In my article, I addressed the topic of the Kotor prison and the Mamula camp. I aim to explain some of my perspectives and share what I experienced as a nineteen-year-old, memories that remain vivid to this day. This is what I saw and endured over the course of a year.
I was arrested on 4 April 1942 by the Carabinieri in Tivat. After that, I spent nine days in Škaljari, under the authority of the infamous "Black Knight," notorious for his cruelty, and was subsequently transferred to the prison in Kotor.
One night, the detainees were called out twice, their destinations unknown. A list of names was read before midnight, followed by another later. After that, it was easy to guess what lay ahead for us—there was a stir throughout the prison as people began preparing to leave. Partisan songs filled the air. I remember the songs "Mitrovčanka" and "Bilećanka" breaking out; the whole place came alive with singing. Bottles we had in the cells, used for water, were thrown out of the windows, landing in the street below where Italian guards and soldiers were patrolling.
I remember an old Italian prison guard who went from cell to cell, pleading:
“Don’t sing Bolshevik songs!” He knew exactly what was being sung, but he was powerless to stop it.
It was only the beginning of April when eighty to ninety of us prisoners were lined up early one morning in front of the Kotor prison. Before that, they handcuffed us. We were led through the upper part of the city, past Benovo, toward the Kotor waterfront, where an Italian ship was docked. Based on this, we thought we were being taken to Italy. However, next to the ship was a tugboat—a diving tender. I recognised it from my time working at the Naval Arsenal, as it was used to transport employees. It had a single room into which all of us were to be packed.
Boarding under normal circumstances would not have been an issue. However, for us, bound as we were, it was extremely difficult and harrowing.
Some had larger wrists, some smaller. Some were handcuffed tightly, others loosely. Normally, only one person could descend the narrow stairs at a time, but here, two of us were forced to go down together. It was gruelling; bones creaked under the strain.
After a long while, we finally settled in. Perhaps an hour or two passed, and we began to wonder where they were taking us. The ship was moving, but we had no idea where we would disembark.
The uncertainty was overwhelming. Then, we saw Herceg-Novi come into view. After about two hours, the tug arrived at the rocky shore of Mamula. There was no proper dock, only a makeshift mooring spot.
Disembarkation began, and we still didn’t know what awaited us. Women and children were sent to Prevlaka. We received empty straw bags from the camp authorities, which we filled with some dirty straw. Then we were placed in cells, forty inmates per cell, or eighty if two cells were joined by an open wall. The floors were damp, and we lay on straw beds that barely had enough straw.
Sometime later, before I left, we were given wooden bunks. Life began to follow the regulations set by the camp authorities.
It was, in fact, fascist terror. The food was extremely poor—barely enough to survive. In the mornings, we were given some kind of pâté along with a slop that was supposed to be coffee. Around ten o'clock, we were allegedly given 12 decagrams of bread. However, it was significantly less than that, I can guarantee. In the evenings, we received a slice of cheese and a couple of foul-smelling Greek olives. Lunch had its own peculiar protocol.
The Carabinieri would open all the cells, and we would file out to form ranks of four. We had to wait outside in this long column for hours until it was our turn to receive food. Then came the ritual. After the command “Attenzione!”, to which we had to stand at attention, the shout “Eviva Re!” followed, and then the mandatory “Eviva Duce!” We were forced to repeat these phrases, though most of us barely mumbled them after the Italian officer. This process would be repeated several times until they relented and began distributing lunch. When we finally received the watery soup, we sat down like children, holding our portions in our laps, counting the number of “šupiote“ (macaroni) in our bowls. Anyone with more than ten macaroni was considered very lucky. For a time, this became a peculiar pastime.
Soon after arriving at Mamula, the Italians divided the camp into two sections: the left and right wings, which they called “a la destra” and “a la sinistra.” Our side, which included Bokelians and other inmates from territories annexed by Italy, was required to speak Italian when addressing camp authorities. The occupiers justified this by claiming that we were now part of Italian territory. Anyone who spoke in our native language would be warned. Those from non-annexed areas, however, were allowed to address the guards with the help of an interpreter. However, in our case this was not allowed.
The standard of living for the Bokelians on Mamula was better than for the other inmates, mainly because we were able to receive parcels from home. However, it should be noted that not everyone received food parcels.
There were also Bokelians who were destitute and starving. This gave rise to the idea of forming collectives, which reshaped relationships among the camp inmates. From then on, everything received was shared within each collective, usually in equal parts as agreed. It is a well-documented fact, often emphasised in various accounts, including here, that anyone receiving a package was never considered its sole owner.
I remember Ivan Kaloza from Tivat, originally from Istria, who already had experience in organising camp life. Here as well, he was a strong supporter of the collective structure. I was very young at the time, so my impressions may partly reflect my youth and perspective in those years. Nevertheless, I know that the Communist Party was also active among the inmates.
I remember that meetings were held. I also recall the names of a few communists: Petar Vrbica, Đorđe Vukasović Baro, and Gajo Vrbica. They would meet in one of the camp’s corners. Although I was not a communist and did not participate, I knew the Party was active.
Thanks to Dr. Mrđen, who was a physician, a group of Bokelians managed, on the pretext of illness, to receive additional rations. However, this extra food did not only go to those for whom it was intended. On alternate days, this food was sent to the neighbouring wing, where comrades from Dalmatia and Herzegovina were held, helping alleviate their hunger and prevent starvation. As I mentioned, they were in a worse position than we were, as they did not receive packages from home.
Despite the efforts of the collectives and the Party to keep everyone alive, some inmates died here. I remember the death of a man named Miletić (his first name escapes me). Due to a storm, we couldn’t bury him outside, so he was buried on Mamula. During my time in the camp, I do not recall anyone else dying and being buried on the island itself.
Dr. Mrđen did a great deal to save many inmates on Mamula. He provided special treatment for those seriously ill and, in fact, for many others as well. These patients were sent to the hospital in Meljine for treatment. Through this, we gained valuable information about the outside situation, particularly regarding the frontlines, and our comrades on the ground also learned about our lives in the camp. However, Dr. Mrđen’s actions eventually attracted Italian scrutiny.
When the Italians found out, they dismissed him.
The connection between Herceg-Novi, other locations along the Boka Bay, and Mamula was maintained by a ship called "Barfoara," which we called "Marica." This ship served various purposes: it transported prisoners to Mamula, took some for medical treatment, and delivered food and packages. This ship was used to transfer exhausted inmates from Dalmatia and Herzegovina from Mamula to a neighbouring camp on Prevlaka, It as well as those who were being released and allowed to return home.
The camp regime was very strict. The occupiers made constant efforts to sever our connections to the outside world, but packages remained one way of maintaining contact. For this reason, all packages were thoroughly inspected by prison authorities. Still, some information managed to slip through, especially in loaves of bread. Messages also arrived hidden in shoe polish containers, with letters at the bottom of the box containing crucial information. Sometimes, a cork would be hollowed out to conceal a letter inside.
The Italians hadn’t anticipated these tactics. Even bottles of Chianti wine were used to smuggle letters. However, as time passed, the Italians increasingly discovered these hidden messages and confiscated them.
