Deutsches Historisches Museum - Verf�hrung Freiheit. Kunst in Europa seit 1945 - Blog

The story of Monika Flacke’s night on the Serbo-Croatian border has meanwhile become a legend for the team, said our intern Cora Smidt-Ott. We see it that way, too. It happened on the way from Zagreb to Belgrade, when our curator Monika Flacke was refused permission to cross from Croatia to Serbia. It was in February, 2009, in the middle of the night, and she didn’t have a passport. But she will tell you herself how it came about and how it played out. 

(Anyone who missed the first ‘Stories from our Travels’ by co-curator Ulrike Schmiegelt can read it here.)

‘Henry Meyric Hughes, Lutz Becker, and I were leaving Zagreb with the train, on our way to Belgrade. We had enquired in Zagreb whether there was a dining car attached. With our last few cents, we shared a sandwich and a bottle of water, and boarded the train in good spirits, only to discover that there was no dining car. So we headed off into the night hungry, because we had spent the last of our Croatian currency and hadn’t wanted to purchase any more.

Later that night, around 11 p.m., the train came to the Serbian border. The customs agents boarded the train and I presented my personal identification card. But it wasn’t sufficient. To cross the border one needed a full-fledged passport or a visa. This meant that I would have to exit the train into the sleeting darkness. I was fairly shocked, but thought, ‘Sure, okay, but nothing can really happen’. At the same time, I was immediately reminded of the fact that the Serbo-Croatian border had been a ‘dead end’ for so many emigrants and thought that I could have done without this experience. But I didn’t have any choice. Then they took my ID card from me, to keep while I was driven to the next cash machine. But I needed a glass of water first and was given one, too. All of the customs agents spoke perfect English, which was very reassuring.

So I got my glass of water, had to hand over my ID, and asked if I could have a copy of it, which they agreed to. A border guard then drove me to the next cash machine, because I needed money for the visa. It was snowing heavily, almost a blizzard, and I wanted to put on the seat belt. But the border guard said that it wouldn’t help at all, so I sat there, petrified, and frozen, in this in this car as it slid from right to left. Thankfully there were no pedestrians or other drivers out on the road going to the cash machine. Once there, the man stood right behind me, which made it difficult for me to enter my pin code, because he was staring at my fingers. And then the money actually did come out. He was extremely relieved. We drove back to the customs booth and a taxi was called to take me back to the border (and I did put on the seat belt for that trip).

By now it was one in the morning. At the border, the taxi driver woke up the border agent responsible for visas—he had been sleeping in a deck chair, snoring. I paid my fee, which was actually less than the border guard had said it would be, and was given a visa. Then the taxi took me back to a hotel right next to the railway station, with the driver stopping along the way to buy a case of beer.

I got to the hotel at 2 a.m. The next train to Belgrade wasn’t until 5 a.m., so I there I was in this hotel in a very narrow room, which probably wasn’t more than a metre and a half wide. In any case, I could reach out and touch the opposite wall. The bed was more like a rubber boat—reeling and rocking—and I lay down in my coat. I got up sometime after 4 a.m., probably not having slept a wink, and caught the next train to Belgrade—with my visa. The customs agent was still on duty and gave me a friendly wave, seeming to say, ‘so you did manage it, after all.’

When we got to Belgrade, I was really hungry and needed a coffee badly. I got a cheese sandwich at the station restaurant, where everyone was incredibly friendly. Although most of them didn’t speak any English, they all wanted to know where I was going and showed me the way. So at nine in the morning, I finally arrived at the hotel in Belgrade.

Henry Meyric Hughes und Lutz Becker were just coming down to the breakfast room and Henry, though he wasn’t overly emotional, looked quite relieved and hugged me. That night, on the border, he had actually suggested that he leave the train with me, but I said: ‘No way! If I disappear, at least you two know where you abandoned me.’