Paris

=Chapter 3= =Paris and Learning about Life=

//A young man travels from Zagreb to Paris – a Sorbonne student scrounges for food and livelihood – a Paris tour guide – lessons in life, love and libations – army service and back to law school in Yugoslavia – judicial service in Kragujevac – meeting and marrying – a career in journalism – war clouds approach Yugoslavia//

Paris had appealed to me greatly when I visited the city in 1925 and 1926 with my classmates from Zagreb high school. I had some wonderful memories which over the years seemed even more beautiful. I longed to return to l//a Ville Lumière//. My dream came true when my scholarship came through and I left in 1929 for a three year stay at the Sorbonne. The French university recognised my Bachelor’s degree from Zagreb and also gave me credit for the two years I had spent at the University of Zagreb, allowing me to continue my graduate studies in law, without interruption.

But life in Paris was not that simple. While I was on the train from Zagreb to Paris, the Wall Street crash had devalued the French //franc// and my grant was just only sufficient to pay for my studies and to rent a room, but I had not a centime left to pay for food, clothing or other expenses one cannot avoid, even when living austerely. I had to work hard. I did not have time to become the bohemian darling of the Quartier Latin, to patronise the Moulin Rouge, to prowl around the cafes of Montmartre or to be out on the town with Hemingway’s “lost generation” or other American writers. I got up at half past four in the morning and studied until 8 a.m. I then attended courses between 8 a.m. and noon. After lunch I went to work to earn money.

To save money, I shared a room with another student. Even then, I just had enough money for one meal a day and sometimes I could not even afford that, and I just ate bread.

On one of those hungry mornings, just at the dawn, I walked to Boulevard St. Germain and noticed people standing in a line, each one carrying a plate and a fork. One by one they were entering into the basement of a building. I rushed back to my room, picked up a plate and a fork and joined the queue. Nobody questioned my presence and I received a large plateful of hot breakfast. I discovered the people were street cleaners who were fed before they started their day’s work. That certainly saved that day. However, I went back only a few times, because I knew eventually I would be found out.

On another occasion, when I had been unable to buy food, I ran into an old man pushing a cart full of over ripe bananas. He waved to me and offered to sell all the fruit for a pittance, because otherwise he would have to throw it away. I was so hungry that I bought the whole lot, took them up to my room and ate and ate and ate. Believe me, after that episode, I did not touch a banana for decades. Even later, when my children had grown up, I used to eat only a small piece. It is only in the last ten years that I can actually eat a whole banana.

Our room was on the top of rue Monsieur Le Prince 41, near the Boul’ Mich. Around the corner, in the rue de la Médecine, there was a hospital (I recently found out it still exists). After a few days consideration, I decided to approach the hospital with an idea. I made several attempts in vain, but eventually I managed to convince the sisters of the hospital to leave me the food that patients had left untouched, instead of throwing it away. I now had guaranteed at least one hot meal a day.

But I had to get some kind of income. I took a one month course of three hours per week to become a tour guide at the Louvre. Perhaps I shouldn’t call it a “tour guide” for all I had to do was to show English and German visitors the way through the museum on arrival and hand them over to the professional guides who provided the commentaries. My job did not pay well. “City guides” earned a lot more. So I tried my luck there, and was successful. My knowledge of languages was a strong asset: I spoke decent French, knew English well and German was almost like a second mother tongue to me. Armed with a city map of Paris and a list of landmarks, I took individuals around and became increasingly familiar with the city. I worked almost every day.

At the beginning it was like a daily discovery, an adventure, but gradually it all became a routine. In my first year, I had a great number of clients who were interested in the best restaurants in town. I soon discovered that eating even the best foods day after day could become boring, so I was happy when clients preferred to have dinner on their own. Gradually my employers started to use me more for business clients. I earned more, and met a wide variety of interesting people.

