The Price of Honesty: The Terrible Confession of Former Mobster

THE PRICE

OF HONESTY

The Terrible Confession of Former Mobster

Robert Yugovich

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© 2012 by Robert Yugovich. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 03/08/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4678-9076-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-9077-9 (ebook)

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Contents

PROLOGUE

SOME CALLED ME ‘THE ALMIGHTY’—THE PLACE

YOU’RE HUNGARIAN, AND THE SERBS KNOW THAT ALSO—THE BEGINNING

SZEGED WAS THE CRADLE OF DRUGS IN HUNGARY—MEETING CRIME

YOU ARE ALREADY ONE OF US!—NETHERLANDS, HERE I COME

YOU DROPPED INTO A VAT OF STEROIDS?—GOODBYE, BAYA!

OUR KIND NEVER GIVES UP—TRAINING IN JAPAN AND HAWAII

I SUPPORT FEYENOORD!—THE DUTCH CONFLICT

WHEN YOU GET A CALL FROM BELGRADE, YOU CAN’T NOT GO—PEST, UNCLE PIPÁS, AND THE SZAVA CLAN

IS THIS WHAT YOU CALL A PRISON?—BEHIND BARS IN SWEDEN

HE SAID I WASN’T A REAL GANGSTER— ATTILA IN CHARGE

WE WILL BECOME POSH JERKS, EATING WITH A FORK AND KNIFE—THE COCAINE MARKET IS OURS

NO COURTESY FROM US, EITHER—FIGHTING THE AUTHORITIES

RESPECT, MAN!—FAREWELL TO ZORAN

I COULD HAVE GOTTEN THE POLICEWOMAN, TOO—ATTILA GOES WILD

YOU CAN GET OUT EVEN NOW, BUT NOT ALIVE!—THE INTERNAL FIGHTS GET TOUGHER

YOU WILL BE A CRIMINAL JUST LIKE US!—IN GRAVE DANGER

GREAT JOB, BRAVO FOUR!—ARRESTS AT LAST

WELL, ROBERT, WELCOME TO HUNGARY!—LABORIOUS INVESTIGATION

I AM LOCKED UP ALL DAY LIKE A WILD ANIMAL!—OUTRAGEOUS CIRCUMSTANCES

I HAVE TO ASK, EX OFFICIO, IF YOU WANT TO COMMIT SUICIDE?—SHOCKING VERDICT

EPILOGUE

ANNEX

FINAL WORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

END NOTES

Prologue

It turned out that I had to leave the gang of which I was a key part for many years. I was aware of the gravity of my actions, and I knew that the gang would not sit idly and overlook the grave fact that I had crossed the unwritten rules of the mafia. I had two choices: killing my boss—my only friend still alive—or fleeing with my family.

Trusting the laws of the European Union, the orderliness of democracy, and the respect of human rights and dignity, I sought refuge under a false name in one of the EU’s member states, with support from the witness protection program already in place in Hungary.

We were soon to realize that what lied ahead of us was not what I was expecting. I had to realize that the saying is doubly true for Hungary: anything can happen—and the opposite of that, too. I realized that not only the Serb mafia but also the biased, unfair, national justice system was after my skin. Neither the former nor the latter would refrain from annihilating me, and without a second thought for my family. I had no other choice but to survive and keep fighting, even in the face of hope slowly ebbing away. I did not believe in miracles, but the real loser was the one that did not even try to win.

The fight for survival, for dignity and justice, still continues to this day.

The reason I decided to write this book is to help others learn from my mistakes. If just one of the readers decides not to become a Mafioso, or if he is already in, decides to get out and help the authorities instead; if he does not start on the road of a junkie, or this book gives him the strength to become clean—it was already worth the several months it took to write this book.

My other reason is personal. I wanted to put reality on paper, because it is disgusting how neither truth nor reality is needed to judge or to condemn someone. Just as there are good cops, there are good criminals and there are brutal, inhumane criminals. And this is the case everywhere you go.

Truth is always where the power is.

