Stars Too Far: A Memoir of Diplomatic Confrontation in Yugoslavia

By Laszlo Toth PhD

In1975, Lazslo Toth, a US citizen and then director of technical research at the Great Western Sugar Company in Colorado, was visiting his native country of Yugoslavia to work on its continuing technical cooperation with other European nations. As part of this effort, he had agreed to provide photographs of a Yugoslav sugar plant.

During this visit to his hometown of Vrbas, Toth was shocked to find himself arrested by the Yugoslav State Security, charged with spying as a CIA agent, tried in a kangaroo court, and sentenced to seven years in the notorious maximum-security prison Sremska Mitrovica.

Stars Too Far describes his harrowing experiences and how the ensuing struggle for his freedom, involving such key figures as President Gerald Ford and Foreign Secretary Henry Kissinger, led to one of the lowest points in relations between the American and the Yugoslav governments since World War II.

The story of his rescue and eventual release from behind the Iron Curtain provides new insight and unprecedented access into one of the fiercest diplomatic clashes between Tito’s communist Yugoslavia and the Ford administration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781984576224

Laszlo Toth PhD

Laszlo Toth was born in Yugoslavia and grew up in the Sugar Factory Vrbas workers’ colony as the third generation in the family trade. He is a former Research and Technician Director of the Great Western Sugar Company and remains a consultant for the U.S. sugar industry.

Book preview

Stars Too Far

A Memoir of Diplomatic Confrontation in Yugoslavia

LASZLO TOTH, PH.D.

Copyright © 2019 by Laszlo Toth, Ph.d.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/25/2019

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CONTENTS

Vail, Colorado, August 14, 1999

Belgrade, Yugoslavia, November 15, 1975

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Tailing

Chapter 2 Before the Storm

Chapter 3 The Secret Police

Chapter 4 The Rat

Chapter 5 Vinca

Chapter 6 The Arrest

Chapter 7 The Provincial Prison

Chapter 8 The Fight Back

Chapter 9 Zora Seeks Help

Chapter 10 U.S. Action Starts

Chapter 11 Survival

Chapter 12 The First Day of the Trial

Chapter 13 The Second Day of the Trial

Chapter 14 Letters

Chapter 15 The Flag

Chapter 16 Friends

Chapter 17 Dirty Tricks

Chapter 18 In the Name of the People

Chapter 19 Documents and News Media – 1

Chapter 20 The Stars Too Far

Chapter 21 The Door to the Catacombs

Chapter 22 Capers

Chapter 23 Documents and News Media – 2

Chapter 24 The Transport

Chapter 25 Federal Prison

Chapter 26 Welcome to Sremska Mitrovica

Chapter 27 Zora

Chapter 28 Prison Collage

Chapter 29 Political Mosaics

Chapter 30 Documents and News Media – 3

Chapter 31 The Tired Veteran

Chapter 32 Rolling the Dice

Chapter 33 Media Echo

Epilogue

To our daughter Vera

Vail, Colorado, August 14, 1999

It was August 14, 1999, a festive and uniquely elegant perform-ance of the International Ballet Festival in Vail, Colorado. My wife Zora and I had the honor to meet Gerald Ford.

When we approached, the former leader of the most powerful nation on the earth, President Ford, offered his right hand with warm smile on his face.

I noted: Mr. President I like to thank you for saving my family and my life in 1975.

There were a few seconds of silence before a spark of recognition appeared in the President’s eyes and he answered in firm voice: I remember.

Belgrade, Yugoslavia, November 15, 1975

EMBASSY OF THE

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Belgrade

Department of State

Washington D. C. 20520

Belgrade, November 15, 1975

Mrs. Laszlo Toth

9778 Orangewood Drive

Denver, Colorado     80221

Dear Mrs. Toth:

I want you to know there is no matter that has come to my atten-tion since I have become Ambassador to Yugoslavia which has commanded as much of my attention as the unfortunate imprison-ment of your husband. I and my officers have repeatedly and vehemently protested, cajoled, urged in an attempt to gain first, access to your husband and secondly, his freedom.

Please be assured that as long as I am Ambassador I shall continue to regard his unjust imprisonment (which is what I must assume it to be based on present indications) as a serious impediment to good relations between Yugoslavia and the United States.

You may assume that we shall never slacken our efforts towards gaining his freedom.

Sincerely,

/s/

Laurence H. Silberman

Ambassador

PROLOGUE

At times of major social and political dilemmas in the United States and rest of the World, the book Stars Too Far reflects light on the exceptional ability of America to unite against the communist malfeasance in Yugoslavia. It shows how US Congressmen, Senators, and high-ranking Government Officials, standing strong behind the US President, became victorious in an almost impossible diplomatic action. The Stars Too Far gives hints and helpful warnings to those ready to learn from History.

