England declares war; Morgans are startled -- Murray to Frank Sadler, September 4, 1939

Bucharest, Roumania

Dear Frank,

Yesterday England declared war on Germany and not one of the Roumanian papers bothered to put out an "extra." Despite the fact that the flamboyant headlines of the Roumanian press have been shouting or asking war (Razboi! Razboi?) for the past few weeks, its actual outbreak couldn't start the newspaper presses turning or the linotype clicking on a Sunday.

Rumors that England had actually declared war began to circulate yesterday afternoon about 2 o'clock, but Bucharest has always been a city of harrowing hearsay and the war-talk whispers were generally dismissed. Other Rumors said that France had declared itself neutral, that London was under bombardment, that India had revolted, that Goering was assassinated, that Mussolini had been stabbed by the Prince of Piedmont, and that King George was abdicating. By four o'clock the story of the outbreak of war had gained general credence. It spread like brushfire from coffee house to coffee house, down the Caliea Victoriei, up the Boulevard Elisabetta, down the Boulevard Bratianu.

Boulevard Bratianu, 1930s

https://unknownbucharest.com/old-photos-of-bucharest/#jp-carousel-75617

credit: Cristina Iosif, unknownbucharest.com 

Rosa and I heard it in three different coffee houses where we stopped for chocolate viennoise during our Sunday promenade. Deciding that there must be something in it, we finally hurried back to the little pension where with another young American and an Australian couple we form an English language minority. 

Already at the pension when we arrived were Howard and Judy, the Australians, and Paul, our fellow American, who played half at Ohio State not so long ago. While we were twisting the dials another English speaking pair dropped in: Jack and Mary, as English as roast beef, whom we had met in Transylvania. The first words we heard from the B.B.C. announcer were:

"There was no reply to the demands of His Majesty's government. Consequently, since 11 o'clock this morning, a state of war has existed between Great Britain and Germany."

It had started. We all looked at each other in amazement for somehow the calm of the Roumanians and our own innate capacity for self-deception had convinced all of us that the war would not break out. Even the bombers over Warsaw had not convinced us that war was inevitable. We were stunned.

Then Paul broke the silence.

"Nuts, boys. Let's go to bed and grow beards for duration of the war." [Paul Hampton Morrill served in the U.S. Army Air Corps and later published a book on psychological interpretations of Edward Arlington Robinson and became president of Park College in Missouri.]

Jack pulled a sick grin and remarked, "Our tickets home are by way of Germany. Going to enlist, Howard?"

Judith and Howard Daniel at Trout Lake

 "Enlist! I might have been persuaded to fight for Czechoslovakia, but why should I do battle to keep Poland's right to persecute the Jews and Ukrainians and, for that matter, the Polish peasants. Besides, it's not just that I'm a pacifist. It's too damn dangerous." [In fact, Howard had come to Romania after smuggling endangered art works and people, including his wife Judith, who was Jewish, out of Berlin. He was widely rumored to have been a spy for the Allies.]

"You’re lucky," Jack answered. "You're an Australian and they can't draft you. For my part, I'm wondering if I can't enlist in the Egyptian army. If this is going to be a long war, there's nothing I'd like better than to spend my time picking sand out of my fingernails and trying to figure out the inscrutable smile of the Sphinx." [Jack and Mary returned to Dover, and Jack served in the British Army. From clues in his letters, Murray thought he was part of the Normandy invasion force.]

The first effects of the war have been to completely dislocate the international system of transportation. For the past week Rosa and I have been trying to make arrangements for returning to America after we have completed our Danube paddle, but all our plans have been checked by the closing of some frontier or by the cancellation of important tickets. Today we were informed by Cook's that they wouldn't know anything about trans-Atlantic boats for about a week.

The American consulate here is swamped. About a week ago it sent out a letter to all American citizens residing in Roumania. Although it was supposed to be advice to leave the country, the letter actually was a masterpiece of circumlocution:

"The general situation in Europe ... suggests the advisability on the part of all Americans in Roumania of considering whether they should make arrangements to leave the country.

"The decision as to what step should be taken by Americans to ensure their safety is one which must be reached by each individual concerned. While the Legation is desirous of rendering at all times every possible assistance to American citizens, it does not have facilities which warrant undertaking responsibility for your evacuation in case that the necessity thereof should later arise. Obviously no one can foresee the rapidity with which this situation may develop to the point where means of transportation will be interrupted..."