"Some Called Me

‘The Almighty’"—The Place

The mid 1990s, the Netherlands. Disco Baya in Rotterdam: haven of drug tourists. The other great place is the Challenge, in Amsterdam; despite the fact that they were both owned by Yugoslav hands, they were still rivals. In this period, ecstasy was legal and the Dutch even created music to go with it, such as house and trance. Throngs of tourists flocked to these places, from Sweden and Spain; mostly they were well-off youngsters and middle-aged entrepreneurs, sportsmen, and actors—basically the wealthy daughters and sons of the middle class—people loaded with money that they wished to spend to have a good time. And we are talking plenty of money. During the week they went about their business, but then came the weekend, and off they went to the Netherlands. This was seventh heaven for them: they could drink, do drugs, and party. Some had annual passes to these places, and although the Baya could easily take in twelve thousand people, some could not get in because there was a full house. There were weekends when free ecstasy came with the entry ticket; the guests loved this. There were great crowds, a flurry of activity, and stellar sums. Millions of dollars changed hands over a single weekend.

In order for the disco to generate long-term profits, security had to be sorted out. We were responsible for the safety of the twelve thousand guests, numerous personnel, and the building as well. The security was divided into three groups. The central department oversaw every square inch of the building with the help of cameras. The boss was also positioned here giving us orders. The inner department mingled with the crowd; they had to manage conflicts and issues inside the building.

The outer department had the most difficult and most dangerous job. One only got in this group after a rigorous selection process—however, nobody was ecstatically happy when he got in. The job of the outer department was the selection of guests: they could only let in people if they were considered okay. People with fights on their track record were kept away for a month or two. Those who were drunk or not properly dressed (wearing slippers or boots, for example) were not allowed in either. The scruffy also remained outside. The outer department had to keep an eye on the competition, who took pleasure in provoking the queue outside. These outside guys had to check the clothing also; nobody could get in wearing a coat. Every guest had to go through a metal detector gate after leaving their coats, sweaters, and scarves in the cloakroom and a full body search. Tickets could only be bought in advance; you could not get one on the spot.

I was the head of the outer department, and my colleagues called me The Almighty—not because I was in possession of some extraordinary skill, but because I got to decide who got into the disco, with or without a ticket. This position had a number of advantages and disadvantages. Amongst the advantages, for example, was that all twelve thousand guests smiled at me when they saw me, and each and every one of them wanted to be my friend. They surprised me with fantastic offers every day. There was a guy who wanted me to have his used Ferrari, and another offered a month-long holiday to the Bahamas. There was an offer of an apartment in Monaco at the time of the Formula One race, an offer of marriage, a girl who wished to give me her virginity, and plenty wanted to buy me a beer. It was hard to resist the temptation, especially when I had just received my immigration papers and moved out of a refugee camp only a few months before.

But there were plenty of less exotic offers: there were those who wanted to kick my ass after closing, those who wanted to shoot me, and one who got me banned from Germany thanks to a dad who had Mafia contacts despite being a state prosecutor. So it was not really a stress-free job, to say the least. People only saw the legal part of the business—nobody knew what went on behind the scenes. I think this is nothing special; all famous, trendy places are run like that. But there was more to it: plenty of money, and the ivory tower of money laundering, an activity never despised by the mafia. This was the place that changed my life forever. How and why? I will tell you soon, and believe me, it will be interesting!

"You’re Hungarian, And The Serbs

Know That Also"—The Beginning

The owner of the disco was Dutch, but the Yugoslavs held the keys to the doors. This meant that the Dutch guy was present on paper only; the place was 100 per cent owned by the Yugoslavs—or by us, really—as way back in the early 1970s.

I was born in Yugoslav territory. My mother was Hungarian, and my father was from Montenegro. They divorced shortly after my birth, and my mother married another Hungarian who had a son, so I got a brother as well. I was two at the time, and my brother was three. We went to a Hungarian-Serbian kindergarten, so we spoke Hungarian and Serbo-Croat as natives but only used Hungarian later on at school. During this time I was nearly fully Hungarian, and I loved listening to my grandfather’s tales of his time as a soldier. I was about ten when four or five Serbian kids circled me in the school yard and spat on me. It was humiliating, and I went home and told my granddad what happened.

He said, The Serbs cannot accept that we Hungarians are more adept, are smarter, and work harder than they are. That is why they hate us.

But Granddad, I’m mostly a Yugoslav and only a little bit Hungarian.

No, son, you are Hungarian, and the Serbs know that, also. But you know this better than anyone else. You say you dream in Hungarian, so that is what you are.

That made me think; I really did dream in Hungarian. That was the day I truly became a Hungarian. Conflicts increased in school, and I was fighting nearly every day if somebody insulted me because of my Hungarian nationality.