Some incidents that stay in my memory are: --- the dentist from Brazil, who spent a whole week with me buying equipment for a dental clinic;

--- the Yugoslav man who requested that I help select and buy the first sound projection equipment for a new movie house in my hometown of Zagreb.

--- the English gentleman whom I helped with his romantic aspirations. As a representative of an English coal mining company, he made frequent trips to Paris. In the beginning, I merely helped him with his business, but gradually, he relied on me to arrange dinners in various elegant restaurants. He was always accompanied by a Parisian //grande dame// and her very beautiful young daughter and frequently invited me to join them. I could see that my client was obviously smitten by the young lady, and he guessed that I had noticed that he was courting her. The courtship went on for a long time. Then one day, we had dinner alone and he informed me that he was getting married to the same young lady and that at this moment, they were in London for the preparations. I was very happy for him.

On one occasion, my client was a young, charming, college girl from Texas. She said that she would like to visit the well known Parisian bars, and she invited a couple of colleagues. We spent an evening of bar hopping. It was well past midnight when her friends suggested that we end the evening, and they went off to their hotel. I escorted her to her hotel, but she passed out in the taxi, so I had to carry her into the hotel while the doorman held the door open. She was groggy as we entered the elevator, but was unable to walk on her own. I managed to help her to her room, where she collapsed on her bed and I never heard from her again. I ended up paying for the taxi.

Finally, I could make a living with what I earned as a city guide.

Despite the fact that my days seemed filled, I had time to do other things. I took a course in journalism at the Ecole des Etudes Sociale, not just to become a better journalist but also to improve my French. The course lasted for two years, and was held once a week for the entire afternoon. I remember with great admiration one of my fellow students. He was an Egyptian, an extremely smart fellow, the son of the director of the //Alexandria Times//. Since he had a French mother and had gone to a French High school in Egypt, he helped me to improve my written French.

The head of the journalism department at the Ecole des Etudes Sociales was the publisher of //Le Petit Parisien//. During the course, he announced that he would select some articles we wrote for the class, and publish them in his newspaper. He published three of my efforts in his newspaper-- two articles and one cartoon. The first article was about the different times displayed on the clocks throughout Paris. I had noticed that clocks displayed different times and I wrote a humorous piece about it. The second article was about the different attitudes towards travelling, for the French at that time did not like to travel and were known as armchair travellers.

The cartoon happened when I forgot about the article deadline. One hour before the time limit it dawned on me that I had not written my article. I rushed into a café, ordered a coffee and sat down at one of the tables. On a piece of white paper I caricatured myself sitting on top of a whale, holding a flag in my hand. I finished the sketch just in time to give it to the teacher. It was published in //Le Petit Parisien// with the caption //Va, petit mousse/ Le vent te pousse//. It expressed the great freedom I felt in Paris.

I also remained a correspondent for the Zagreb newspaper //Novosti//. I was not only reporting from Paris, but on special occasions I was asked to travel abroad. In 1930, my boss asked me to travel to London during my winter holidays to report on the First International Conference of Naval Powers. All participating powers had signed an agreement to limit the fire power of warships, the size of ships and the volume of fleets. Even at that time there was a serious concern about an unlimited arms race. I stayed in the British capital for 31 days. The editor gave me six pounds a week as a per diem to cover expenses. After expenses, I do not think this assignment earned me one shilling. What I do remember very well is that I had only one day of sunshine throughout that whole month. But it was an excellent opportunity for me to perfect my English.

After my visit to London, I intensified my studies in Paris. I was a //real// student now, with a //real// job, experiencing //real// life. Paris opened my heart to the world. My grandmother had encouraged my curiosity for all the interesting things that happened outside Vrbovec. The high school in Zagreb had broadened my horizon by introducing me to the fascinatingly rich heritage of classical antiquity. In Paris I discovered the latest developments in international affairs. Paris was also buzzing with political activity, and I felt I was living in the middle of it.

