THE CONNECTION IS ESTABLISHED
One day, a deserter named Marko Lazarević (now an emigrant in West Germany) turned himself in to the Italians and revealed everything he knew about our movement and us, the behind-the-scenes workers. As a result, the occupiers not only learned the names of other underground members but also obtained my name. He also betrayed comrades Stipo Lončarić, Vlado Porobić, Aleksa Mikulić, and Boško Drobnjak.
That same morning, all of us were arrested. I remember being found while getting a haircut at Karlo Ciber’s barbershop. I had no idea how the crackdown had unfolded. Two Carabinieri burst into the shop with their pistols drawn and took me into custody. I was taken to the judicial prison in Herceg Novi, where I found myself in a cell with all the other mentioned comrades.
We kept asking in vain: who had betrayed us? What was the cause of this arrest?
Krsto Dončić, the prison warden and one of our sympathisers, had a good connection with our movement. Through him, we learned that Marko Lazarević, who had surrendered to the Italians, was the one who had betrayed us.
With this information, we could better prepare for our conduct under interrogation. The investigation began, but they did not physically abuse us at first. Naturally, we kept to our agreement, denying any involvement with the People’s Liberation Movement (NOP) or the People’s Liberation Army (NOV).
The next day, bound one by one and kept 30 metres apart (each of us flanked by two Carabinieri), we were escorted to the questura for questioning. The escort was scheduled for 10 a.m., the busiest time in the streets of Herceg Novi, as the fascists wanted to intimidate the public and make a statement that the People’s Liberation Movement was “falling apart.”
Our entire group, every individual, displayed exemplary conduct—conduct befitting fighters of the people. Within eight days, we were taken individually, often during the night, for interrogation at the Questura.
After eight days, we were transferred by boat to the prison in Kotor, around 5 May 1942, if I recall correctly.
The Kotor prison was overcrowded, with barely enough space for everyone, and we were soon transferred in groups to the island of Mamula.
When we boarded the boat, we didn’t know where they were taking us. The boat docked at Mamula, and we realised we would be held in the old Austro-Hungarian fortress, now turned into a prison camp.
We were uncertain if we would stay there or if this was just a temporary stop on the way to further internment.
The uncertainty weighed heavily on us, made worse by the unbearable heat as we were crammed 70 people to a cell. Hunger and thirst intensified our suffering, and there were daily deaths among the detainees from Herzegovina, who had been brought here much earlier and were physically exhausted from hunger and hardship. At first, we had no contact with our movement on the mainland. Every evening, someone would be taken away. Rumours spread that they were going “for questioning,”
to “another camp.”
go...
No one ever returned. Our worst fears were confirmed when we later learned that many of our comrades had been killed along various points on the Montenegrin coast—at Kameno, Dugonja, along the Riviera, in Grbalj, and in Kotor. Most were from Herzegovina, with some from Boka as well. The fascists kept the execution sites strictly secret, except for public shootings, which they used to intimidate the local population.
Mamula seemed like the occupiers’ “purging ground.” The question of who would be next and when hovered over us daily like a guillotine. During the autumn of 1942, all the comrades on the occupiers' list were executed. Some were taken from Mamula to special military courts, usually in Zadar, where they were sentenced mostly to death or to imprisonment terms of 100 years or more. These sentences (except for the death sentences) felt almost like rewards, as each of us had a deeply rooted conviction that these punishments would soon be cut short by our victory over fascism.
Even here—in the death camp on Mamula Island—we organised active political work on our own initiative. We formed a Party and a military organisation. While we still had no direct link with the Party on the mainland, our leadership discussed ways to establish one.
One morning around 8 o'clock, during our hour-long exercise period, Jugola Grakalić and Stipo Lončarić approached me. I believe this happened in July 1943. Taking me by the arm, Lončarić whispered:
“We need to discuss something with you.”
From the way they spoke, I sensed it was about a secret, underground mission. Jugola continued, “We’ve been considering a task—to establish a connection with the Party on the mainland. We’ve chosen you for this mission. We’re confident you’ll take it on and see it through.”
They explained the plan for my task in detail as we walked.
I understood that I first had to simulate an illness—joint inflammation—acting as though the pain prevented me from moving. Jugola and Stipo would then, through Dr. Stevo Mrđen (an interned doctor whom the Italians used as a physician), arrange for me to be transferred to the hospital in Meljine.
I remembered every word as they explained, “You will carry a coded letter and hand it over to Pero Čebić, a hospital worker in Meljine. He receives and logs the patients. Think it all over and prepare yourself.”
For almost two weeks, I feigned joint inflammation on Mamula. To raise my temperature, my comrades gave me raw potatoes, garlic, and sugar.
I even doused myself in cold water and exposed myself to drafts to increase my chances of success.
Among us on Mamula was an undercover fascist agent, Dr. Feller (I don’t remember his first name). The authorities ordered him to examine me. He insisted that I was healthy, and when I did develop a fever, he claimed there was no need to send me to Meljine. He diagnosed me with “tuberculosis of the joints,” saying I would not last long.
Following this, Dr. Mrđen had a confrontation with Feller, rebuking him for his lack of compassion and professional integrity. Afterward, Dr. Mrđen personally appealed to the camp director.
He was citing the rights of the Red Cross and demanding I be treated at the Meljine hospital. So, under the escort of two Carabinieri, I was transferred to Meljine. Just before my departure, Grakalić gave me instructions and a letter. On the motorboat between Mamula and Meljine, it was just me and my escorts.
Following my comrades' advice, I placed the letter in a glass vial and hid it inside a tube.
Despite this precaution, the Italians didn’t search me on the journey.
I was fortunate that one of the Carabinieri was familiar with me from when I was an underground worker in Herceg Novi. He had often visited my landlady’s shop, allegedly to see her assistant, with whom he was enamoured. He recognised me and even seemed to hold a certain sympathy.
Once we arrived at Meljine hospital grounds, they no longer kept close watch on me.
Right away, I noticed how devotedly Pero Čebić handled the registration of comrades arriving from Mamula, making it easier for me to pass him the coded letter.
We were alone as he prepared the logbook. While he sharpened his pencil, I slipped the letter from my pocket and placed it inside his book.
He gave me a quick glance and, recognising the situation, I followed the script, saying only:
“This is for Luka.” With that, my task was complete. Čebić quickly recorded my name in the logbook and then left the room with it. Afterward, I was examined at length by an Italian doctor and returned to Mamula by the same boat, though I had expected to stay in Meljine for at least a few days.
This motorboat would also collect mail and packages for the detainees at the Herceg Novi port. My heart pounded as, after so many months in captivity, I finally saw the town where I had joined the revolutionary movement. I spotted people with packages on the shore, and among them were my former underground comrades Gospava Kovačević, Milojka Cuković, and Milanka Terzović.
I later learned that Pero Čebić had informed them of my likely arrival by boat, so they came “as relatives” bearing packages. We exchanged glances, but not a single word. This was the first organised connection between Mamula’s partisan organisation and the Party on the mainland. For us, this connection was crucial for the continued work and struggle as we moved into the political changes on the horizon.