*     *     *

The story in the book Stars Too Far, centers on the happenings in Yugoslavia in mid-1970’s when Laszlo Toth, a chemical engineer, was arrested and convicted by the regime for some unfounded accusations of a Sugar Factory Espionage. The ridiculous charges and outrageous behavior of the Yugoslav Communist regime initiated an ever-increasing Diplomatic struggle between USA and the Yugoslavian regime, as well, very serious hardship for the innocently jailed Laszlo Toth, and his Family. The diplomatic fury escalated to the point that finally, almost a year later the USA Government notified the Yugoslavs of cutting all the Economic and Military aid if the disputed case is not resolved promptly.

*     *     *

Yugoslavia was a country of rich history, noble people, and natural wonders. Just before the beginning of WWII, under liberal pressure, a transformation from a respected and balanced Kingdom to Socialism was in progress. With its destructive forces, the Socialist-Communist forceful wave overpowered the masses of people, especially a large number of intellectuals. Despite of Yalta agreement, to establish a coalition Government at the end of WWII, the forceful Communist takeover diminished chances of King’s government return. In the new Communist regime, the first step was to destroy those intellectuals that initially served as tools in the Communist takeover. To paraphrase Milovan Djilas, a well-known European statesman and philosopher, After Communism there remains nothing. The Socialist-Communist regime shuts down the human mind. In Communism there is no free speech, nor any other human rights. Individuals learn fast to obey the ruling class, or to disappear without trace. Recent self-destructive civil wars in Yugoslavia have turned Yugoslavia into nothing.

*     *     *

Zora, escaped a set-up trap at one of her classmate’s work place, the Nuclear Research facility in Vinca. Aided by the American Embassy’s Security, she succeeded to board the Charter flight to Chicago, seeing Laszlo’s empty seat near her. Crushed and worried by ominous happenings she still hoped that, those that detained Laszlo, would understand the ridiculousness of their charges, and her husband would soon follow her back home.

*     *     *

Zora was summoned by Laszlo’s employer, the Great Western Company, and told that Laszlo is fired from his Company and his salary is terminated. Additionally, some mysterious and un-explainable surveillance crew started to appear. Still, some un-answered questions remain now-days: Who were those people? What were their motives? Who financed that shameful action that made even more worrisome Zora and Vera’s life? Their reality turned even worst during March 19, 1976, when the Denver Post announced Yugoslavia is arresting political dissent, … against Croatian Nationals and pro-Soviet opponents of the Tito Government.

*     *     *

Back in Yugoslavia, a Kangaroo Court convicted Laszlo of being a CIA Operative to seven years Maximum Security Prison. To Laszlo it was a devastating sentence, since in the primitive environment of Yugoslav prison one’s ability to survive and keep sanity had no chance.

*     *     *

Almost a year later, in July 1976, thanks to USA Government noncompromising pressure on the Yugoslav Government, their President Marshall Josip Broz Tito had pardon Laszlo. The Toth family was reunited. It was a great victory to the American Diplomacy and its front-line fighter, the USA Ambassador in Yugoslavia Laurence H. Silberman.

Despite the happy ending and regaining good life in USA, the earlier posed questions stand un-answered. Why it had to be created the Sugar Spy Case? Why was Zora exposed to almost unbearable hardships and ordeals?

Stars Too Far, Prologue

January 4, 2019

1

The Tailing

It was a warm, moonless night at the end of July. Because the clear sky and blinking of countless tiny stars on soft velvet space, the well-known park alley was covered with a blanket of darkness. I turned the key and the Ford Taunus engine came alive with a pleasant murmur. With a pull of the light switch, the dark showed its very familiar contours. Behind the little house and wire fence, which was still in a shadow, where I used to spend so many happy hours, were the towering contours of dark-windowed halls, warehouses, and stacks. The big plant was sleeping.

With a gentle push on the accelerator pedal, the alley became a smooth wall racing parallel to the windows. My hand was busy the whole time trying to follow the narrow drive. The headlights flashed time after time on the pretty flowerbeds lining the winding road. The park alley ended at the highway, which ran parallel to the railroad track. Left turn, shift, and the car accelerated eastward in the light night traffic.

To the right side, beyond the railroad track, were endless plains, wheat and corn fields with mysterious lights from faraway farm-houses. Contrasting this quietness and peace, the other side of the highway was jammed with life—factories, plants and towering build-ings.

Ten minutes later there was darkness on both sides of the highway. I was carefully watching the dark rows of trees, for soon I had to turn onto the dirt road toward the channel lock. Here was the place to turn. Quick, look in the rearview mirror…a car was about to pass…slow down…turn…and the vibrating, rumbling tires were heading onto dark, deserted, dirt roads.

Minutes passed quickly while I tried to avoid some deep chuckholes in the road. It was a straight, but very narrow road, with deep trenches on both sides. On the right side, deserted looking build-ings were like old hangars. On the left, total darkness, with some contours of trees and the distinct smell of the swamp. There were no signs of any kind of life anywhere.

The road turned a little to the left, and the car started a descent into a shallow valley. The trees were now close to the road, and little by little the tiny stars vanished behind leaves. The car was barely moving at the speed of a walking man. I was yet to pass two narrows, old, bridges over marshy streams. The channel was not visible yet, but the moisture-saturated night air clearly indicated its closeness.

