolfgang's vision, so he grew momentarily more careful. Then hechuckled to himself. There was hardly a chance of his hittinganything this morning. He suddenly felt pleased with the wayevents seemed to be working out.Since the arrival of his dear mother, he had been a much happierperson quite a change for a fugitive. This morning was importantto him. He would be able to attend to outstanding mattersso often interrupted by his office staff, presently on their annualChristmas leave. He intended to take his annual leave the followingMonday, so it was essential to finish his work today.397

As a senior executive of the Royal Victorian Insurance Company,he was able to choose the most suitable time, usually duringChristmas, but this year was an exception, so it had to be lateJanuary.Once near the RVI building, the tallest on the street, Wolfgangturned into a service lane leading to the underground parkingarea which was provided for the company's top executives.The main service entry was open, but the boom gates were lowered.Not seeing old Jim, the company's janitor (usually thoughtof as a Jack of all trades), Wolfgang opened the gates by activatinga remote control device attached to the dashboard of his FordLTD. It was handy, since he could also tune it to the garage doorsat his Frankston home, and even those at his cottage at Vicentia,the little settlement where several years ago he had built a comfortablecottage overlooking the entrance to Jervis Bay.With the help of the sunlight coming through the largeopening in the main service entrance, it was easy for Wolfgang tomake his way into the car park. Driving very slowly, almost at awalking pace, he was thinking about his forthcoming holiday atthe cottage.This time, he thought to himself, it will be different. Therewould be his dear mother, as well as Jennifer and Barry's family.It would be Irene's first opportunity to compare the unspoiled serenityof Jervis Bay with her memories of the vivid blue Adriatic.It was the second day in a row that Wolfgang had arrived soearly. It was his routine prior to holidays. Having an early startwould give him an enormous advantage – no telephone calls andno interruptions. As he reached the end of the parking area, closeto his office's exit doors in the darkest corner, he had to turn onhis headlights.He immediately noticed a car parked opposite, several barsfrom his parking spot. Funny, he thought. Who would have arrivedthis early in the morning, and on a Saturday? Surely nobodywould begin his working week on a Saturday, especially not soearly. Wolfgang was not in the mood to make a big deal about it,but it still struck him as odd.Preoccupied by his own thoughts, he did not even considerreprimanding old Jim for neglect of duty. By now, the entire un-398

derground should have been lit. He had mentioned this to Jim theprevious day in connection with preparing the area for insecticidespraying on Sunday. While parking, it occurred to Wolfgang thatthe other vehicle could in fact be old Jim's car; Jim usually travelledby tram, but he may have had to come in too early for that.Seeing somebody else's car in the bay reserved for the commercialdirector was not so unusual. Once, in a hurry, Wolfgang haddone just that, and no one raised any complaint.Just before he locked his car, a routine imposed on all employeesof the company, Wolfgang's intuition urged him to goover to inspect what he regarded as an illegally parked machine.Instead, he aimed for the service doors so he could turn on thelight to inspect the interior of the other car.Reaching the adjacent wall, and feeling in the dark trying tofind the switch near the exit doors leading to the stairway, hemurmured aloud, 'Where's that damned switch?' Locating it, heswitched on the light, but scarcely had time to glance in the directionof the, other car. He spun found in alarm, but it was toolate. A heavy blow in the mid-spine, which would have crippledan ordinary man, pushed him against the wall, crushing his face.It took a second to realise he was being attacked by two heavilybuilt men, as his arms were pulled back immediately and lockedby handcuffs. A sulphuric acid-soaked rag was pressed against hisbleeding nose. Within seconds, his fierce resistance had ceased.His skill and fitness as a black belt judo fighter were useless now.Later that afternoon, Irene picked up her palette' on the balconyof her son's home and, leaning over a small plant, began tocapture the sunset's reflection on the plant leaves. Turning to Jennifer,she spoke nervously, 'Jennifer, what time did you sayZlatko would be home?' She was not yet accustomed to callingher son by his assumed name.To hide her anxiety, Jennifer glanced at the clock sitting onthe mantelpiece and, trying to reassure herself, she managed tosay in a firm voice, 'He should be home any minute,' but sheknew deep in her heart something was very wrong.Wolfgang was a punctual and very considerate husband. If hecould not make it by the agreed time, he would call. The fact that399