I tried following political events as much as possible. As early as 1930, Aristide Briand, a moderate socialist, frequent minister of Foreign Affairs and ten times Prime Minister of France, bravely argued in favour of a federated Europe. He also wanted to become president of France, but was not elected. He died in 1932, shortly after his failed campaign. I lived in Paris during that period. It was the time before the People’s Front, when it was not just the Right fighting the Left, but the Leftists fighting each other. . Paris was swarming with right and left wing parties, small splinter parties, and large and small groups. It was filled with emigrants from many different countries, birds of different feathers, some of them considered dangerous by the government. Students were arrested and released by the police on a regular basis. Quite often they were Russians, who were considered Bolshevik agitators or right wing spies.

I dated a Russian student for a while. I don’t think she was very involved in politics. Our friendship didn’t last very long. I don’t think we were made for each other. I had a more serious relationship with a girl whom my new roommate, Hans Ernst, had introduced me to. Hans had come from Zagreb, and we were now living in a modest apartment in the same building at rue Monsieur Le Prince 41. He was a real lady killer and had met the girl through a mutual friend. When I met this girl, she was very sad since her fiancé, a pilot, had just died in a plane crash in Morocco. I was so touched by her story that I invited her to dinner the next day. We met up regularly after that and our relationship became serious.

One New Year’s Eve, Hans and I decided to have a party at our apartment, We invited several friends who were at loose ends, but since we did not have any plates or eating utensils we asked every one to bring their own. Almost everyone brought something which had been “borrowed” from their regular bistros. Hans organized small bites of food, and I had the good luck of being a friend of the son of the Heidsick Champagne family, and he sent us a ‘demi-jon,’ a metre high bottle, of Piper-Heidsick.

Since none of us had any experience with such a big bottle, I decided to open it in the bath tub ‘just in case’. I struggled with the cork and suddenly, it exploded like a fountain. I did not want to loose any of the champagne, so I put my mouth over it and started to gulp it down. We welcomed in the New Year in very high spirits, and then someone proposed that we all go down to the bar around the corner where we knew that we could use the piano and sing. Since I was in a high sprits, Jeannine, my girlfriend did not need to prod me much to have me start boisterously playing the piano. I played the then popular song, “Ochi chornya”. As everyone joined in singing, I became more and more excited and started to swing my hands wildly, and as I swung one hand into the air it landed //fortissimo//, right on my nose.

A stream of blood halted my playing. My girl friend, who was a medical student, took charge, and I was rushed to the hospital. After being treated, I was taken to my own room, where I slept through all the remainder of January 1st.

I was in Paris at not just a politically interesting time, but when also there was a ferment going on in the arts and literature. I was living near one of the artistic centers. Authors such as Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein lived out of the “Closerie De Lilas”, which had also been the haunt of many painters such as Mary Cassatt. Whenever we students went there - especially the foreign students’ group - we felt we were on a pilgrimage. My girlfriend and I continued our studies and our relationship. We graduated from our respective faculties in February, 1932.

Now came a time of decision. I had to return to Yugoslavia since every young man was obliged to serve in the army. I had been given an extension because of my studies, but I could not delay it any more. My girlfriend spared me some of the agony. She decided to end our relationship saying she thought I was too young at heart -- that is, she felt she was too mature for me. That’s how our romance ended. I returned to Zagreb with a heavy heart.

Thirty years later, I ran into her best friend in Paris. She informed me that my girlfriend had become a very well liked doctor and mother of four. But I never saw her again.

So in 1932, I became a soldier in the Yugoslavian army. Having done my boot camp training, I was assigned to the army legal department in Zagreb. I was not exactly buried in work. There was not much going on. I remember being involved in one serious case which appeared before the military court and ended in a death penalty. Otherwise I had a quiet life in the army. I spent most of my military career on a most useful educational task: I coached a general’s son who was experiencing difficulties with Latin at school!

Normally military service lasted for 2 years, but university graduates were required to serve only 9 months, so I was discharged from the army in 1933, with the rank of a lieutenant in the reserve.