The road elevated with a sharp rise and an even stronger deep rumbling sound of falling water penetrated through the deep darkness. Here a narrow island separated the channel. To the north a branch with an enormous lock for the boat traffic; to the south a branch with safety overflow gates. On the west corner of the island, near great, magnificently built locks, were several fenced-in, pleasant-looking red-roofed, one-story brick buildings. The extremely moist air had created a dense wall of healthy, green vegetation around the buildings, with a barely visible, narrow, dead end road.

The main road made a sharp, ninety-degree right turn toward the north just before the barely visible exit, and ran high over the lock on a new steel bridge to the valley on the other side of the channel.

I was heading to see my old friend, Ivan, the lock operator. This peaceful place in the wilderness was his home. He lived with his wife, far from the agitated happenings of the world—guarding and main-taining his small kingdom—the lock. His near six-foot height, broad shoulders, suntanned face with a wide smile that gleamed his healthy teeth, and his deep dark-colored eyes—almost covered by thick hair falling over his forehead, gave the impression of a friendly bear.

Late that afternoon, when I received the message that my wife— who was then visiting her aunt in the capital city a hundred miles south—would call on Ivan’s phone, I waited impatiently for the slow-moving hours to pass.

After passing the large bridge by the overflow gates, the car ran smoothly on the paved island road. The night air was charged with the hissing and rumbling roar of invisible water. The sharp curve was close—I pushed hard on the brake, and while the inertia bent my head, I took a quick look into the rearview mirror. The road and the entire world seemed to be deserted.

A sharp turn to the right, and several seconds later my hands were already busy for the left turn exit. With a sudden drop of the front wheels, the car slipped down to the steep dirt road.

The night suddenly became darker. Dust was flying around… some undefined mass moved in front of the car…the headlights were unable to break through. I shifted into first gear and, with my head close to the windshield, tried to pierce the white-yellow gleaming created by the dust. My right foot carefully pushed the accelerator pedal. The car barely moved. I started to recognize a slow-moving, grazing, flock of sheep. The Ford pushed slowly through the sheep, which reluctantly gave way to the front bumper.

Now, what was that? I was suddenly surprised by a new phenom-enon: The dust over my car started to radiate very strong light…it was almost unreal. For seconds I was confused. In my mind, I tried to make sense of this mystery.

Oh, yes…it must be some car close behind me. But there were no lights before, nor any sign of life. Where did it come from? I could not explain, but suddenly I started to feel the smell of danger.

My car was finally beyond the flock, and I took a quick look over my right shoulder. Where several seconds ago there had been a deserted steel bridge, now I noticed the dark shadow of a car with its lights turned down. Like lightning striking, I realized: I am being followed!

I tried to associate the past days’ happenings, but in the back of my mind a doubt is raising its head. It makes no sense. Watching too many television serials must spoil my imagination.

I was now close to the buildings, and the bridge with its mysteri-ous car could not be seen. I stopped the engine when I neared the gate, turned off the headlights, and—a little confused—I stepped out. The only source of light now was a powerful floodlight on the top of a high post inside the gate, which made a bright circle in the yard. The light breeze made a hissing sound in the towering cane wall as I walked toward the gate.

The door was locked and the house windows appeared dark. I could not believe that Ivan would go to bed so early. I felt uneasy. It was close to eight, and Zora could call at any minute.

Something moved in the darkness beyond the building, and soon I recognized my friend. Hi, Laci! —he usually called me by my nickname— I was expecting you. In the meantime, I checked the channel level. In a few steps, Ivan reached the steel door and it opened with a squeal. We shook hands and exchanged several remarks about the quiet, warm night.

Suddenly, Ivan turned his head toward the bridge—his face wear-ing a surprised look. His well-trained ears captured a strange sound in the wilderness. I followed his gaze, and noticed the mysterious car moving back from the bridge.

Ivan commented with slight nervousness, It’s strange to have traffic at this time of night, and added, after a short pause, I was passing on the control gallery looking toward the road…did you notice a car behind you? …with its lights turned off.

While we talked, the car made a U-turn, approached the exit slowly, and started to drive through the sheep in our direction. It was a white Volkswagen. Through the reflection of the unusually strong headlights, the silhouette of two people appeared behind the wind-shield. With whining engine, the Volkswagen rolled closer and, when the driver noticed the dead-end road, he stopped.

For a while, lighted dust was flying around, and the auto engine—running at an idle—murmured. They were not more than fif-teen feet away, and it took only several long steps for Ivan to reach the passenger side door and open it.

Two rugged-faced males were in the front seat, and despite the warm night they both wore jackets. I noticed the unshaven faces and the sweat pouring down onto open collar shirts. The passenger, with a surprised look, attempted to grab the door handle with his left hand, while his right nervously disappeared into the opening of his jacket.