he had not, worried her a lot. While her mother-in-law was occupiedon the balcony with her paintings, awaiting the arrival of herson, Jennifer thought about asking Wolfgang after dinner to callhimself by his proper name. Surely it would not be so dangerousafter so many years of hiding.The doorbell rang and disturbed her thoughts. Anticipatingthat Wolfgang might be carrying flowers and unable to use hiskey, Jennifer hurried to the door. To her disappointment, it wasnot Wolfgang. She was delighted to see her friends, Margaret andBarry, but her tense expression told Barry that something waswrong. He nodded to Margaret and was relieved when she got themessage. Margaret went straight to Irene, not even noticing thebeautiful paintings, skilfully arranged in the lounge by Irene.As soon as she had gone, Barry inquired, 'What's wrong, Jennifer?'Jennifer could not control herself any longer. 'Wolfgangpromised to be home by seven, and he hasn't rung. I'm really worriednow. Don't get me wrong, but I feel uneasy...'Interrupting her politely, Barry's police-trained mind movedhim straight into interrogation. 'Have you tried to contact him?''Of course I have.' Taking a deep breath, she continued, 'Atfirst I was reluctant. It's his last day in office. I know how hehates to be interrupted. That's why he left so early in the morning,but I had to consider Irene. She isn't a hundred per cent settledyet. So finally I gave in, but no answer. I've tried several times,but without any success.'Even if Jennifer's voice had not shown such concern, Barrywould have been alarmed. Again, his police-trained mindswitched into top gear. 'Why for God's sake didn't you call me?I'd have checked with his office on my way here. Let me use yourphone quickly.'Turning in the direction of balcony, Jennifer, relieved byBarry's concern, said in a whisper, 'Please do, but would you usethe phone in Wolfgang's study? I don't want to alarm Irene.'Barry nodded automatically. He hurried towards the study.He made several calls, but with no results. He then put specialbranch on full alert. The detective on duty promised to call him assoon he learned anything about Wolfgang's unusual absence.400

Not really sure what to do, Jennifer suggested dinner, hopingWolfgang would eventually appear.Twenty minutes later, the phone rang, and Jennifer picked upthe receiver. 'Could I speak to Mister Johnson, please?'Without comment, Jennifer handed the phone to Barry.'What kept you so long, Steve? Did you find anything?'The voice on the other end informed Barry there was no signof Wolfgang's car in the underground parking lot, but there wasanother car. They found a body, apparently an employee of theRoyal Victorian Insurance Company, whose insignia was embossedon his dust coat. According to the doctor at the scene ofthe murder, he had been dead since early in the morning. A policecheck of the registration number revealed that the car had beenstolen in North Carlton the night before. There was no trace ofWolfgang in the building, and the office doors were secured by acombination lock. The forensic expert had established that astruggle had taken place near the exit doors. Judging from shoemarks on the concrete floor, they indicated the presence of threemen of different age and weight. One of them was a personwearing foreign shoes whose size suggested a heavily built man.Traces of hair were on the floor, which might give some indicationsof their ages. The experts would carry out tests and report onMonday morning.Before the conversation was over, Barry ordered police surveillanceof Wolfgang's home. His intuition suggested the worst.The following morning, Barry's phone buzzed several timesbefore he managed to answer. Still asleep, he jerked upright fromhis sleeping position and said, 'What...? What...? That's incredible.'He murmured, 'My God, what am I going to tell Jennifer?This is going to break Mrs Tauber's heart.' Composed again afterhis initial reaction, he asked in a steely voice. 'Do you know howit happened? Who did it...?' He almost regretted asking such astupid, unnecessary question. He knew who would be interestedin Zlatko's death.The voice of the detective on duty dolefully reported the officialfindings. 'We don't know all the facts. The scientific squad is401