By this time Tito was dead, and the antagonism between the nationalities was getting more severe. At the end of the 1980s, there were separate clubs for Hungarians and Serbs; this was the case in sports, too. I had been doing karate since I was seven and in kumite, or fighting, I was a national champion and junior champion. In 1988 we were preparing for the European Championships, and Hungarian competitors were excluded from the team and could only remain as the replacements. I stayed on nevertheless, because the sport was my life. I wasn’t into school, so my parents sent me to work at the age of fifteen. I lived my own life ever since. I went to work at six in the morning, finished at two, and then trained from four until eight o’clock. As a replacement, I did not get a chance at the competition, which made me sad.

By this time I was already a teenager, and that status it came friends, cigarettes and alcohol. We went to soccer games and concerts, mainly for the fights. In the city where I lived, I quickly earned a name for myself by fighting mostly Serbs or even members of the police. This was a time when I hated everyone except my friends. But there were a few good things about me, too: I always protected the weak and shared my last penny with my friends.

The deeper the conflict between Serbs and Hungarians grew, the bigger authority I had in the city. Milošević had Hungarian street signs taken down and ordered the use of Serbian language in all public places. The Hungarians and Croatians living in Voivodina were in a helpless situation. We started to form opposition groups in a number of Hungarian towns, but we were doomed to be unsuccessful: many Hungarians yielded to the Serbians or accepted the situation with broken spirits.

Then the police found me, and I had to face the facts: either I applied to the military school, or I went to the jail for juvenile delinquents. I was seventeen at the time and was in a tight corner, but I knew I had no choice. I applied to the military school, where I had to take a psychology test and then a medical examination. I was lucky—I abruptly stopped active sports not too long before, and I was hung over at the time of the medical check-up, so they found my blood pressure too low, stating that I was not accepted. This was in the early 1990s. Nearly all my friends had been enlisted in the army. Because I hadn’t turned eighteen yet, they left me alone.

By this time, Milošević’s party had suppressed all worthwhile members of the Hungarian intelligentsia and forced them to run in the elections representing the party; this happened in our town. There was one girl in our gang whose father was an engineer, held doctorate and master degrees, and was the director of the biggest factory in town. He was a professor at a number of universities and designed many famous buildings at home and abroad. They lived well, and his wife was exceptionally pretty—and also an engineer—and they had two children, a boy and a girl. They were a real model family, one that we would only see in American movies: pretty, successful, and rich. They gave charity to the poor; sponsored sports, and organized events. All guys in town dreamed about their daughter, Brigi. She looked stunning and was cool—Mummy’s little dragon. We went to parties together, and several times we attended Hungary festivals. If we ran out of money, she always helped us out—and of course, we always ran out of money. She was an angel.

The election campaign started, and to our biggest surprise, the candidate for SPS (Serbian Socialist Party, Milošević’s party) was Brigi’s father. Not a Serb, but our role model, of whom the town was so proud! There was uproar in and around the city. Everybody thought them a traitor, and people started to hate the family. The wife did not go to work, and the children did not go to school. The father decided this all by himself, surprising both his wife and his kids. Very few people remained their friends. Brigi came to our favourite bar once and told us that she was ashamed and disapproved of her father’s decision, but she had not been aware of it, and that was why she hadn’t told us anything. Her confession did not touch anyone, and she was told to her face that she and her family were unwanted. I felt this was unfair, but at the time even I did not understand how politics made people do dirty things, and how if the politicians felt like it, they could simply wipe us off the surface without any feelings of guilt. I came across this feeling many times in my life later on, but this was the first time. One day I shared my opinion with the rest of the gang, protecting Brigi and her brother, and this changed things for the better, but things were not as they used to be. Brigi was accepted again, and all realized that it was not her fault, but still she retained a number of enemies.

One day I received my conscription to the medical examination related to military service. I wasn’t worried at all, because the law said that only those over the age of eighteen could be enlisted in the army, provided that they passed the medical check. I thought I had nearly a full year, as I only turned eighteen at the end of the year, but I was wrong. I received the official statement in May that I was qualified for any military position. In July, I joined the forces in Kosovo. Only the toughest were sent to Kosovo, because it was hell. Here the air always smelled of gunpowder. I was seventeen and a half years old and seven hundred kilometres from home.