We went to the consulate to talk with two friends about war news rather than to seek help in leaving the country, for at present Roumania seems to be as safe a spot as one could hope for in Europe. If things get too hot here we will go to Greece or Turkey. We had thought about Russia, but the frontier between Roumania and the U.S.S.R. is to all intents and purposes closed.

While we were at the consulate we met a handsome young fellow whose luck is so bad that it makes our problems seem simple. Ten years ago he went to the U.S. as an immigrant. He did well in business in New York, married and now has a two year old boy. Last month he decided to bring his younger brother to the States to complete his education at Carnegie Tech. The fellow came to Roumania to bring his brother back. He forgot that Roumania still had claims on him as a citizen. No sooner did he arrive than he was called up for military service. It will be at least four years before he can return to the States. The American Consulate cannot help him.

The consular services of all countries in the Balkans do not seem to be very helpful. Howard went to the British consulate today to see if he could borrow money to get him back to Australia. After a two hour talk, the assistant consul offered to loan him 1,000 lei -- about $3.00!

As ever,

Murray

A different September 11: 1939, Bucharest, Romania -- "You had better get out of here"

Murray and Rosa got married March 5, 1939 and left for Europe on a freighter that same day. He was 23, she was 20. Their plan was to buy a kayak, learn how to paddle it, and take it down the Danube to the Black Sea. They almost made it. This letter to Murray's childhood best friend Frank Sadler describes the end of the river trip.

Dear Frank,

The Roumanians have persuaded us to discontinue our paddle to the Black Sea, but they had to toss Rosa and me in jail yesterday to put the clincher on their argument.

For the last week Rosa and I had been debating whether we should call off the paddle, fold up our boat, and start at once for home. The last 400 kilometers of the Danube are very slow and abound with mosquitoes, but we didn’t even figure that in our decision to quit. Slow water and biters wouldn’t be enough to cause us to stop when we are so near to our real destination. Our new worries rose from the war.

A few days ago I asked a Roumanian official what he thought of our going down the river now that the war had started.

I don't know who the woman in the middle is.

“The Bulgarian border patrol would probably shoot you,” he replied.

Not exactly encouraged, I asked one of our friends at the American Legation what he thought.

“Listen,” he said, “The Roumanians are nice people, but the boys they have watching over the river are young and excitable. They’re just as likely to shoot first and ask any questions that come to their minds later. Besides it isn’t going to be long before all hell breaks loose in this section and you had better get out of here while there are still some frontiers open.”

That made a lot of sense to us, but we still wanted to paddle that last 400 kilometers. When we took the train for Giurgiu yesterday, Rosa and I still hadn’t reached a definite decision. We were going to see how we felt when we saw the boat. Our passport was at the Ministry of Propaganda getting stamped with the official exit visa and our arrangements for tickets home are nearly complete, so we thought we might be able to spare five days and dash down the river to Vilkov, the Black Sea port.

When we had landed at Giurgiu we had not counted on the cheapness of living in Roumania or the many attractions of Bucharest and its hinterland. We had told the commandant of the port that we would be back in three or four days, and he had given us permission to leave our faltboat beside his flagship—an armed tug which was used for river patrol duty. That was five weeks ago.

The train from Bucharest goes only as far as the city of Giurgiu. The port, which is government property, lies about three miles away. Rosa and I hired a droshky and told the driver to take us to the commandant’s office. We got as far as the bridge which crosses a small tributary of the Danube, just below the quays of the port, when our troubles started.

One of the soldiers on guard at the bridge wanted to see our passports. I told him in English, French, German, and pig-Latin that our passport was in Bucharest at the office of the Ministry of Propaganda being stamped with an exit visa. He was both polite and firm. We must go back to police headquarters in the city. He came with us.

At police headquarters we were allowed to cool our heels in an anteroom for about half an hour before being ushered into a tiny office and the presence of an official in a worn khaki uniform which would have looked better with a little washing. So would the official. We were told he could speak French, but someone had been fooling him—or maybe we were wrong. Anyway, it didn’t sound like French to us.

Murray's father and Rosa's mother were back in Tacoma, waiting for news.

 

 

 

Our inability to understand him must have looked suspicious to the little functionary. He glared for awhile, began to shout, and finally, when I thought that he would burst or pop an eye out of its socket, he jumped up and left the room.

 

Another long wait, and then we were led into the office of the local big shot. I don’t know his position, but he was either chief of police or representative  of the federal  government for the district. He spoke both French and German and we had no trouble making him understand us.