already on the way up to Diamond Creek. We'll let you know assoon we learn anything more about it.'Impatiently, Barry cut him short. 'Don't bother. I'm on theway to my office. You can contact me there.' By the time he replacedthe hand piece, Margaret had woken up and asked, 'What'swrong, dear?''Nothing, darling. Go back to sleep.' In a trembling voice, hetried to cover up the terrible news. 'I have to go to the office.Something urgent always comes up during the holidays.'Glancing at the bedside clock, Margaret could see it was sixo'clock. She knew straightaway it must be extremely important orher husband would not have been contacted so early. As thecommissioner, he had assistants who could handle emergencies.As had often been the case before, it did not occur to her to askquestions. Kissing her husband, she soon fell asleep.On the way out, Barry picked up The Sun lying on the frontlawn and quickly glanced in the right corner reserved for latenews.A local farmer living in the Diamond Creek area foundon his property a mutilated body dumped by unknownkillers. The victim appeared to be of European stock andin his late fifties. The local police are seeking public helpto identify those responsible for this shocking murder.Contact CIB 544 8893.Puzzled by Wolfgang's disappearance, Barry tried to recalltheir every move at Tullamarine airport, but he could not recallany slip-ups. While he was at the airport, he had not seen a singleface fitting the southern European pattern. How the hell had theyfound him out? How had the bastards discovered Wolfgang'swhereabouts? He automatically assumed someone – an unknownpursuer – must have followed Mrs Tauber.The police confirmed that the body found at Diamond Creekwas Wolfgang's. Reading the police report a couple of hours laterin his office, Barry quickly riffled through page after page. Thebullets fired from close range suggested the use of a silencer,402

which meant Wolfgang's murder could have taken place in the carduring their journey to the country area of Melbourne.Next to the file there was a plastic bag containing Wolfgang'spersonal effects: pipe, tobacco, lighter, wallet and the beautifullycarved golden medallion suspended on a thick golden chain.Close observation revealed an inscription made by a sharp instrument,'To Zlatko, 1937.' A hole right in the middle, perforatingthe medallion, prevented his seeing the wording on the back,except for some letters. Looking inside, he noticed a piece of paperof unusual quality. With the help of a letter opener he extractedit. It contained a small list, but he could not make out whatit meant. The list was in Hebrew.Barry was certain now that Wolfgang's killers were mercilessagents of the Yugoslav secret service, which had operated inAustralia since 1968, when Australia established diplomatic relationswith Yugoslavia. He had often wondered whether Australiahad had to pay too high a price for the Yugoslav vote which securedthe country a seat on the UN Security Council. His mainconcern was for people from Yugoslavia who had accepted Australiancitizenship and virtually cut themselves off from their turbulentpast. These were people who found themselves in a crossfirebetween left and right factions, being victims at the same ofthe past and future.As a member of Interpol, he shared knowledge gained byother Western intelligence agencies all over the world about thedealings and activities of the Iron Curtain secret service network,which followed a similar pattern. Though Yugoslavia was not oneof the Iron Curtain countries, their methods were identical. Theonly link was their fear of Western influence, which boosted theirsick mentality and equally ruthless methods of liquidation. WhileWestern countries were spending fortunes to save human life,Eastern proletarian regimes were spending countless millions toliquidate others without a trace.Although Barry could not prove their involvement, because ithad been so well planned and executed, he was more than sure.He remembered the case of two Bulgarians in London who, whentouched by the tip of an ordinary umbrella, died without leaving atrace of the poison that killed them. Wolfgang had died for differ-403