When I was discharged from the army, I had to get my “nostrification” – my French law degree had to be validated by the University of Zagreb in order for me to be able to practice law in Yugoslavia. This required that I had to work on a legal assignment. Luckily, I was invited by the University, to participate in an important project. The University Law Department along with a team of prominent lawyers from the different parts of the newly formed Kingdom of Yugoslavia, were involved in the creation of a unified legal code. Until this time, each part of the country was operating under different codes. For example, the Code Napoleon was used in Dalmatia, the Turkish code in Serbia and Bosnia, and the Austrian code in most parts of Croatia and Slovenia, which used to be part of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.

The final result of our work was that Yugoslavia developed one of the best, up-to-date, systems of laws in Europe. Working on this project was a great honour for me and as a consequence, I was named a judge in the Court of Kragujevac, the second largest city in the state of Serbia.

Kragujevac was the town where during the Second World War the Germans retaliated for the murder of one of their officers by killing nearly all the pupils of a secondary school. A famous war film was eventually made about this. I worked there for almost two years.

Soon after my arrival, the President of the court gave me some wise advice. He told me Kragujevac was a small and conservative place where everyone was closely watched and people gossiped. I had to adapt my way of life to the mentality of the place and try not to offend the community. For example, the judge told me, it was not right for me to go out with a local girl now and then, because people talked and it put the court in a bad light. He had heard that I had a girlfriend in Zagreb, so he recommended that it would be best that I marry her and if necessary, he would arrange for me to get extra vacation to arrange things.

Was the President of the Court right that I had a girlfriend in Zagreb? Yes, and there is a story about how we met. While I was still in the army in Zagreb, I often met with colleagues to discuss events at the University. Among them was a young man who had just received his medical degree. He was very thin and was nicknamed ‘Gandhi’. He was very concerned about the lack of recreational opportunities for local students from low income families. Everyone agreed with him and we decided to investigate the possibilities.

A student from Dalmatia told us about the beauty of the island of Hvar, on the coast of Dalmatia on the Adriatic Sea. As soon as I got out of the army, ‘Gandhi’ and I went to visit the city Hvar on the island of Hvar. We were struck not only by the lovely setting, but also by the beautiful buildings -- the Venetian style palace, the magnificent cathedral and Fort Napoleon high on top of the hill.

We were very warmly received by the Mayor as well as the Archbishop. They liked our idea of bringing students to the island during the holidays, when the school buildings in Hvar were empty. The city would provide camp beds placed in the schools - one school for boys, another for girls. The Archbishop promised to get the state owned railroad to give us free transportation. The students could use the large hall in the palace for meals and the terrace for entertainment. I think they liked not only helping students, but making Hvar better known to the general public.

Thus 50 boys and 50 girls were allowed to go on a low cost holiday to Hvar. ‘Gandhi’ and I, along with another colleague, Bedenko, managed the first such outing. There I met a girl named Vladimira Pavlakovic, whom I later nicknamed Roni. I noticed that this rather skinny girl was always willing to lend a hand. She was a very poor eater, so I insisted that she sit next to me during meals.

We got along well and became friends. She appreciated my attention and came to my rescue when I needed help. One day during the holiday, the older students caught a very big fish and a generous innkeeper offered to cook it for the group. Not only did he cook the meal, but he also gave us a large bottle of wine. I suggested that the wine be drunk later when it was cooler, so I carried the wine with us up to the fort, because we wanted to go to the beach on the other side. As we were going down from the fort, I became thirsty and was stealing gulps of the heavy red wine. When we reached the beach, every body rushed to change into bathing suits and as I was quite tipsy by then, I walked into a half open door and then jumped into the water which turned red all around me. I had a large cut on my forehead. Roni, who had seen this, jumped in after me, pulled me out of the water and took care of my wound.