Are you lost? May I help you? Ivan’s voice sounded somewhat tense, but quite polite.

There was a sort silence, when tension filled the air. From far away, a train whistle flew through the dark night.

Eyes beamed cruelly from the unshaven face, while a rugged voice finally snapped back, Mind your own business.

The madly jerked door sounded like a gunshot. Ivan looked with confusion on the slowly backing Volkswagen, and then hastily turned toward his office.

It took him only seconds to come back with a high-power carbine in his hands.

Something is wrong. That car had a local license plate. I never saw those creatures before!

I was now sure who those people were, and a horror started to mount in the depth of my stomach in anticipation of possible happen-ings.

Ivan, I would not recommend that you stop that car. Especially with a rifle in your hands. I know who they are.

Suddenly, a high shrill telephone bell cut through the night. Don’t worry, it must be Zora! I assured Ivan.

The small office had only a few pieces of necessary furniture in it, dominated by an old desk. The weak, bare light bulb on the ceiling hardly made the objects around the room visible. I took an old, squeaking chair, and in a hurry picked up the receiver.

Zora’s voice sounded pleasant—warm, but with a sign of dis-tress. I did not listen to you. I contacted the American Embassy. I told the Consul about the strange happenings around you, and about the secret police harassment. He said they had no right to take your American passport. He called the police headquarters right away, but the police denied any knowledge about your passport.

The night before, despite police orders, I hurriedly left my old hometown. I felt, I am an American citizen. They have no right to put me under house arrest. I drove to the capital city—barely missing an arrest by a roadblock. After I met my wife and daughter, I told them of the confusing happenings with the SDB.¹ During my story, I saw rising horror in Zora’s eyes, and when it ended—after a short pause, she suggested that I should drop into the American Embassy and inform the officials there about these ugly happenings.

Well, I said, it must be just some misunderstanding which will be over soon—without U. S. Embassy involvement. I drove back to my parents’ home—to my old hometown—the same night.

Laci, are you listening? There was a touch of horror in Zora’s voice.

Yes, I am following you.

Could you tell me who took your passport away? Was that the police?

No, I have been interrogated by a group of SDB agents. They kept my passport, and also gave me a rough time when I told them that I drove to Belgrade yesterday. You are not going to believe me…they told me that I was a suspected would-be assassin of the U.S. President, who is visiting the country, and I will be prevented from leaving the city!

This is not the time to joke! chided Zora.

I am speaking seriously! I replied.

There was a silence on the receiver. I felt that my fragile little wife, a hundred miles away, was fighting to overcome the panic. The only noise in the office was the phone receiver crackling, and the diffused, muffled sound of crashing water.

I continued, I don’t like to frighten you, but you must know the truth. The State Security and some other armed men are everywhere around me. The only road coming from my parent’s home is under the check of plainclothes police twenty-four hours a day. They are sitting in a parked car near the factory gate. There is another crew in the ambulance building overlooking my parents’ home during the night. Two people in workers militia uniform appear from time to time on the other side of the fence near my parents’ garden. They are armed with rifles. I just discovered that they are even tailing me in some unlighted car.

Why is all that? What is going on? Zora’s voice sounded desperate.

I have no idea. You know that the sugar mill visit was pre-arranged and authorized. All this looks ridiculous to me.

To me this is rather frightening, was Zora’s reply.

I went on, If I am not with you in the morning, please don’t wait. Fly back to the United States and do whatever you can for me from there.

Zora persisted, I am going to call you tomorrow after I have again talked to the Consul.

No, I don’t want you to do that! The phone lines might be tapped. We might get our friends into trouble. I knew that might be my last conversation with my real world, and I could not avoid saying, in an emotionally choked voice: I wish I could be with you.

I put the receiver back, pushed the old chair away and, in slow steps, left the room.

The yard in front of the building was thick with darkness around the lighted circle. With no living being visible, the entire space was saturated with the rumbling and hissing sound of falling water. It looked like another world.

Depressed and confused after the phone conversation with my wife, I wondered where my friend had disappeared. The strong over-head light, with impenetrable darkness surrounding it, made me feel strange—like standing in an arena and being surveyed by unnumbered eyes.

Several long minutes passed, and I finally decided to walk around the building. The entire world looked unrealistic. I was approaching the massive lock gate, which in the dark was hardly visible. The sound of falling, colliding water was now close, and the fine permanent tremor of concrete illustrated the tremendous power. The wild turmoil of fluorescent, foamy mass was only several feet away, and the finely dispersed cloud made my face wet.

The contours of the lock control building were towering in front of me, and I noticed a dark shadow moving on the gallery high above me. The shadow skillfully moved down the stairway, and soon I rec-ognized Ivan.

Those strange people drove down the road several hundred yards, and before they reached the east turn, they disappeared… apparently, they again turned off the lights! What the hell is going on? quizzed Ivan.

Well, you are not going to like it…. Those creatures belong to the State Security, and they are tailing me. Can you imagine what would have happen if you tried to stop them? With the rifle in your hands?