ent reasons, and he died a brutal death. It was painful for Barry,who was in a position to disclose what he knew and yet was unableto prove it.It would be hard to deliver the bad news to Jennifer, and MrsTauber would be a worse problem. Instead of letting them knowimmediately, he decided to wait until the autopsy the followingday. He informed Margaret on his return home. She took the newsstoically but, deep down, she was torn apart. She could not comprehendthat things like this could happen in her own country, thelucky country.Once in possession of the final report, Barry was convincedthat Wolfgang had paid the price not only for defecting but alsobecause of the secrets he knew.When he found them sitting on the bench overlooking PhillipBay, after having failed to attract their attention by ringing thedoorbell, Barry announced Wolfgang's death in a sombre voice.Expressing his deepest sympathy, he left them in Margaret's care.On hearing the news, Jennifer had collapsed, while Mrs Taubertook it with courage. Her thorn-covered road to sanity andfreedom had led her to a tragedy she never dreamt of. She immediatelybegan to blame herself. If it had not been for her, thoseatheists would never have found her son. The transformation ofhis face was so complete, in comparison with photos taken beforehe fled Yugoslavia, that there should not have been a chance in amillion of discovering him.Weeping later over his tragic death, Irene understood that herson had been murdered because of the terrible knowledge which,if revealed, could spark another civil war in Yugoslavia. Whatpuzzled her was the complete silence of the free world intelligenceagencies, notably MIS, the CIA and BND. Was it possibleTito had been doing dirty work for them as well, to secure theirsilence, or was that an illusion? Her thoughts returned to her belovedOtto, a man who had accepted Zlatko as his own son. Ottohad never learned the truth, and yet, because of his illusion in believingMosa Pijade was his friend, he too had been killed. IfMosa had been his friend, why had he let him go to FruskaMountain? Had it been possible to give him a clue, and save hislife by sending him back to Austria? What a fate for a man who404

had been a dedicated doctor, a wonderful husband and excellentfather, and a devoted friend.Margaret took Jennifer to her bedroom. Irene stayed for awhile on the balcony trying to figure out what to do. The lowpitchednoise coming into her bedroom intruded on her hearingand finally brought her to reality. Irene realised now it was almostten at night, and Barry had departed from the house leaving theTV on in the family room adjacent to her bedroom. As she rose toturn it off, the announcer read a news flash:The Yugoslav prime minister, Djemal Bijedic, a guest of theAustralian government in 1973, was killed with his wife and sixother passengers after their two-engine executive jet crashed in ablizzard near Sarajevo.What timing, thought Irene. First my beloved husband, thenZlatko's only friend Onisil, then my son, and now a man whohelped me to pick up the pieces of my life. It must have been mewho led them to their target. But how? was her immediate question.Given the precautions Zlatko had arranged for her reception,how could they have found out where they were? Thinking abouther son and husband, still vivid in her memory after many yearsof suffering, Irene felt her time was up too. She had had enough.She had already lost her beloved husband, and now her son, not tomention what she had had to go through to survive this long. Shealso knew now that, to protect Tito's identity, they would try toliquidate her as well. Whatever they had in store for her, shewould deny them the pleasure by taking her own life.Her immediate concern was Jennifer. While Jennifer hadnever anticipated the Yugoslav determination, they would beready to liquidate her just for being Zlatko's wife. But Barry wasanother matter. As an official of the Australian government, Irenewas sure they would not dare hurt him or his family. Quickly, shetook a few sheets of paper and wrote two letters, one for Jenniferand the other for Barry. Her tears soaked the sheets, whichwarped as she wrote. She had to stop writing occasionally to wipeaway her tears. To make sure it was still there, she glanced at thecontainer fun of tranquilliser pills lying on the mirror table.Several hours later, the container was empty. Irene Tauberwas now lying at peace. What sweet revenge against all those405