I got off the train in a dirty, dusty town where horse-drawn carts kicked up the dust, with dirty people in rags. About twenty children, around eight years old, ran towards me barefoot, dirty, and unkempt, wanting money for food. Not too far away a toothless old man was selling cigarettes and sunflower seeds. No asphalt roads, no pavements, only a few ratty old cars struggling on the dirt tracks. One thing reminded me that I was still in Yugoslavia and not in Afghanistan: the Serb (Yugoslav) policemen, armed to the eyeballs and posted on every street corner. Not to mention those three military officers who were heading directly towards me.

I thought they were after me, and I was right: they put me in a military jeep, and the next stop was the barracks. It took us about half an hour to get up the hill, called Naked Hill. The name came from the fact that not even grass grew on this godforsaken place. In the summer, when I arrived, the average temperature was forty degrees Celsius; in winter it was about minus twenty. We kept quiet on the way, and I felt like a stranger in my own country. Did I have a country? Did I belong anywhere? Weird things were in my head, and I would have cried but couldn’t—my pride didn’t let me. I decided that come what may, I would remain strong and proud. As soon as I came to this decision, we arrived at the military base.

All around me were high barbed-wire fences, tanks, panzers, and grim soldiers who were two metres high and armed. Even at six foot three, I felt like a dwarf, weak and helpless. We went in, and I said good-bye to my silent escorts and sat down on a bench, where around thirty civilians had been waiting. Three hours later an officer came and led us to have our hair cut and take a shower, and we received our uniforms as well. To my surprise the uniform was blue instead of green, and they said that the reason for that is we were at an air field, and in such places uniforms were not green. Then our civilian clothes were taken away, and we were shown to our quarters. We slept twenty to a room: Serbs, Croatians, Bosnians, Slovenes, Macedonians, Montenegrins, Albanians, gypsies, and me, the only Hungarian and the last generation to be conscripted as soldiers of a Yugoslavian army. The whole thing resembled more the foreign legion than a national army: there were at least ten languages spoken in our quarters. Nobody could sleep the first night; some cried, some walked around, and some talked about how proud they were to be a soldier.

In the morning some asshole shouted in my face to get up; there was morning exercise, washing, and all that lot. I asked him what time it was, and he answered that it was half past four. I thought for a second whether I should kick him in the face or send him off to go shout at somebody else. I went for the second option, so soon three motherfuckers were shouting at me at the same time, and I had no other choice than to get up. After breakfast they told us that the red signs on their shoulders meant that they were corporals, and we had to do what they told us. In the second week I slapped one of the corporals in the baths when he wanted me to clean the loos for the tenth time in a row. On the very same day I made the acquaintance of my lieutenant, who made it clear that I was lucky to be underage, that I had not yet been sworn in, and that I was about to be redirected to a new squadron anyway.

A week later I was sworn in and officially became a soldier. The following day they transferred me to my new squadron, the special scouts. At the time this was the toughest squadron in the Yugoslav army. In the next nine months I went through tough military training on the ground, in the air, and in the water, with knives, sniper rifles, pistols, grenades, and anything capable of extinguishing human lives. We ran twelve kilometres a day, tackled the 10,200-metre obstacle field in full weaponry, and fired at least two hundred aimed shots at fake enemies. We did it all: daytime and night-time drills, anatomy and chemistry classes. We could sleep a maximum of six hours in one go and did hundreds of drills. Only twelve soldiers were trained in this squadron in a year.

We learned that we only succeeded if we worked as a team. Nobody cared about nationality anymore. We became Yugoslavs with only one aim: to protect the security of the country. It was hard and long training, and only nine of us finished it; three were injured along the way. In those nine months nobody got a day off—no visits to the town, no visits home, and no visitors. Only a call and a letter home once a month were allowed. Physically and psychologically we were on top of the world.

I became friends with two guys: one was called Rudi, a Slovene, and the other was Zoran, a Serb. We knew everything about each other. They persuaded me to write to Brigi. I didn’t think she would answer, but she did, and this was the only thing that made me truly happy during those nine months. After that training all was fine; we received our special uniform with the burgundy cap, awarded to special units only, and we could carry our guns on us at all times.