After that we became really good friends and after the holiday camp we stayed in touch. I did not return to Hvar, but she did and she would always keep me informed about the ups and downs of the camp. In a couple of years she developed from a gaunt little being into a beautiful, self-sufficient and sporty young woman. We continued to see each other in Zagreb and she persuaded me to learn skating which we enjoyed together. That is when I got to know her family: her mother, her sister and her two brothers.

Her father, who had left the family, had been a business man who had started a magazine called //Business News of Zagreb//. The relationship between Roni’s parents was not good and he had decided to end the marriage and leave the country. But as he did not want the family financially to suffer, he left them the house and instructed his partner that his 50% share of the newspaper would now belong to his family. However the partner soon deceived the family out of their house and their share, and the Pavlakovic family was left penniless. The father later remarried a German woman and lived abroad. For Roni this was very painful, for she had always been daddy’s favourite and had been very fond of him.

While I was working in the Kragujevac court, I made many friends in the city. The political position of this city was important to the government, because of the historic value of this whole area to the Serbs. I found a small house and looked for basic furniture. I had heard about a retired furniture maker, who specialized in making cabinets for ships. When I explained my needs, he gave me a price which I could not refuse. Thus, I acquired furniture for the bedroom and the living room which made me feel comfortable in this new environment. Came Christmas and I returned to Zagreb. I followed my boss’s advice and talked to Roni. My proposal surprised her since we had never spoken about marriage. She also had never dreamed that Kragujevac might be her future home. She accepted with tears in her eyes. The timing was good for her. She was about to leave her mother’s home because her mother needed extra room to expand her catering business, the only revenue she had. Roni was working for a woman’s magazine as an accountant. We talked a lot and it was decided that she could be ready to move in February.

It was under these circumstances that Roni and I got married in Kragujevac in 1935. It was a bitterly cold day. The snow came up to our knees. A priest with frozen fingers performed the marriage service in an unheated Catholic missionary church in the middle of a completely orthodox environment. Not one single member of our families attended the ceremony. No one could make it through the weather. The ceremony only lasted a few minutes since I had persuaded the priest to make it short. Everybody was numb with cold. Luckily, friends at the court had organised a huge after party. It was a wonderful party that lasted twenty-four hours, allowing us to warm up after all.

During this period, the political tensions in Yugoslavia were growing. The government was under pressure from both Hitler and Mussolini. For a long time, the Italian //Duce// had set his sight on Dalmatia. The German //Führer// was looking for oil, soldiers and //Lebensraum// in the Balkans. King Alexander, who was trying to keep the land of the Croats, Serbs, Slovenes and other ethnic groups together under the name Yugoslavia, was killed by a Croatian ultra-nationalist during a state visit to France in 1934. His brother Paul, who succeeded Alexander as regent, was not democratically inclined. Prince Paul was unsuccessful in establishing a stable government; his candidates were rejected time after time by the people.

As Roni and I settled into our married lives, I got involved in local politics. An important election was announced in Belgrade. One of the important politicians running for election was the Minister of Justice, a native of Kragujevac. The atmosphere in our city was tense as people were divided between the pro-government and anti-government parties. The government put a lot of money and pressure on all its employees and those who depended on the government for their livelihood. I found myself on the side of the liberal, anti-government party and worked on their behalf. It was a long campaign and in the end the Minister of Justice lost heavily.

The Minister of Justice – now obviously no friend of mine - wanted to fire me. I suspect he knew I had set up an informal group to take action against the undemocratic behaviour of the government. I decided to hand in my notice, directly to the ministry in Belgrade.

This meant that I was without a job. Roni and I were out in the cold. We had little money and lots of questions about the future. We decided that it be best for us to try to find work and establish ourselves in Belgrade.