who were contemplating her violent death. Instead of torture, shedied in her sleep, a perfect euthanasia. Her only legacy now wastwo letters neatly leaning against the mirror table. They containedher last thoughts. Those who read them would learn about yet anotherlegacy her prayer to punish by his own slow and painfuldeath the man responsible for the deaths of her loved ones.Margaret's light knock on Irene's bedroom door went unanswered.She knocked harder, but again without any response. Apprehensiveabout the effects of Barry's revelation, she entered,uninvited, anticipating Irene's exhaustion. She knew that Irenenever slept in this late. Once she had managed to draw aside theheavy drapes and let in the sunlight, which filled the pastelcolouredbedroom with its glare, Margaret noticed Irene's pateface.Glancing around the room, her eyes were transfixed by theempty pill container on the mirror table. She instantly rushed overand put her hand on Irene's face. She murmured, 'How cruel theworld has been to her. What has she done to be punished somuch?' The unanswered questions and Irene's angel face gave theimpression that the whole house was crumbling around her – thehouse which had been full of joy and happiness until now;Gaining courage and strength, Margaret picked up the phonein the lounge and dialled Barry's office number. 'Barry, Irene...isdead. I think she's taken...an overdose. Jennifer's still asleep. Ipersuaded her to take a few tranquillisers last night to calm herdown.'Only then did Margaret realise that somebody was sobbingbehind her. Turning, she saw Jennifer on her knees praying,through sobs, while tears welled on her pale cheeks. Thinkingabout Irene's turbulent past, which had finally come to an end,creating such misery for the woman Zlatko had loved so much,Margaret cried, 'It's so cruel.'Barry's steely voice interrupted her thoughts. 'Keep an eye onJennifer. I'll be there in thirty minutes.''Thanks. I'll make sure Jennifer doesn't do anything foolish.'Without waiting, Margaret dropped the hand piece into its cradle,tears running down her face. How lucky I am, she thought sadly.406

She had never, even during the war, experienced hardships likethose so vividly described by Wolfgang, her dear friend, the manJennifer loved so much. Moving to Jennifer, Margaret kneeledand embraced her.Through heavy sobbing, Jennifer appealed to Margaret,'Could you possibly make arrangements for her burial? I'm so exhausted.I just haven't got the strength to carry on. You do understand,Margaret?'Jennifer could not get rid of the icy feeling of being alone inher own country. Her mother and father had died years ago. As achild, she had never known what it was to be alone, since she wasalways surrounded by her family and relatives. Slowly, she rosefrom her awkward position and walked into Irene's room, supportedby Margaret. While she was looking at Irene's face, Margaretglanced again in the direction of the pill container. Suddenly,she noticed the two letters. Pointing at them, Margareturged Jennifer to take the one addressed to her. The doorbell rang,and Margaret left the room.Jennifer crawled on the carpet like an infant until she reachedthe mirror table. Without raising her body, she reached for theletter addressed to her, but her trembling bands dropped it severaltimes before she managed to grasp it. She returned to Irene's bed,repeating her crawling motion. Once she reached the bedside, shesat on the carpet floor, leaning back against Irene's bed. She managedto open the unsealed envelope. She slid out a curled sheet ofpaper. She instantly saw that her mother-in-law had been cryingwhilst writing the letter.Dear Jennifer,Since my arrival to Australia you have been good to me,and I'm really grateful to you, God bless you. What ismost important, you were good to my son as well. Frommy observation, I perceived you and my dear son enjoyeda wonderful relationship like one between my belovedOtto and myself. I wish I could have faced you andtold you in person about my decision to take my own life,but after long consideration I realised it would hurt you407