After ten months we were allowed to go into town. Rudi, Zori, and I went together. Because Kosovo has always been a dangerous place, it was defined where soldiers could and couldn’t go. We chose Pristina, and there were two authorized places here, the Hotel Božur and the Grand Hotel. But the real party place was in a quarter called Kičma, which we weren’t allowed near. We went anyway and found live music, college girls, beer, and proper food. When we entered, the band went silent; soldiers only came here if there was a fight. We quickly told the owner that we were only looking for a good time, and we would appreciate if he could keep quiet about it. In the end we became friends. We got free food and drinks, and a few hours later everyone was our friend. Some gave us pocket money, and others gave their phone number to contact them when we were in Pristina next. We really got along well with the Albanian youth. We got drunk, ate well, and got a lift back to the barracks, which otherwise would have been an hour’s walk away.

A few days later Milošević closed the Albanian universities and forbade the public use of the Albanian language, despite the fact that over 70 per cent of the population of Kosovo was Albanian. You could feel the tension in the air. It was May 1991, less than four weeks to our discharge on 20 June. We even got twenty days before discharge to go home. We were allowed to leave in pairs, and I went with Zoran; Rudi agreed to go only when we came back. We left by train early on a Friday morning, and we got to Belgrade in the evening, where we parted. I got home at about eleven o’clock in the evening. A few years ago the city would have been full of people at this hour, but now only a few people were walking around. I thought I would be happy to be home, but that was not the case: I felt Milošević’s spirit and ideas all around.

The next day there was a party at Brigi’s house for her brother’s birthday. I don’t remember much because I was too drunk, but apparently I behaved horribly. A few days later I met up with Brigi, and we talked a lot. She got a place to be Hungarian major at university and she was really happy. A serious friendship developed between us. I loved to be in her company because she was not only gorgeous but intelligent and smart—my exact opposite. At the time I was a rebel. Her parents disapproved of our friendship because I had quite a reputation in the city. I doubted that many parents wished their daughters to spend time with me. We agreed that we would meet again in a month, after I was discharged from the army.

It was hard to go back but I had no other choice. I comforted myself with the thought that I could bear the last month by thinking of Brigi. We got back to the barracks with Zoran. The day after a revolt broke out in Kosovo, and we were sent to the streets together with the police. It was a horrible sight—civilians threw stones first, and then the weapons were taken out. A policeman collapsed two metres away from me, shot in the forehead. That was the first time I saw somebody shot. I wasn’t scared and bent down to confirm he was dead. I was wondering how his family would take the news, but I did not have time to linger because shots hit the walls around me. I found a shelter and was wondering whether I would get out of this alive—and if not, what the purpose of my death was. I was eighteen years old; elsewhere guys my age were chasing girls and having fun, but I was in a war. We crushed the riot in about three weeks, at the price of thousands dead. We just sat and could not speak. Rudi was disappointed because he was not allowed to go home.

Our commander came and told us that they had information about a tunnel through which weapons were smuggled, connecting Albania and an exit some three hundred metres behind the Yugoslav border. We had to destroy it. Two days later the tunnel was detonated, but we barely got back to the base when we received the next order. This was far more dangerous than the previous order, and somehow I felt that there was no going back.

Kosovo was preparing for war and thus needed arms that Albania was smuggling into the country. Our task was to destroy these shipments in Albanian territory and inform the air force about the larger shipments so that they could order air raids. We had one hour to get ready. After a quick shower, we checked our uniforms and weapons and prepared our first aid kits, with antidotes for snake venom because there were plenty of snakes in the area we were going. The commander chose six people, and as soon as we got ready, we received our instructions. He told us that our informers in Albania would report the smugglers’ route and the times of their departure. The geography did not allow smuggling of weapons, ammunition, and explosives in motor vehicles, so they used horses and mules to get across the mountains. It should be mentioned that the mountains in the border of Kosovo and Albania were barren. Our task was to destroy the shipments. This is extremely dangerous, as the manoeuvre needed to be done around twenty kilometres into Albanian territory, because later on the smugglers entered into a well-disguised tunnel, the exit of which has not been located on Yugoslav territory to this day.

So you will need to enter a hostile country, which is the lesser of two evils. The bigger issue is that you will need to manoeuvre on rough territory, and it is likely that the smugglers will have weapons. All I can tell you is that killing the enemy in war is like harvesting corn when it needs to be harvested. I wish you a successful mission and a successful return.

Upon hearing this, we were everything but happy, not even the informer, who was made commander of the team. We were sceptical about him and made this very clear; we had our reasons, which were accepted by the commander. The informer was a Kosovo Albanian who studied in Albania for years. His only advantage was that he knew the area well. It occurred to me what it would be like if this had all happened in Voivodina: smuggled goods arriving from Hungary for the Hungarians in Voivodina, and I would be the informer. What would I do? The commander calmed us down and said that the informer had seven brothers and sisters, all serving the Yugoslav army. His father was also a military man, and his turning against us was impossible.