On a Sunday morning. Roni went ahead to the capital on the train and we planned to meet later at a café. I was to follow with the few things we owned. I happened to know a truck driver who delivered beer from Belgrade to Kragujevac every week. The man was a committed socialist, and he sympathised with our small democratic group. He took me and my furniture to Belgrade for free in his empty beer truck. As we drove into the capital, I saw an apartment for rent not far from the university. We stopped and had a look. There was nobody around, but we decided it was ideal for a newly wed couple and we unloaded the furniture. I took the risk that the owner would be happy to have a renter, and we were right. The driver then took me to the café where I told my surprise to Roni who was waiting for me. But she had a surprise for me. She pointed out an advertisement in a newspaper, //Pravda//, she had been reading, seeking a “multilingual shorthand writer”.

The Belgrade //Pravda// was a popular newspaper, but only had an afternoon edition. It was a family business owned by the Sokich Brothers. The oldest brother was the business manager, who did not interfere in the editorial matters. The youngest brother was the publisher who had very little background in journalism. A firm hand and long term vision were missing. While reports on the national parliament and coverage of local events were sufficient, international news and commentaries were neglected.

I met one of the owners of the paper on Monday morning. After looking at my CV, the man offered me a well-paid job as an editor. I agreed and started working in foreign affairs the very next day. In a short time, I became head of the foreign affairs department. My freelance experience with Novosti as a reporter at the Conference of Naval Powers in London, my degree in International Law and most of all my command of languages were deciding factors for this promotion. I was given a proper office from which I began to reorganise the foreign affairs department. The fact that such an important assignment was given to a junior editor, who was not even a Serb, but a Croat, created bad blood amongst senior colleagues who refused to talk to me for a year. It was a difficult time for me. However I put my heart and soul into my work and did my best to improve the international news. My relationship with the frustrated senior editors gradually improved, and finally they overcame their prejudice and became good colleagues.

In addition to my newspaper work, I found myself back in film. It so happened that one day my boss sent me to an auction in the building that housed the Ministry of Foreign trade. As I was from the Foreign Affairs desk of //Pravda//, the odd assignment was not such a surprise. When I arrived there, I found very few people, but a very interesting exhibition of items for auction. There was a professional 35mm motion picture camera on a professional tripod; the package included all the other equipment for producing a film. The Ministry had somehow acquired this equipment long ago and had no use for it. None of the invited people had a clue about using these machines while I was salivating over the brand new equipment. The auctioneer opened the bidding and nobody made any offer. Without even being conscious of what I was doing, I raised my hand and there I was, owner of all this wonderful package for a pittance.

When I returned to the office, I called my friend in Zagreb, Octavian Miletic, who was the foremost documentary filmmaker in Zagreb. He came immediately to Belgrade and we formed a company for film production. Since I was employed full time at Pravda, I only had time to write scripts. It was Miletic who promoted our company in countries such as Austria and Germany and got contracts for small productions.

Two years on, we produced a film to promote tourism in Yugoslavia–titled “Free Yugoslavia Calling” and we tried to screen it in various international fairs and festivals. It was shown at the New York’s World Fair in 1939. At that time I was so busy covering the changing political situation in Europe, I was not aware of the fact that it had been accepted. I only heard about it from Miletic sometime after WWII.

In the early spring of 1938, I learned from diplomat friends there were rumours of a possible invasion of Austria and Czechoslovakia by the Germans. The paper asked me to go Vienna to explore the rumours. Because I spoke German with an Austrian accent, I did not attract as much attention as other foreigners, and was able to move about freely. On the 12th and 13th of March, 1938, I was an eyewitness to the German invasion of Austria. I reported first hand for //Pravda// how a triumphant Hitler was cheered by the people of Austria. I was able to see for myself how happy the Austrians seemed.

At the time, I was staying at the Viennese home of my Austrian uncle Šandor Šhay, who was married to Teta Ivka, the sister of my mother. He started panicking when the Germans ordered people to report all foreign bank accounts within 48 hours, and required all foreign currencies to be changed into German marks. Uncle Šandor had savings in Zurich and London and wanted to transfer the money as soon as possible to his son’s account in America. He gave me a written authorisation, and I travelled by rail to Switzerland to arrange this for him. This was one of the most dangerous journeys I ever undertook because the Nazis were on the train. If they had checked my papers and found the authorization, they could have arrested me. I breathed a sigh of relief when we crossed the Swiss border. From Zurich, I flew to London to complete the arrangements.