even more, mainly because you would have failed to persuademe to go on living. If you consider my advancedage, and what I have been through, you will understandit was the only way.When I was in the concentration camp near Zagreb, Isurvived mainly because of my strong desire to go onliving, and thus to have a chance to see my loved onesagain. After the so-called liberation of my country, Ipretended to be insane, and as a result had to share thecompany of those unfortunate souls who really were insane.Now that I know why my dear husband and beloved sonwere murdered, being innocent victims of the world'sgreater political plans, there is absolutely nothing to livefor. Especially when I recognise the signs that this cruelworld is heading for its own destruction. If I could havechosen where to die, it would definitely be Jerusalem,the sacred shrine of Christianity and the home of my ancestors.Since this is impossible, I decided to die in yourbeautiful, sunny, free country.Although I'll be free now, I would like to be close to myson, at least at his resting place, as our cruel destinyseparated us a long time ago.As for you, my dear Jennifer, I sincerely hope you willfind peace of mind cherishing what you loved so much. IfI were you, I would sell everything and join your relativesin England. I'm sure they will provide you with thesecurity you need in this period of your life. It is not myintention to alarm you unnecessarily, but you face thestrong possibility they suspect you of sharing our secret.This would drive them to liquidate you as well. It isreally difficult for me to impress upon you the danger, sotake my advice. Leave before it is too late.408

Your always lovingIreneA tap on the door returned Jennifer to reality. Her tearfuleyes clearly showed her emotional state. She could hardly raiseher grief-stricken body to greet the only friends she could trust.Despite her tears and age, her still beautiful eyes showed theirblue colour. As soon as Margaret and Barry entered the room,they embraced her, and she immediately calmed down. Barrysuggested that Margaret should stay with Jennifer in her own bedroomuntil the arrival of a doctor and the ambulance.Once on his own, Barry returned to Irene's bedroom, pickingup a squarish looking briefcase on the way. Looking for clues,suspecting foul play, he found none. Inspecting Irene's clothes, hepulled out two pieces of luggage from the closet, then he openedhis briefcase, which contained a portable electronic kit for trackingbugs. The kit, ordered from the USA by the Victorian policeseveral years ago, had proved priceless in discovering bugs inAustralian embassies throughout the world, especially in EasternBloc countries.Switching on the detector, he slowly circled the room. Themachine began to tick, while the frequency meter showed the signalstrength. It was not necessary for him to read the meter. Heknew the direction was right. Very shortly, he found what he waslooking for. At the end of the zip, there was a small transmitter,hardly the size of a match head, which the KGB used to tracktheir prey's movements. He knew that all the Eastern Bloc countriesused KGB technology. Although Yugoslavia wasn't officiallya member of the Warsaw Pact fraternity, the clandestineconnection with Mother Russia had never been stronger.Along with the pill container, Barry dropped the small transmitterin a plastic bag to be checked at the police laboratory. Onthe way out, he collected the letter from Irene addressed to himand, while he waited for the doctor's arrival, he took a seat in thefamily room and began reading.Dear Barry,409

I deliberately chose to address this letter to you, mainlybecause I would like to spare Margaret from additionalshocks. I found it almost unbearable after I was told thatmy husband's death had been primarily to prevent anypossibility of establishing Tito's real identity, so I couldimagine Margaret's reaction. And now that they havecruelly terminated Zlatko's life, too, I keep asking myself,Did my husband and son die because they really knewthe truth? Perhaps one day someone will be able to clearthose doubts, shared by so many.Before my arrival to Australia I had heard a lot aboutyou from my dear son. The fact that you accepted Zlatkoas being one of the family filled me with great joy andhappiness. I could hardly imagine then how fortunateZlatko was in finding wonderful friends so far away fromour equally beloved Hrvatska. Your generosity andkindness towards me made me feel I owe you an explanation.It was not easy to reach such a dreadful decision, but Ido sincerely hope you will understand. It would bewrong to say I was tired of life or felt I was a burden. Onthe contrary, your warm but vast country, and your hospitality,filled me with a security I never experiencedbefore. All those years of personal suffering and griefwhich plagued me in the past were pushed aside whenyou let Down Under sunshine into my life.However, my conviction that it was I who led Zlatko'sexecutioners to him has become an unbearable pain tome. I knew I would not be able to live a norm al lifeagain. When I heard the news about Bijedic's tragicdeath near Sarajevo, I decided not to give any satisfactionto those who decimated my family and my people. Iknew I couldn't fight them, not could I stop them, unless Idestroyed myself.410

