On August 3, 1940, I said goodbye to my parents and my six brothers and sisters, and set off with my father on the eighteen-kilometre journey from our home to the railway station in Kukača.
My father accompanied me as far as Zagreb, where I changed to a passenger train that took more than twelve hours to reach Belgrade, travelling through the whole night and the following day.
My uncle met me in Belgrade at Danube Station, not at the main railway station. He had his own car there, a taxi with which he earned his living. It was a Fiat and looked like a stove. Whenever I rode in it, I kept thinking of a stove moving along the road. I never liked it.
My first impression of Belgrade was not a pleasant one. The tall buildings looked to me like the cliffs and rocks of the place I had come from.
My uncle took the opportunity to pick up a few more passengers, and we drove towards his home in Zemun.
My aunt was waiting for me there with two little girls, Dana and Dragica. Dana was three and Dragica was five.
I was already very sad because I had left home, and my aunt did not give me a particularly warm welcome — at least that was my first impression. But I realised that I would have to make an effort to get her to accept me, and that is what I did.
I began learning the tailoring trade and worked as an apprentice until April 1941, when everything was interrupted by the occupation that began on April 6.
From that day on, everything in the family fell apart.
A conflict broke out between my uncle and my aunt. The Germans confiscated my uncle’s car, leaving him without work or property, while my aunt sided with her own family, who were supporters of the Ustaše.
Zemun was under occupation, controlled by the Germans and the authorities of the Independent State of Croatia, who were wartime allies.
I moved in with some of my uncle’s regular customers, an elderly couple in their seventies whom he used to drive whenever they needed to go to the post office, the bank or the doctor.
Their only son was a prisoner of war in Germany.
I became friends with two sisters who lived in the same courtyard. One evening they took me to a meeting, although I did not know that it was an illegal organisation meeting secretly in a private house.
They said:
“Come with us. We are all equal there. You’ll hear stories, and then you’ll be given an assignment, which you must carry out carefully.”
I liked that — having company, being part of something.
All this took place in Franztal, a part of Zemun largely inhabited by Volksdeutsche, ethnic Germans.
The meetings were held in the house of Miss Evica, an ethnic German married to a Serb from Slunj.
If anyone asked, that was where I was taking tailoring and sewing lessons.
All of this lasted only a very short time, less than two weeks, until February 15, 1942, when there was a police raid and I had to leave Zemun.