Until we reached the Albanian border, we were all joking, trying to cover the fact that we were scared. As soon as we crossed the border and stepped on Albanian soil, we all went quiet except for Zoran.

Shall I sing a Serbian folk song? he asked. Hungarian, have you ever been to Albania?

No, but I am not here out of my free will, I whispered to him, as if the Albanian smugglers were only a few metres away.

See, you are in the army, so you can end up as a real globetrotter.

The excursion was a struggle on the rocky, barren terrain. It was adding to our hardships that we could only move in the dark, because in daytime we would have been spotted from miles away. As we were nearing our destination, the officer split us up into three groups. The first group was in the front with the scout and the commando. In the second group, about 150 metres further along, was the officer and the radio operator, and about the same distance away the third group had the two snipers. I was in the first group as a scout with a Bosnian guy. We arrived at a mountain trail and settled, waiting for the radio message when the smugglers were to be expected. A few hours later we were notified that they would soon be there. We were ready. We were informed that four smugglers were coming with eight mules and two dogs. However, while looking down on the trail we saw that there were many more smugglers. Our informers were probably not aware of this because the rest must have joined the group later on.

As they came closer, we saw that there were about thirty men with plenty of weapons. We were expecting a much smaller convoy, so we radioed headquarters and were waiting for further instructions. Headquarters reported back that it was impossible to send an air raid in such a short time, and we were instructed to evaluate the situation and retreat if necessary; additional forces by air would arrive in about half an hour. We had no time to evaluate anything because the dogs smelled us—we were barely fifty metres away from them. All hell broke loose. We were outnumbered and were running low on ammunition because we did not bring supplies.

Zoran crawled up next to me and joked that the corn harvest had begun in earnest.

Sure, only that we’re the corn and they’re the harvesters! I shouted.

In order to gain a little time and to help us get a grip, I threw four grenades at the front of the convoy. We received such a shower of bullets in response that the boulder behind which we were hidden nearly crumbled to dust. Then we scattered so they could not focus their line of fire in one direction only. We wanted them to be occupied with more targets. There’s an old rule in shooting: the freshmen die together, the veterans die lonely. When bullets start whooshing through the air by your ears, you instinctively huddle together to keep the fear at bay, which is a big mistake. More people means a bigger target, and these modern guns easily shoot through two or three bodies. Therefore, they taught us early on in our drills that when we are being shot at, we need to scatter, otherwise we would be slaughtered like beasts.

Zoran and the other sniper moved further back and tried to respond to the bullets, and we also tried to get further away. After a few minutes, the officer and my Bosnian partner were dead. The four of us continued the fight, but our situation was getting desperate. We kept retreating but had no idea where we were. Our pursuers were on our tail, and soon the Albanian border guards as well as the Albanian police would be in our hair. Zoran hid behind a tree and shot two Albanians with the last five bullets he had. I only had thirty bullets left, and there were twenty more in the Scorpio.¹ Those with remaining bullets were covering for each other in turns, and we were on the run as fast as our legs would take us.

But this was all to no avail. One of our pursuers caught up with us from the side and aimed at Zoran. Rudi, the Slovene, saw this and in his panic fired all his bullets at him. Zoran was covered in blood and bits of flesh as the Albanian collapsed like he’d been eaten by thousands of piranhas. Zoran grabbed the Albanian’s guns and we fled. I used up all of my remaining bullets killing an Albanian. Our radio operator dropped the radio and was shot in the back a number of times. I don’t know if he died or not—we had no time to stop and check. Only Zoran had ammunition by this time, and he tried single-handedly to keep away the Albanians, who, after the half-hour chase, were lagging behind. It was probably due to our physical strength and our luck that the three of us were still alive.

After two days of wandering, we reached the Yugoslavian border. We were told that the Albanians probably gave up on us because of an air raid by the Yugoslav air force. We realized how tense we had been—we’d heard neither the fighter planes nor the explosions. We were silent for a few minutes. It was weird: my brain had gone completely numb; I could not remember or feel anything at all and was floating like a balloon. We were still silent on the way back to the base, although the soldiers who picked us up kept asking us for