I realise my words may sound harsh and bitter to you,but if they do, just ask yourself, how would you feel ifyour loved ones were murdered just because they knewabout a secret concealed by a monster in human form?My fear is that the reluctance on the part of free world tofight those evil forces will eventually pave the way to aglobal totalitarian society which will in the end enslaveeveryone still alive.Maybe you think I paint a gloomy picture of the futurebut, as God is my witness, I wish you were right.And now to the material part of life. I was told by Zlatkothat his estate is in the hands of a solicitor known to you.He'll notify you shortly. Zlatko indicated that, if anythinghappened to him, he would like you to have his cottagein Vicentia. So let it be.However, I would like to ask you two favours. Could youpersuade Jennifer – she might value your advice more –to sell everything and leave Australia? I'm sure her familyin England will be glad to have her there. Somehow, Ifear for her life too, and she will, I hope, be much saferover there. As for you, I don't know. It would be foolish ifthey tried to harm you, but be careful, please. Your influentialposition and your origin might prove to be yourgreatest assets. I sincerely hope I'm right.It would be more appropriate to be laid to rest near mybeloved husband, but unfortunately I never found outwhere he was buried. As you know, Zlatko and I wereseparated a long time ago, and I promised myself if Iever found him I would like to be near him. At least wewill be together in the end, no matter how hard thoseatheists try to keep us apart. And now let me say farewellto you, to your wonderful wife Margaret and your family.Thank you,411

Shalom,IreneBy the time he finished Irene's letter, Margaret had come in.He handed the letter to her. Lowering his head into his hands, hetried to hide his emotional state. Margaret did not notice. She wastoo preoccupied with reading, sobbing and crying. Irene's letterbecame soaked for the third time. Seeing his wife's reaction,Barry was convinced no one would be able to read the letteragain. It was now virtually illegible from tear stains.Jennifer's house was put under close police observation. Sheaccepted Margaret's invitation to stay with them for a week, atleast till after the funerals.Reports reaching Barry on a daily basis confirmed the policebelief that there was no cause for alarm. He himself was unconvinced.He wished he could believe that, with Zlatko's and Irene'sdeaths, the whole awful chapter was closed. It was natural that heshould allow Jennifer to go home and spend a few days there, beforeher agreed departure to England.On the way from her solicitor's office in Melbourne, she insistedon taking a stroll along Frankston beach, remembering herhappiest moments when she and Zlatko had shared a wonderfulmarriage admired by so many friends. Barry was intent on drivingher home, but Jennifer categorically turned his offer down. Sheneeded to be on her own before her family house was put up forsale – a decision which Barry had advised and she accepted. Atleast Irene had won one round.Jennifer's determination to go on her own, and Barry'sequally determined stand to accompany her, finally resulted in anamicable compromise. Barry would drive her to Flinders Streetrailway station, from where she would take the main to Frankston.What Barry hadn't told her was that the police were stillguarding her house, and that an officer would tail her from Frankstonstation. Not being able to park in the vicinity of the railwaystation, Barry dropped Jennifer off. She promised to wait for himon the platform.412