I explained that we had a boat down by the river, that we wanted to take it away, and that our passport was in Bucharest. I suggested that he telephone either the Ministry of Propaganda in Bucharest or the Commandant of the River Police at the port. Either could identify us, I pointed out. He replied that he regretted that we had been subject to delay, but that we would be allowed to go as soon as he had made the necessary

The kids are all right.

telephone calls. It was all smiles and thanks as we bowed ourselves out. A matter of minutes, we thought. 

The guard led us back to another section of the building and put us in a little room with two narrow benches down the side and a heavy desk nailed to the floor in one corner. The window was barred. There were several Roumanians sitting on the benches, but none of them paid any attention to us. We sat down to wait. An hour later we were still waiting. 

I began to feel restless and irritated. I opened the door and walked down the hall toward the big shot’s office to see if I could stir him into action. I was intercepted by my friend in the khaki uniform and steered back to my little room, where Rosa and I waited for another half hour. Then she went foraying through the building, but the guard led her right back. We were both beginning to get sore. Another hour and no news. It was late and our plans for the day were completely disrupted. Mad clear through I started down the hall again.

My khaki uniformed pal met me about ten steps from the door of our room, grabbed my arm and started to pull me back. I didn’t feel like being led, and he annoyed me anyway. I yanked my arm free. He grabbed at it again.

“Just a minute,” I growled at him. “You’re pushing around an American citizen, and you’re going to get your nose smeared all over your dirty face in about another ten seconds.”

He didn’t understand the words, of course, but the tone must have given him a pretty good idea of what I was driving at. He flared right back at me, shouted Roumanian some more, pointed back to the cell.

All at once it clicked. I hadn’t realized before that we were really prisoners. 

“OK,” I said, deciding that I had better take it easy. “I’ll go back, but you telephone Bucharest.” I repeated Bucharest about five times and made the motions of telephoning. He looked as stupid as ever. Then I turned around and started back to the cell. Evidently feeling that he had me on the run, the dirty-faced dope made a lunge for my arm.

That was one too many. I let him have it with my elbow in his stomach and he grunted. By the time he straightened up I was in the doorway and facing him. He took a couple of steps toward me, so I cocked my right and started jiggling my left around a la Freddie Steele. He moved one step closer and I was all set to let him have a right when I saw a soldier coming down the passage. Roumanian bayonets are 18 inches long, so I decided to sit down. My pal slammed the door.

About an hour later he came back and looked in. I was foxy this time. Instead of making any passes at him, I whipped out my pen and notebook, walked over to him, and bending quite close looked at the numbers on his uniform collar. Then I wrote the figure down in the notebook.

It worked. He decided maybe I was someone important. With a dazed look in his eyes he clicked the door shut and we could hear him hurrying down the hall. In a minute or two he returned to show us back into the big shot’s room. I decided to follow through on the act. I raved and ranted in English for about ten minutes, and finally subsided into German and French to tell the braided boy behind the desk just what I thought of officials in general, him in particular, and nincompoops as a class. I larded my talk with enough references to America and President Roosevelt to make him think that he must have at least the vice-president in his office.

It was only half effective. I think I convinced him that he had made a mistake, but I didn’t make him believe that he should make an exception. He had to check up some more. The commandant of the port, he said, had been transferred. The Harbormaster had no record of us. He hadn’t phoned Bucharest. We would have to spend the night in the jail and then we would be released after he had phoned Bucharest in the morning.

At that, I went into my song and dance again. We were not spending a night in jail. I called upon the Greek Gods, the Supreme Court, the Constitution and the Marines. I screamed and yelled and beat my chest like Tarzan calling his apes. Finally he gave up.

“You may stay at the hotel,” he said. “You may phone Bucharest yourselves tonight and see if you can get one of your friends to identify you.”

With that I subsided. It was too late to fold up the kayak, so we might as well stay. We were given a guard to go to the hotel with us. On the way we passed a telephone station and put through a call to our best friend in the propaganda department. This official at once asked to speak to our guard. We took great delight in watching him reel under a tremendous verbal attack at long range. By the time that conversation was over, we were persons of importance in Giurgiu. We weren’t even guarded at the hotel room, and this morning we were escorted to the river where we found the Romur intact.

Our troubles had decided us that we’d never get to the Black Sea in the five days we have to spare, so we folded up the kayak and came back to Bucharest. We expect to start home on the fifteenth.

As ever,

Murray