 Words at War presents Escape from the Balkans, with Robert St. John as guest narrator. April 1939, the greeting ceremonies are over. I stand with the newspaper friend, watching the cultured gangsters depart for the banquet halls. Gables, Ribbentrop, Radar, Hess, Neurot, Rauhich, Keitel, Himmler, Göring, and Adolf Hitler. Michael Paddle, I was wondering if you'd come. Well, here I am. Was it worthwhile? Certainly. At least it proves one thing. What? That it would not be impossible to kill Hitler. I could have killed him myself. He was less than 20 feet away from me. Oh, why didn't you, Michael? Your fame would be assured you'd go down in history. Well, who knows. Maybe one day I'll be sorry I didn't have a go at it. Not to mention the headlines, your possible confession. Why I kill Hitler. The front-paid story in every paper in the world. Yes, and as it is, all I can write is why I didn't kill Hitler, which wouldn't make a front-page story anywhere. Words at War. A national broadcasting company in cooperation with the Council on Books in Wartime brings you another in the series of radio treatments of important books of this war. Tonight, our presentation is Escape from the Balkans by Michael Padeff, former correspondent in Bulgaria for the London Times. Our narrator will be NBC's own Robert St. John, who as a representative of the Associated Press, was with Michael Padeff at the time this story begins. This is Robert St. John. Let me tell you about the Balkan Peninsula. It juts out from the southern part of Europe, west of Turkey and east of Italy across the Adriatic Sea. Its people are Bulgarians, Greeks, Romanians, Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Albanians and Turks. There are no clear geographical boundaries between any of the Balkan states. Among the thinkers and leaders of the Balkans, there are those who favor Russian domination and those who have other ideas for the future. But many Balkan thinkers believe in and work toward a great Balkan federation with all nationalism, that bane of the Balkans, subordinated to the will of the people of that entire corner of Europe. On the evening of Thursday, February 27th, 1941, we representatives of the British American Press in Sofia, Bulgaria had just finished an important meeting with the British minister. I was with AP at the time and Michael Padeff, a Bulgarian, was Sofia correspondent for the London Times and the Daily Express as well. We stood in the lobby for a moment chatting with Cedric Salter of the Daily Mail. Well, Saint John, how does it look to you? I don't think it'll be long before German troops enter the country with the permission, of course, of the Bulgarian government. Shall you be moving on? Yes, to Belgrade. How about you, Cedric? I'm off for Istanbul tomorrow morning. You, Michael? In a day or two. Saturday, maybe. I advise you, Michael, to come with me tomorrow to Istanbul. It's getting rather hot here. Your papers and visas are in order, aren't they? Yes, they are. You'd be a fool to stay here any longer. Why, it's obvious they'll be here in no time now. Maybe then it'll be too late. The political police will certainly act as the Germans enter Bulgaria. I'll leave Saturday morning. One day after you, Cedric. You have a complex about tomorrow. Saturday will be okay, too. I don't know. I have a strange feeling. Well, see me off for sure, then. Right, Cedric. See you tomorrow morning. With your luggage, I hope. Get up. What? Get up. Don't try to resist. It's useless. Get up. Take that flashlight out of my eyes. I can't... Very well. Now, hands up and put them on your head. There's some mistake here. What do you want? Who are you? Is your name Michael Padeff? Yes. There is no mistake. Put the light on. Who are you? All right. I am from the Bulgarian political police. I have orders to search this house and place you under arrest. Come on now. Hurry up. I want a telephone. To whom? A friend. Oh. My secretary, Grigor Grigorov. Oh, well. Go ahead. Put on your overcoat now and... oh, yes. In the closet or wherever it is that you keep them. Take two blankets, several shirts, socks and underwear. No excitement, you see. Everyone calm. Everything quite orderly. There was a car waiting outside at the curb. And presently, the door of Michael Padeff's house slammed behind him with a heavy finality. Like the door of a jail, a cell. But no, the slam of the cell door is different. Like that. And Padeff squints his eyes instinctively against the darkness. And a shadow blacker than the darkness separates itself from two others squatted together on the bare wooden floor of the cell. And a voice cries out, Good God. Michael. I can hardly see in here yet, but... You're George Volkov. Yes, Michael Padeff is right. It is George Volkov, editor of Pludne, suppressed in 1937 as Bulgaria's most democratic newspaper. Presently there is talk, and the other two shadows on the floor of the cell become personalities. One calls himself Tziko the pickpocket, and he's angry at being mistakenly confined with political prisoners. The other is motionless. One of his legs are paralyzed. George Volkov, noticing Michael's questioning glance, speaks quickly. Now, don't ask stupid questions. He came down from the