When he reached the railway station on foot, he heard yelling,'Get the police...get an ambulance.' It was too late. Jennifer'sbody was lying on the main tracks covered with a plastic sheetand surrounded by a pool of blood.It took him half an hour to obtain descriptions of the peoplewho had been around Jennifer prior to the accident. Two menwere missing. Their appearance was familiar by now. He confirmedwithout doubt that one of them was a southern Europeanby appearance whilst the other was a suspected member of theMelbourne underground. What a bizarre combination, thoughtBarry.On his way home, reaching the freeway leading to Doncaster,he noticed in his rear-vision mirror a car which had followed hisVolvo since he left the parking spot near Flinders Street station.He sped up, alerting police headquarters in Russell Street via histwo-way radio that he was being tailed. As he slowed down, theother car slowed down too. Barry managed to see its registrationnumber. He relayed the number to the police and he instructedthem to intercept it with an unmarked police car at the next freewayentry.By the time he was notified that he was being followed by astolen car, it was too late. His Volvo erupted in a tremendous explosion,which shattered his car. Luckily, the freeway was deserted.He was the only casualty.LONDON 1977At the same time, twelve thousand miles away in the heart ofLondon, Scotland Yard was puzzled by the bizarre death of BarbaraFellow; An inspection of her car revealed that someone hadtampered with the brakes. An obituary published on 29th January1977 in The Observer listed another mysterious death. This timeit was the retired Doctor Stuart Crocker, ex-Royal Navy surgeon,who before his retirement had served on Her Majesty's MemorialBoard in an advisory capacity.With the last two deaths, the long arm of the UDBA concealedforever the real origin of Marshal Tito. It was they whoknew Barbara had been present at Josip Broz's operation, and it413

was they who suspected that when, years later, she saw TadeuszLubitczky, alias Marshal Tito, in Dedinje Palace, she had realisedthe truth.To them, suddenly six plus two became eight. Their mathematicswere wrong. Otto, Onisil, Zlatko, Irene, Jennifer, Barry,Barbara and Stuart had been killed, but they failed to eliminate allthose who had noticed Tito's inability to speak his native Zagorjedialect, and yet could see he was a proficient piano player, minushis thick glass spectacles. They felt the secret was now secure.They were wrong.Foreigners who met Marshal Tito during World War II publishedmemoirs revealing Tito's fluency in German, which hespoke with 'a Viennese accent.' Yet they failed to notice discrepanciesin later books which used Padev's as a reference but talkedabout Tito having come from Kumrovec. A man from Klanjechad been substituted by a man from Kumrovec, a typical Stalinplot. Moscow's tentacles had reached far indeed, and truth, oncemore, had been the victim.414

EPILOGUEIn 1968, Major General Charles A. Willoughby wrote theforeword for a welldocumented book, Operation Slaughterhouse,but its existence has been ignored by those who were guilty of thepost-war genocide.In 1979, several British newspapers revealed what they consideredwas 'one of the most disgraceful chapters in our history.'British forces handed over fleeing refugees to Yugoslav partisans,who murdered them all. This revelation was based on an interviewby George Urban, in Encounter (December 1979), withMilovan Djilas, Vice-President of Yugoslavia until 1954, whosaid, 'The British did the completely wrong thing in putting thesepeople across the border, as we did the completely wrong thing inshooting them all!'As a result of the news paper revelations, a group of prominentBritish politicians and intellectuals formed a committee tocreate a memorial for the many thousands who suffered the samefate at the hands of the Russian Red Army. Instead of naming thecountries of both perpetrator and victim on the memorial plaque,there was only a single inscription: Yalta Victims Memorial. Thisinscription puts the memorial into the same category as such ambiguousmemorials as the world famous Tomb of the UnknownSoldier.In memory of the fiftieth anniversary of 'the most disgracefulchapter in the British history,' the BBC produced a TV documentary,A Betrayal, which verifies all the claims of the post-war inhumanity.It's clear why Irene von Tauber asked, when her belovedhusband and son died, 'Did they die because they knew thetruth or were they victims of an ongoing Balkans conspiracy?'Those who respect British justice should ask themselves,'What kind of people led Britain at the end of World War II? Arethey same sort of persons responsible for refusing to properlyname the memorial? Did they really try to pay tribute, or it is onlylip service? Has this memorial become yet another example of theglobal conspiracy against humanity?415

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