I am sorry, my old friend, that I brought you into this situation, I said as our hands met.

Ivan’s horror-distorted face indicated that he fully understood the situation. Those sons-of-bitches or their friends would cut me down before asking any question.

I am sorry old friend that I brought you into this situation, I said as our hands met in the darkness. Good bye…and thanks.

While I was walking toward my car, it flashed in my mind: Old friend, it was probably our last handshake. I felt a storm waiting in the darkness….

2

Before the Storm

Chicago-O’Hare International Airport – July 4, 1975

We spent the day in the pleasant O’Hare-Hilton Hotel after our early-morning flight from Denver. After lunch, my suggestion of a nap was not greeted with much enthusiasm. My daughter, Vera, expressed her view that without watching television the afternoon was going to be incomplete. It was close to six when we left the room, burdened with baggage.

The underground passageway was crowded with people, and it was no better in the long, winding corridors which led toward the International terminals, either. The Terminal and the surrounding area were packed with nervous, excited, fast-talking, shouting people. Heavily-accented American and Yugoslav expressions were in the air.

The charter flight, YU-3426: Chicago to Belgrade, departed at 8:00 p.m., but most of the passengers had started to check in shortly after six. It was my family’s first opportunity, after spending eight years in the United States, to visit our parents and relatives in the old country. We felt pleasant excitement knowing that less than ten hours in flight separated us from our parents, relatives, friends and thousands of well-known old country sights. I felt especially proud because during part of our stay I had to carry out several; officially-preannounced visits to some old-country sugar mills.

The Boeing 707 with the Yugoslav insignia was parked near the terminal building—its magnificent lines towering over us in the strong airport floodlights. The passengers were walking in a long line toward the airliner stairway, holding their hand baggage of various shapes and sizes. The power generator turbine rasped in the warm, early evening air, while the tail beacon flashed bright red on the concrete slabs. When I reached the top of the stairway, I looked back for a few seconds. The glass-paneled terminal building was glimmering, and on the nearby highway a smooth, endless river of fast-moving cars floated along.

With powerful engines shrieking, the big bird left O’Hare’s runway 14R, and after a right bank, the endless sea of color city lights rapidly sank below its wings. I was happy and pleasantly excited. I did not know that soon this last, beautiful picture of the United States of America was going to haunt me during long, sleepless nights in an overcrowded prison cell.

We left the East Coast and Boston, thirty thousand feet below us, covered in a thick storm front. Ten hours later, the Boeing 707 started its descent, flying parallel to the winding silver-colored Sava River. The mosaics of fertile farmland grew, and soon—just where the River Sava melted into the mighty Danube River, the old city of Belgrade appeared. The wide avenues, rolling hills, bridges, and blocks of city dwellings—small in the distance, seemed peaceful and familiar. Hundreds of memories of past happenings flashed through my mind. I felt I was going back in time.

What do you mean you don’t have a car for me? I looked straight into the eyes of a tall, blond, pimple-faced, the International Car Rental Company clerk. The conversation was taking place in Belgrade’s Surcin International Airport terminal building. A short time ago, when I had passed him my documents, he had looked through some lists. With hardly a word, he disappeared. After a few moments, he returned to advise us there were no cars available.

But, sir! My reservation for a Fiat 101 was confirmed a month ago!

To this, he shrugged his shoulders, and then added, Well, the only car I could probably give you is a Ford Taunus. Of course, it will cost you more….

Though this little incident irritated me, I told myself, Be patient! You are back in the relaxed world of your past. I did not see anything wrong with the offer, so I signed the documents and picked up the keys.

Later, as we walked through the parking lot, my daughter stared at the fluorescent-yellow car with disbelief on her face, and queried, In this large fleet of cars, why didn’t you pick out a less eccentric one?

The unbelievable traffic congestion on Belgrade’s streets made driving difficult, but I did not mind. The charm of the old city, with its old palaces, parks, medieval forts, long avenues covered with the thick shadow of Plane trees, and sidewalks packed with strolling people, evoked the memory of my youth, when—as a student—I belonged to this world.

On Sunday morning, we sat in a deep silence on the five-century old wall of Fort Kalemegdan. Below, the early sun fought with the hovering mist over the great river. A blast from a lonely ship’s horn echoed from the invisible distance, and almost as an answer, the bell in the old Svetosavska church nearby tolled its magnificent song.

Daddy, is it true that this Fort kept western Christianity safe for many years? asked Vera.

Yup! And it cost hundreds of thousands of lives over the centuries, as well.

The fertile farmland of the Srem province, with its endless corn and wheat fields, stretched near the new northbound highway. The horizon, painted gold by the sunset, emphasized the blue contours of the Fruska Gora Mountains. With the rhythmic hum of the car engine, I impatiently counted the quickly passing kilometer posts, as we were very close to my parents’ home. We passed over the lazily moving water of the Danube River. In the distance below the mountains, lay the provincial capital of Novi Sad with its romantic-looking, medieval Fort Petrovaradin.