dentist's laboratory the other day. We all go there today, so you'd better listen to me. Dentist? Dentist's laboratory? Yeah, we call it that. Because of three special chairs they have up there in the torture room. Michael, you're now in hell. A scientific hell. There are two things you must remember. First, you've got to survive it. Remember that all the time it helps. At the worst moments, think only of that. You've got to survive it. Secondly, trust no one. Absolutely no one. That's all. Now tell us the news. Do you read the papers this morning? Oh, crystal luck. Come, Paddy, Herr Drexler wants to see you. You are honored, Michael. So soon, Herr Julius Drexler of the Gestapo. He's as smooth as his patient, Michael. Don't let him deceive you. The third time you've asked me for water since we began our interview this morning, Paddy. Before you get water of food, you'll confess. There is nothing for me to confess, Herr Drexler. No? Well, we will go back again. You admit that you met the American Colonel Donovan last month? I was introduced to Colonel Donovan, yes. There we begin. So are all the other foreign correspondents. Paddy, we know all British and American foreign correspondents are in the pay of their secret service. This is a fact and we can prove it. Now, what did you report to this Colonel Donovan? I am not in the pay of the secret service, Herr Drexler. I had nothing to report to Colonel Donovan. Your case is quite hopeless, Paddy. And yet, you can save yourself much pain and suffering if you confess. Confess? Confess? What shall I confess? Paddy, why didn't you kill Hitler? What? We have proof that you once expressed regret that you did not kill Hitler. And you added that if you had a second opportunity, you wouldn't miss it. You mean to say that you really take that story seriously, Herr Drexler? As an indication of your state of mind, yes. One doesn't joke about such things. We will return to that. I have here a map of the United States. You've been writing and sending telegrams to a place called Urbana in the state of Illinois. Show me it here on this map. So, there is such a place. Why do you send letters and telegrams there? The University of Illinois is located near the town. And to take postgraduate course in journalism there. Really, Paddy? How do you think you could get to America when the U-boats have made it impossible to cross the Atlantic? Convoys do get through, Herr Drexler. You must know that. Oh, yes, I know. Some did get through. But that's ended. And can you explain to me why you should want to go to an American university? They're no good. None of them. Schools of propaganda run by Jews. They're false teachings of blue in the world. You can see that I'm right, Paddy. Wilson was a university professor. The same Wilson who cheated Germany. Am I not right? I need a glass of water, Herr Drexler. Oh, water, water, water. Have your water, then. This is not the torture chamber. Sergeant, take this man back to his cell. This seance is ended, Paddy. But tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. But Michael Padaf was lucky at that. Because he had the moral support of George Valkoff on his first visit to the dentist's laboratory. Gentle nickname for the torture chamber. As they entered the room, George whispered in his ear... Michael, paint as soon as you can or pretend you've painted. That's the only way. I only leave you alone when you shall have no sign of love. There were ten other men in the dentist's laboratory when Michael and George entered. All of them naked. Michael Padaf doesn't remember exactly what happened. There were five plain clothesmen strolling around and others in shadowy corners where the screams came from. Truly, they were the screams of men, yet they sounded like beasts in agony. The shots were fired when one of the prisoners turned and struck in desperation and pain. The others rushed forward then and George Valkoff cried out... It's a riot. Let's make it a good one. Get in there and swing your fists, Michael, while the lights are out. Clothes, you two. You will not go back upstairs until we find out how the trouble started. Thanks. What happened to our soulmates? They have gone. Big Bertha got them, I think. What does he mean by Big Bertha got them? No matter, Michael. I've got a piece of news I couldn't give you earlier when the others were still in the cell. You and I are leaving this place within the week. It's a better or worse. I don't know. It's a place called Gondavoda. It's a concentration camp. Oh, God help us. We are bound to get some exercise anyway. Yes. George, what is Big Bertha? The furnace in the cellar. Gondavoda was a dream of a place. A guilty man's dream of hell. At 6.30 the prisoners had breakfast. They ate in groups of 12 after one man had ladled out the soup into the 12 tin plates they handed for them. Dostoyevsky defined man as the only animal that gets used to everything. The prisoners at Gondavoda, or some of them, lived to prove that definition. To steal a loaf of bread from the policeman's building to smuggle away some firewood for the dormitory's stove. That was the cardinal object of the prisoner's day at Gondavoda. Well worth the risk of a policeman's whip or even his bullet. And