He made his way through the city’s old part, always comparing the street names on the walls with the ones on his map (strange language, they have here, he thought; how can one have two -z and three -c in one single word, not forget the -k) when suddenly there was no way left. He stood in front of an old, very old building. Only at second sight, he realized that it must have been a shop. There was something written on one of the two windowpanes but it didn’t look Croatian, Serbian or Slovenian (God, how many languages where spoken in this country). Wait, it was, he stepped closer … “Deutsch”, he screamed out triumphally. But German, why – how – here – somewhere in the middle of Yugoslavia? He checked his tour guide. “Already in the 18th Century, so-called Banate Swabians settled in a region that belongs now to the countries of Serbia, Rumania and Hungary. In World War Two, some of these people of German origin fought in the ‘Waffen-SS’…” “Look, Mary, even down here, damm Hitler had his thing going on.” But Mary, who had waited for him while he was fighting on the French coats during D-Day, was long gone.