Shortly, we met two happy old people—my parents—in their little home, surrounded by a park and flower beds.

The following week, we passed the gently-rolling hills of Sumadia and stopped for lunch in the city of Uzice. I drove through the narrow, winding streets with their one-story, turn-of-the-century buildings, and carefully passed the many horse-drawn carriages, slow-moving cars, bicycles, and pedestrians.

Mummy, why is that old tank in front of this building? asked our daughter.

Her mother responded, It is a monument from World War II…. You notice beyond it a tunnel entrance with traces of burns on the cliffs above. During the war, the Freedom Fighters liberated this city and the surrounding area from the Germans. They proclaimed it a free republic.

And what about the traces of burns on the cliffs? continued Vera.

Well, replied Zora, they established an ammunition plant in the tunnel, which blew up one day. There were no survivors.

By late afternoon we were driving deep into the magnificent canyon of Moraca. The highway in this area is carved into the cliffs, perched between the wild mountain tops and the foamy, deep green, fast running river. The canyon walls are covered with dense vegetations, and the highway frequently disappeared below the massive over-hanging cliffs and into short tunnels. The sunset met us on the cause-way over Lake Skadar. The lake surface, bordering both sides of the highway, was covered with a carpet of green leaves and the white blossoms of water lilies. The red glob of the sun quickly sank below the horizon, while its warm color reflected on the calm water. The entire place looked as if it were enchanted.

In the ever-increasing darkness, the engine whined as we labored up the steep, switchback road. Finally, we reached the mountain ridge. In the last reflection of the western sky, the view exploded on the endless expanse of dark blue sea. Far below, the early lights of seaside villages twinkled as tiny lost pearls. We felt the warmth and excitement of knowing we soon would be at our aunt’s seaside paradise.

The little town of Budva lay in a green valley, surrounded on three sides by tall mountains. One side of the valley faced a wide, arcing, shallow bay and a long, ridged island. The lower mountain slopes and the island itself were covered with dense olive, fig, and conifer trees.

The old part of town was built on a peninsula, encircled by old fort walls. The little port and the new part of town spread outside the walls toward the mountains and the conifer-covered seaside. High on the steep mountain slopes, clusters of white-walled homes and tiny villages appear through the dense vegetation—looking much like swallow nests. The air had a spicy, aromatic odor of Mediterranean vegetation.

Our aunt’s two-story home stood on the hillside, close to the olive trees. The front of the home, with its wide balcony, overlooked the bay and island. It was built on massive stone blocks, which kept our rooms pleasantly cool. We found ourselves getting up early in the morning and walking the still-deserted beaches and narrow streets, enjoying the salty taste of the early-morning breeze. Some days we hiked to the ruins of an old fort located on a peninsular ridge on the other side of the bay. The scenery was fantastic from this high point. The beautiful, sandy beaches stretched far beyond the horizon. The little town shrank from across the bay, but its old walls and bravely towering church steeple were still evident.

Far south, hardly visible through the bluish early-morning haze, the rejuvenated, ancient village of Saint Stephen glistened white. From that point the endless deep blue sea covered the horizon with its perpetually vibrating glimmer. The wide arc of high mountain peaks, still cloaked in morning haze, framed the entire magnificent scene.

During the day we tried to find a peaceful place on the beach where we could absorb the hot sun. When we could not resist the temptation any longer, we swam far from shore in the pleasantly warm and transparent, shallow waters. It was a pleasant sight to look back to the long beach covered with thousands of carefree vacationers, to the green mountain slopes, and to the old fort on the tip of the peninsula.

Laci, do you know that during my teenage years I always vacationed with my relatives up in the mountain village? asked Zora.

Yes, you told me that…. Your relatives are a very special kind of people, I replied.

What do you mean? responded Zora.

Well, they are still unspoiled by the institution of modern society. The phenomena found up there are seldom found elsewhere in the world.

Oh, I know what you are talking about, said Zora, with a hint of a smile in her eyes. You like living in the system of patriarchy. You must enjoy it up there, with the ladies serving you everything before you have time to ask.

You have it all wrong. What I mean is…the entire village is made up of one family. The spoken word there is as solid as the written word elsewhere. They are brave, proud, honest and humble. They don’t give a damn about wealth.

My explanation only brought Zora’s rebuff. Stop! Stop! They are fine people, but you over-exaggerate.

I decided to continue. You know, they might be the last Mohicans in this part of the world. By the way, I added in a joking voice, I like it when ladies take care of me.

One day, we decided to drive up to the mausoleum of the great Montenegrin bishop and poet Peter Petrovich Njegosh. We left the valley late one cloudless morning. After passing the first mountain ridge, the black topped, switchback road led us to the long, dry Tivat valley. The crystal blue sky, clear as a glass bubble, arched over the mountaintops. The sun overhead mercilessly burned the sporadic vegetation. From the north end of the valley, the road turned back to the towering mountains. It was a very step, narrow road, with many hairpin curves.