how the camp grew. There were only 47 prisoners when Michael Patef and George Valkoff arrived there. There were more than a thousand before they left. There were Bulgarians, Romanians, Greeks, Albanians, Serbs, Croats, Czechs, Russians, Jews. Even the red and the white Russians forgot their ideological quarrel in their common quest for food and warmth. With more prisoners came less food and poorer quarters, but more fill. I am sorry to inform you that I have just received a letter from Police Headquarters. There is an epidemic of typhus in the camp. Hereafter, you will be completely isolated. The food will be brought to the place where you eat by the cook, but you will be permitted to go and get it only after he has left. In the meantime, I shall increase the police guards. Lie flat! All right, Michael? Yes. Now where? All right. The guards saw nothing, I'm sure of it. Fired on a chance. All the sameness is idiotic business. You volunteered, Michael. I volunteered to escape. I'm not so sure I agreed to come back. And now we're free. We must come back. All three of us. It's the only way the messenger from the village will get through to Sofia. By roll call tonight, the whole district will be surrounded by police. And no messenger will get through to Sofia. And every soul at camp may die of typhoid. You know very well our friends with the government in Sofia don't know what happens here. All right, all right, I agreed. I still agree. I think I only spoke aloud the thirst for freedom that you too managed to stifle. All right, come along, we can move now. Let's go down to the village. You'll go then. Yes, sir, I'll go myself tonight. Here, you're asked for some lumps of sugar, George Valkov. Thanks. The younger ones, who are they? This is Michael Padev. This one we call Maval. Well, you can't go back to the camp. It's too late. He can hide you in the village for the time being. Why not join with us partisans? We'll teach you to fight the fascists. Not now. We're leaving now. We can't desert those who wait for us back at Gondavoda. Ah, sheer madness. You can't possibly do it. You'll be caught. Our mission is done, partisan friend. Way back is all up here and we must run for it. We depend upon you? With certainty. The message will be in Sofia tonight. And we must go. Michael? I'm ready, George. Maval? Let's get it back. With all this danger, I actually missed the filthy camp liar. Yes, Michael. But we must go back now. Get up, you two. The sugar will help you along now. All right, I'll get up. But I can't and don't propose to run or walk another step. Nor shall I. We're too late anyway. It's nearly five. There's still two hours until roll call. You're not that far from Gondavoda. We can make it. Who wants to make it? Who really wants to make it? You can go on if you want to. I absolutely refuse to. I'm free and I shall do as I please. He said so. Same thing is in store for you, Maval, if you happen to feel like following his example. Now get up, Michael. Go on ahead. Maval will follow you. I've been, Michael. It's midnight lineup. I don't know. Our messenger to Sofia was caught, maybe? No, I doubt that. Three days have passed. If he'd been caught, there would have been some sign. Careful. Here comes the beast. Let us see what we have here. Vaka, Comarescu, Levin, Lesser, Merin, Padev, Seda, Taylor, Volkov, Freyta representative group, I should say. Confound you. As anyone anything to say, don't you want to know where you're going? Fine. Spice traitors. I understand they shoot you long ago. Idiots. All right. Get them into the truck. Get them out of my sight. Well, gentlemen, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Who are you? I'm the doctor. Rather one of the assistant doctors. What hospital is this? Is this a lunatic asylum? Well, heavens know. Perhaps you're not to be told, so I won't tell you. But it is one of the best. One of the very best in the country. Now, I want you all to take a good warm bath. It's all ready for you. There'll be a little wait for dinner since I didn't expect so many of you. Stop this nonsense, will you? What is this all about? What bath? What dinner? What are you going to do with us? Oh, you must be... Michael Padev. Yes, you were described. Well, there's no mystery here, my friend. You must be washed and fattened up. The medical committee will be here in the morning to look you all over. You're 16 lucky men, I'd say. What happens after the medical committee? Well, if they say you're well enough, you may go home. After a few days' rest, of course. Home? To Sofia? Have you another? What is the meaning of all this? You are 16 specially-picked little chickens taken out of the crate to set at ease any s... Oh, come now, Padev. You're having your joke, aren't you? Aren't you? And I can't afford to have you turning your political friends against me. How are you? All right, thanks. Glad to see you back again, Michael. When did they free you? A few weeks ago. Devils. Tell me, what was it like? It was all right. As a matter of fact, I quite enjoyed it. Don't try to be funny. I couldn't be more serious. How long did you stay? Four months. Four months? For a long time, isn't it? For a concentration camp? Is it? For goodness' sake, stop