I grew up on the edges of a rather rough neighborhood in Belgrade. The likelihood of being intercepted on the way to or from school and beaten up was fairly high. On one such occasion I was encircled by seven or eight boys, some of whom were considerably older than myself. I knew there was no way out of the predicament, and I more of less calmly tried to minimize my losses. A younger boy was thrust into the circle facing me, and he quickly grabbed me by the collar: “Why did you beat up my brother?” He looked truly ferocious, as he had to perform to the satisfaction of his merciless patrons. “Who’s your brother?” I asked seriously. “All are my brothers,” he said and proceeded with his task, while the others cheered and prompted him forward to his well-deserved victory. My mother was appalled by my appearance that day. Almost thirty years hence I made a connection with Friedrich von Schiller, whose poem always had a familiar ring.

Addendum (January 4, 2000)

The rough neighborhood was called Dorćol. Many years after I left Belgrade, I learned that this name came from Turkish: dört yol means “four roads,” that is, “crossroads” or “intersection.” Not a bad name for Belgrade, too, or perhaps Serbia in its entirety.