Soon a breathtaking view appeared as we approached the south European fjord—the Cataro Bay. Two of its bays lay below us—the Kotor and the Tivat. Through the blue haze and between the steep slopes, the Bay of Herceg Novi with its narrow strait leading to the open sea could be faintly seen. We were almost five thousand feet above sea level on this narrow road which was carved into the fjord’s steep walls. Far below, like miniature toys were the ancient towns of Kotor, Perast and Morinj—squeezed lightly between the sea and mountains. The color of the water changed from light green at the lacy shore to a deep blue in the middle of the bay. I could not resist stopping the car, jumping out, and filming this beautiful sight with my constant companion—my movie camera. As I panned the fantastic view, I was not aware of the traffic jam created by our car stopped in the middle of the road.

The sharp incline of the road caused our radiator to almost boil as the road suddenly turned toward a canyon pass. The pass soon widened to a large, green valley, with gently rolling hills covered with juice, tall grass. It was a surprise to find such pastoral scenery so close to the top of a mountain.

We drove through a hamlet with very virile-looking highlanders dressed in their native garb. The winding road led us through many grazing flocks of sheep, and after another hour we reached the mountain peak of Lovcen. Here, almost a century ago, a dying man’s wish was honored—his last resting place was on top of the highest Montenegrin peak Lovcen—far from the cities and their crowds, but close to the stars. We sat on the little plateau near the mausoleum and felt the stillness. As we sat, the sun slowly slid behind the mountains, sinking the valley below into ever-thickening darkness.

3

The Secret Police

Good afternoon, old man! We would like to talk to your son.

I was reading a book while comfortable sitting in my father’s armchair when I overheard this conversation. Before my father reached the family room, I had risen with a hearty stretch and yawn. As the visitors entered the room, I recognized one of them as the strange character, Comrade Milovic—the other I had never seen before, but I could swear he belonged to the secret police. Comrade Milovic—a man of medium height, lean, with early signs of age etched on his face, which sported an oversized Adolph Hitler moustache and deep-set eyes—greeted me with a shrewd smile. The other man was the same height, but he had an athletic build, a round, tanned face, and golden front teeth.

Are you Comrade Toth from Denver, America? asked my acquaintance.

What is the matter with you, Comrade Milovic? Don’t you recognize me? We had known each other for the past fifteen years. He used to be a clerk in the sugar factory office. Yesterday, after an unpleasant argument with him, I had learned he was now the head of the People’s Territorial Self-Defense for the sugar factory.

Comrade Toth, I am from the SUP. We heard you were visiting your parents, was the explanation of the stranger. SUP was the abbreviation for the secret police’s criminal department. I wondered what the next question would be.

Do you have your passport with you?

Sure, all my documents are in my baggage, was my honest reply.

I have an order to take your passport to the police headquarters.

Could you tell me the reason for this?

Nothing serious…just a routine check.

The trace of a cunning smile on the face of the speaker—the stranger—alarmed me. I knew they had no right to take my American documents from me…but, if I refused, it might mean trouble.

I can give you my outdated Yugoslav passport…. To my surprise, they did not argue. The policeman took the red book with the gold emblem imprinted on the front and slid it carelessly into his pocket.

You should not worry. This is just a routine check, repeated the policeman. And, by the way, you have to be in the police head-quarters tomorrow morning at ten.

After the two visitors had left, I walked back to the family room and picked up the book I had been reading, but I was unable to concentrate. Shortly, my mother came in.

Son, who were those two people? What did they want?

Well, one of them came from the secret police. They took my passport for a routine check, they said. I was doing my best not to alarm her with my reply, but my thoughts were anything but calm.

Routine check. What does that mean? The alarm in her voice was very apparent. As she asked the question, my father entered the room and they both questioned me with apparent worry.

It is easy to scare old folks like you! I tried to reflect a joking tone, but inside something was bothering me.

At nightfall, several of my old friends and former colleagues from the sugar factory dropped in. They had arranged a surprise party to mark the end of our vacation and to wish us a happy return to the United States of America. I was flattered, but had to disappoint them with the news that my wife and daughter had left that morning for Belgrade. They intended to stay with Zora’s aunt, visit some friends and do some shopping before we left for home.

My friends insisted I join them because none of us knew when we would have another opportunity to be together.

The dinner was held in the old castle of Bajsa, which has been transformed into an exclusive resort. The service and food were excel-lent, and as we ate a gypsy orchestra played outstanding Hungarian songs.

But even in these surroundings, among my old and dear friends, I was unable to remove the incident of the afternoon from my mind. Apparently, my face betrayed me. Soon, there were noisy requests that I cheer up. Because these were my friends, I felt I should explain what caused my preoccupation.

After I had told of the incident, Novotny, the Engineering Department Supervisor, snapped, Son of a gun! It might be associated with my morning incident.

Each face at the table turned toward him. The gaunt man, whose face sported a thin moustache—after a short hesitation—continued. I received an order from my boss, Engineer Gelei, the Research Direct-tor, that I was to prepare two rolls of slide pictures about the sugar factory. I understood it was part of the business arrangement between our two companies, Laci.