joking. Tell me what the conditions were really like. Let's begin at the beginning. What time did you have to get up in the morning? At nine. Yes. And we went and bathed. Bathed? Yes, in the swimming pool. And what a swimming pool. Like a Hollywood film star's. Gave us an appetite for breakfast. This is quite enough of a joke, Michael. I don't understand why you've chosen to make fun of me. I'm sorry. I only wanted to know the truth about the conditions in the camp. One can never tell these days. For all I know, I may be sent there too. There are no women there. Well, something like it. Well, if you are, I advise you to take your skis. The camp is right up a mountain and there are plenty of nice runs down. By the way, Michael, you know George Volcker, don't you? Yes, indeed. Wasn't he in the camp with you? As a matter of fact, we slept in the same room. Well, I saw him last week. And he told me quite a different story. Really? What did he tell you? That you worked like slaves for nine hours a day. That you got next to nothing to eat. That you almost froze to death. You died of typhoid. You weren't allowed to smoke. What? And that they beat you. That's really going too far. Then how do you account for it? For what? The difference between his story and yours. George Valkov was hanged yesterday, wasn't he? Grigor Grigorov is a strange little man but he's Michael Pateff's friend and secretary and he knows the right people. His Grigor's careful planning which has brought him and Michael Pateff to the Turkish border with forged passports. They wait nervously in a car outside a German frontier headquarters in Bulgaria. The two folding seats in front of them are occupied by an Italian and a Russian named Razinsky. A few feet in front of the car lies Turkey and freedom. So now, Michael, we've been sitting here an hour waiting for the approval. Come on, let's talk of other things. I suppose you'll want to write a book when we're free of all this? Maybe. And your orators will call you communist and you'll be unhappy. Why should they? Because I would want to see my fellow workers organized professional associations. Because I would insist on the defense of workers' rights. Does that mean that I'm any more of a communist Grigor than a labor leader in America or England? Michael, don't you advocate that Russia should be the chief influence in the Balkans? How do I know whether Russia even wants to be? That's not the point. The point is that... What is it? If you're Viktor Achinsky, you're under arrest. No, I'm not. I am Viktor Achinsky. Get out! Arrest him. All right, driver. And go on with these passengers. For the canteen, driver. Any canteen, any Turkish canteen. Michael, we shall drink hierarchy. What shall be the toast? What do you think, Grigor? Svobodou. Svobodou. What does that mean? Shall we tell him, Grigor? That depends. Are we in Turkey yet, driver? We are across the border, yeah? Then we shall tell you. Svobodou. In Russia, it means freedom. Freedom, Michael. Svobodou. Tonight, in Russia, great Soviet armies drive westward toward the Balkans. Grinding the Germans under foot. Tonight in Italy, British and American armies advance toward Rome, Florence, Venice. While just across the narrow Adriatic Sea, in the Balkans, the partisans under General Tito are clearing the coast of German troops, preparing the way for us whenever we are ready to move in that direction. Who are the partisans? Well, I can't tell you from firsthand experience because when I fled from the Balkans, that partisan army hadn't yet been formed. But last month, a friend of mine did get into Yugoslavia and he discovered the truth. He was Dan de Luce, an Associated Press war correspondent who discovered for himself that the partisans are a people's army without narrow nationalistic ambitions, a people's army fighting to free the Balkans from fascist domination. When he got across the Adriatic and located partisan headquarters, he talked to the men who lead the men in that fight for freedom. He saw priests fighting side by side with farmers, all of them very ragged, but all of them very fearless, all of them with a great abiding faith in the former metal worker who leads them, their general, a man named Tito. Dan de Luce saw their need of help. He saw their need of modern machines and powerful weapons to replace ox carts and shotguns. He learned how willing they'll be to tear up their vineyards to make landing strips for allied planes. Dan de Luce brought back word that they're waiting there in the Balkans, the people of the Balkans. They want our help, but most of all, they want freedom, Zvabodu. Thank you, Robert St. John. As the 24th program of Words at War, we have brought you an adaptation of parts of Michael Patef's book, Escape from the Balkans, with Robert St. John as the narrator. The book was adapted for radio by Neil Hopkins. Patef was played by Les Damon. The original music was composed and conducted by Morris Mamorsky and the production was under the direction of Joseph Locey. Words at War is brought to you by the National Broadcasting Company and their independent radio stations associated with the NBC network. This program came to you from New York. This is the National Broadcasting Company.