I also witnessed Hitler’s occupation of Czechoslovakia from close up. As foreign affairs editor. I represented the paper at a biannual conference of young jurists specializing in international law. In March, 1939 this group met at the famous conference center of Tatranska Lomnica, which is situated in the mountains between Poland and Czechoslovakia. When news arrived that the Germans had entered Czechoslovakia, I rushed with a Swiss colleague to the border. I will never forget the desperate faces of the Czech people who were watching this spectacle. My Swiss colleague – Ernst Bircher -- shared my emotions. He became a good friend for the rest of his life. During the Second World War he stayed in touch with our family in Yugoslavia from the neutral Switzerland. It was he who informed me of the death of my sister, Vera, in 1941.

There was no lack of material to write about in the late thirties, and I enjoyed working for the paper. But the press contacts I developed outside //Pravda// were also professionally rewarding. I became acquainted with Dr. Klausner, former Editor-in-chief of the Austrian liberal paper, //Die Wiener Neue Presse//. The paper enjoyed a good reputation throughout central Europe. Dr. Klausner was a Jew who had anticipated problems with the German Nazis and had therefore left Vienna for Belgrade long before the Anschluss. He resembled the American President Franklin Roosevelt in that he had lost the use of his legs and was in a wheelchair. In Belgrade, his wife had become good friends with Roni, and that is why the Klausners often came to visit us. When we left for America, we lost touch. I heard a rumour that Dr. Klausner lost his life when the Germans invaded Belgrade, at near the start of the Second World War. This was never been confirmed, but we did not hear from them again.

Dr. Klausner had founded one of the first international photo agencies, and delivered images all over the world. The New York Times was one of his customers. He invited me to set up my own international agency after taking an apprenticeship with him. This is what I did, at least to some extent. I started to work from home as a correspondent in the Balkans for foreign newspapers. It was easy for me to combine these new activities with my job at the //Pravda//. At the paper, I started at 7am and worked until 3pm. I had the rest of the afternoon off. In the meanwhile my wife had found a job as a newsreader and was working for the Belgrade radio station in the mornings. She worked from 6 am until 2 pm. This meant that in the afternoon and during the evenings she could help me out with our “agency.” I made contact with the papers in neighbouring countries such as Hungary, Greece, Bulgaria, Romania and Turkey, and supplemented the scant news which they received from Reuters and Associated Press.

These otherwise renowned international agencies were poorly represented in the Balkans. As a result of my independent ‘agency’ I became the permanent correspondent of the //Wiener Neue Zeitung//. I provided //Europa Presse// in Munich with features from Belgrade. Every day I sent an English and German bulletin from the Balkans to a Swiss agency in Zurich. I even started working for //Svenska Dagbladet// in Stockholm, after the paper had contacted me about a scandal in Yugoslavia involving a Swede. There was no lack of subject matter. The Balkans has always been a hot spot. There was always something going on. Since the killing of the Austrian heir to the throne, Archduke Ferdinand, by the Bosnian Serb Gavrilo Princip in 1914, an event which sparked off the First World War, the world was kept an eye on the hustle and bustle of firebrands in the Balkans.

I secured a number of exclusives. For example, I interviewed Leni Riefenstahl, the controversial German film director who died earlier this decade. Riefenstahl was on good terms with Hitler and attributed her success to the support of him and the Nazi regime. A friend of mine who worked for the railways, informed me about her trip to Belgrade. I was the only journalist who knew about her visit and who could talk to her in German. She was a beautiful woman, an elegant lady. She had just finished filming //Sieg des Glaubens//, a propaganda film commissioned by the //Führer//. With Triumph des Willens, a documentary about the Nazi party rally in Neurenberg in 1934, she had introduced the German Nazi leaders to the world and had shown the real powers of the regime. Her most famous film, about the Berlin Olympics in 1936, was praised for its brilliant editing. She herself described the film as “an ode to physical beauty”, but it also attempted to glorify the supremacy of the Aryan race. I found many buyers for the article.