Novotny continued, This morning, as I was photographing our fine, seventy-year-old building, Milovic stopped me. He requested that I keep the film until tomorrow.

What kind of circus is going on? cut in Fabian, the balding chemical engineer. I was present at the business conversation be-tween Laci and our Factory Manager, Spiro. Spiro told Laci, ‘Take all the pictures you wish!’

A lengthy discussion started, but it was concluded that the entire subject was nonsense and would not go too far. Later, the gypsy orchestra gathered around our table, and we all sang some sentimental Hungarian songs. The matter was briefly put aside.

The police headquarters was located in a century-old building in the center of the city. It served as a German high school until World War II. By the end of the War, most of the German inhabitants of the city escaped to Germany or perished in the war, so the building was transformed into the police headquarters. It was a sad-looking, two-story monster with thick, brick walls and a clay tile roof. The sloppy maintenance of many years was visible throughout the entire building.

I walked through a narrow, paved yard, toward a corner entrance. The yard was separated from the ominous-looking building by a thirty-foot wall and barbed wire. A frowning police officer ushered me through the wide, deserted corridor, where I found myself in a large office filled with file cabinets, closets and worn-out Persian carpeting. Beside two tall windows, behind an enormous wooden desk, sat a short, gray-haired, gaunt person in his early fifties. He introduced himself with a cold smile, saying his name is Bulajic and that he is the Chief of the Secret Police (SUP = Sluzba Unutrasnjih Poslova) for the region. With apparent respect on his face, he turned toward the person on his left, a man a full head taller than himself and continued: this is Comrade Vojnovic from the State Security Service (SDB = Sluzba Drzavne Bezbednosti)."

Comrade Vojnovic appeared to be in his early thirties, with close-cut hair, an expressionless face, thick moustache, and a high-pitched voice.

The Chief invited us to take a seat in the comfortable armchairs near his desk. After a short silence and a quick glance into his note-book, the SDB agent started the conversation. Comrade Toth, you gave us an outdated Yugoslav passport.

That is correct, was my reply.

We believe you passed over our borders with American documents.

I explained, Yes, I am an American citizen and have my U.S. passport.

Why did you give us that one, then? questioned the Chief.

My U.S. passport is USA property, and I do not have the right to give it to anyone to survey other than in my presence.

The expressionless face of the Chief turned red, and he replied angrily, You were born and raised in our country. You are making a fool of yourself with this American Patriotic speech!

I tried to explain, You have it wrong. I like my old country, but at the same time I owe a great deal of loyalty to my adopted one.

Is your adopted country’s passport with you? He stressed, adopted country in a sarcastic voice.

Yes, I have it with me.

We would like to see it.

Comrade Bulajic walked behind the State Security agent and looked over his shoulder. They examined my passport very care-fully—page by page. Finally, the agent, he put it on the desk, close to his hands, and started the conversation on a new path.

Why did you need the photographs of the sugar factory?

This question did not surprise me—I had been waiting for it. The photographs were to serve several purposes, but they cannot be explained in one sentence.

We have lots of time, answered Comrade Vojnovic. He flashed a slight wink toward the SUP Chief. Slowly, a strange mixture of anger and embarrassment started to rise within me. These two strange characters were treating me as though I were a common criminal.

During part of my stay in Europe, I represented my company from Denver. I intended to carry out several business meetings, which had been prearranged by official letters between companies. During my visit to this sugar factory, I felt it would be of mutual interest to present some slide pictures to my superiors in Denver. When I asked about this, the General Manager gave me his permission. I hoped this would end the discussion.

I still don’t see why you needed the pictures? Obviously, the Chief was not satisfied.

The German machine producer ‘Putch’, who would like to sell to our company, The Great Western Sugar, some of their equipment, suggested that during my visit to Europe I should study their beet slicers, which are already part of many European sugar factories and few of them are here in the ‘Vrbas’ plant. They did not have adequate pictures to us, but they felt there would be no problem if I take some during my visit in Europe.

"In what you are telling me, I notice only your…and not our mutual interest!"

I continued, "You did not hear the second part of the story. Spiro, the General Manager, was interested about some of our newest technology and asked me to work out a technical cooperative program between the two companies. We felt that the most appropriate and convenient way to present the ‘Food Combine Vrbas’ (Prehranbena Industrija Vrbas) in the United States was by a slide presentation."

After a short silence, the voice of the secret police officer lost its stiffness and sounded almost human. How is life in America? What make of car do you drive? How much do you earn? They were both asking these questions with the inquisitive eagerness of children.

Later, Comrade Vojnovic looked at his watch. It is almost noon. We had better go eat. I received an order to keep your passport until this afternoon. We will expect you back at two o’clock.

The Chief, with a somewhat warmer smile, added, You should not worry. We don’t see any problems. Your passport will be returned this afternoon.

Despite the friendly tone, I still did