Several times I interviewed a remarkable Turkish politician --Rusty Aras, Minister of Foreign Affairs and ally of Ataturk, founding father of the modern Turkish republic. Rusty Aras would sometimes pass through Belgrade on his way to the League of Nations in Geneva. He was a small man with an exceptionally sharp mind and a vision of the future more typical of an elder statesman not afraid to think fifty years ahead. For that reason he was highly respected. I remember how during one of our conversations he pleaded for a closer co-operation between Turkey and the Balkans. I am sure that, at the start of the 21st century, Rusty Aras would have been strongly in favour of Turkey’s joining the European Union.

I also remember a conversation with the Sultan of Bahrain, and especially with the French scientists Frederic Joliot-Curie and Irene Joliot-Curie who was the daughter of Madame Marie Curie. In 1935 they were both awarded the Nobel Prize for Chemistry for their contribution to the discovery of neutrons and the synthesis of radio-active elements. The couple attended a conference in Belgrade shortly after. Once more it was my knowledge of French that helped me get this exclusive interview.

My most spectacular interview was that with Count Ciano. Ciano, who was Mussolini’s son-in-law and Italy’s minister of Foreign Affairs, had to attend talks in Yugoslavia. His train arrived in the middle of the night, around 4 a.m. The press had not turned up because there was no official welcome planned at Belgrade station. I knew about it because my cameraman had ferreted out the information from his friends at the station. When I arrived at the station, I was the only journalist there. Of course the Italian ambassador was there to welcome him. I knew the Italian ambassador personally and asked for his help. He did not think we would get away with it and was sure the police would stop me. However, the ambassador was a big, tall man, and since I had observed that the guards had seen us chatting, I pretended to be part of his entourage and followed in ambassador’s wake as he walked into the station. The ambassador was quite amused and he turned a blind eye. We saw that Ciano had stepped out of his railroad car and was enjoying an espresso. He waved everyone towards him and greeted us warmly. The ambassador told Ciano the story of how I managed to sneak in and Ciano laughed heartily and turned to me. I greeted him in Italian, telling him I had specially learned a little Italian to be able to welcome him. He asked me whether I spoke other languages, and as soon as I mentioned French, he immediately started to converse with me in French. He told me he liked to meet “common people” outside his official commitments, and that he was weary of talking politics all the time. So I invited him to come for lunch with my wife and myself. To my astonishment, he accepted.

In this way we were given a unique opportunity to have a long conversation with the man. The incredibly rich Ciano was a charming dinner guest and a very entertaining conversationalist. In the course of our discussions, we discovered that I had had my first Italian lesson in the same resort town of Grado, near Venice, as he had spent summers as a child.

He told us about the bombings he had carried out as head of the Italian squadron in Abyssinia, before he became a minister. At the time of our conversation, he was still in favour of co-operation between Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany. His mistrust of Hitler was not as big as later after the German invasion of Poland. And there had yet been no clouds cast on his relationship with Mussolini. He was still considered the successor of the //Duce//. Count Ciano seemingly was a loyal and optimistic fascist who believed in a great future for his system. There were no indications that a couple of years later, he would help depose his father-in-law after the Berlin-Rome axis had suffered several important defeats. For this he was later murdered by supporters of the //Duce//. The lunch was not only a coup for my newspaper, but it elevated my status among foreign correspondent colleagues.

Despite the very pleasant meal with Ciano, his visit to Belgrade did not bode well for further developments in world politics. The sky above Europe was becoming overcast, the climate chilly. Forward-looking people were expecting a storm. More and more Europeans were leaving the continent. At the end of the spring of 1939, war clouds were gathering, and we too awaited our visas to emigrate to the United States of America.