In contrast to my wife who was as usual "sad", I was delighted with our reception at the Montreal airport. A representative of the government welcomed us, and later at the Quebec City airport another representative greeted us and gave us a ride to the Immigration Centre, where we stayed for a couple of weeks until we moved into a bachelor apartment.

I was impressed with the clean and nice-looking city, abundant with all kind of stores full of merchandise. The people were polite and helpful.

Mr. Maurice Champagne, a representative of the Ministry of Immigration, tried to be helpful at every turn of the hand. He took on the task of finding us a permanent apartment. Soon after he arranged for me to enrol in a French course, and to get paid while studying French.

Naturally, not everything went according to our expectations. Some things were different from our life experience and culture and left us somewhat bewildered. For example, the first thing that every newcomer does on his arrival in a strange country is to write to his family and close friends. When I finished writing my letters, I was told that I could buy stamps at the postal office across the street. When I looked around the Immigration Centre, I could only see a restaurant. I thought that perhaps I misunderstood where I was supposed to purchase the stamps. Finally I saw the post office sign hanging on the front of the restaurant. I was surprised to learn that postal services could be obtained in a restaurant.

A few days later I was in the cafeteria of the building and ordered a cup of tea. The waiter brought me a cup of hot water instead. I thought again that my French was wrong and, to be clear, I wrote the word tea on a piece of paper and showed it to the waiter. The waiter in turn showed to me that the tea and the sugar were in paper bags. He then put the tea bag in my cup. In Yugoslavia tea is made in the kitchen. I was very embarrassed when, analogous to the tea bag, I put the sugar bag in my cup.

I also found there were some differences between pharmacies in Yugoslavia and Quebec. In Yugoslavia the law forbids the sale of anything in pharmacies except medicine and cosmetic products, while in Quebec I even saw snack bars in many pharmacies. A physician friend of mine used to mock pharmacists. Apparently his friend's son was studying pharmacology in Montreal. When the son came to visit on his vacations, his father would ask him whether he learned how to make sandwiches.

Likewise, after I made a couple of visits to his office, Mr. Champagne started to call me by my first name Risto, which would be unthinkable in France or in Yugoslavia, where communication between strangers is more formal. In Paris, no matter how long a maid has worked in a family, she would always be "mademoiselle" and she would never call her employer by the first name. In Quebec the children would call an unknown man "Hey, monsieur", which is extremely impolite in my home country. Later I learned that the Francophones in Canada were influenced by the American English language and culture. They were more straightforward in their relations than the people in Europe.

I was also very impressed with the treatment of prisoners in Canada. During our stay at the Immigration Centre Dr. Ivan Tchervenkoff, a Bulgarian physician who also lived there, asked me whether I knew that the prisoners in the building were on a hunger strike for not having colour TV. First, I did not know that there was a prison or detention centre on the top floor of our building. Secondly, having in mind my own experience in Yugoslavia, the news that prisoners could request and protest about not having colour TV, was inconceivable to me.

I was also impressed with the attitude of the police in Canada. My first experience with them was when, as a bee fancier, I bought two bee-hives and tried, with a countryman, to place them in a little forest on the campus of Laval University. At that time members of the Front de libération du Québec (FLQ) had kidnapped the English consul Cross in Montreal, and murdered Pierre Laporte, the Minister of Labour of Quebec. When we had finished securing the bee-hives and were on our way out of the forest, two policemen approached us and asked us for ID cards. We only had our social insurance number (SIN) cards. They glanced at our cards and after asking a few questions about what we were doing in the forest, they left us alone. In a similar situation in Yugoslavia, we would be escorted to the police station and after a long examination we would probably be forced to stay one night in custody. In Quebec the policemen were extremely polite and even excused themselves "for disturbing" us.

The second time I experienced contact with the police occurred when I tried once to hitchhike from Toronto to Quebec City to visit my family. My first ride dropped me off very close to Kingston. After a while, I was approached by two policemen. An unarmed officer asked me for identification, while the other one stood about 30 yards away with a rifle pointed at me. When I asked what was going on, the officer who verified my ID explained that over 15 prisoners had escaped from Kingston Penitentiary and that was the reason why I was asked for ID. Again he excused himself, saying "Sorry, you chose a bad day for hitch-hiking."

I found the Quebecers to be very friendly and considerate. One time, I was travelling near Quebec City during a snowstorm and my car skid into a big snow bank. I was unable to get my car out. It was very cold and the road was seldom used even during fair weather. My head was literally covered with a helmet of ice. I was sure I would freeze to death. Finally two men and a woman came by in a car. The woman took off her very expensive fur coat and put it around me to warm me. The men, obviously very experienced in driving in snow, quickly pulled my car out of the snow, and thanks to all of them I was able get home safely.

I met one of my best friends and benefactors in Quebec, Reverend Claude LaVergne, dean of college and director of a high school. I still keep in touch with him. He has done more for me than anyone else.

We came to live in Quebec City with only our third child, a five year-old boy. My wife started to complain right from the beginning, like before. On the first day of our stay in the Immigration Centre she was complaining that she was "humiliated" by the cleaning lady of the building; she was furious at me because the lady did not wish her "good morning".

She was the one who had decided to leave our two other boys in Yugoslavia; yet almost everyday we had arguments about them. She would also raise old complaints: she was "sad" because her mother was far away, "the people and weather were cold" and so on. Everything was bad in Canada. She used to say that even the snow was darker in Canada.

She did not want to work, or care for our boy. I was in an extremely difficult situation: I had to work long hours to make a living. Further, I was preparing for my medical examination, learning French and taking care of our boy and the house. Because she was "sad" all the time, I could not expect any help from her.

Finally I convinced her that it would be useful for her to learn French. Later, she also agreed to take care of two or three children in the immigration centre, but when she was at home, there was no peace. Even though I frequently worked overtime I had to drive her to and from her job, although she could use the public transportation.

After three months' in Canada she wanted to go back to Yugoslavia. A Yugoslavian couple convinced her not to do so.

On our first New Year's Day in Canada we were invited out by our landlords, the Lyonnais'. First my wife accepted, then just before we were supposed to go, as usual, she changed her mind. She was "feeling humiliated" by Madame Lyonnais. Because we were living in their house and because we had already promised, I found my wife's gesture inappropriate. We had an argument. That evening she woke me up and I found her lying on the floor. As a physician I recognized her to be in a typically hysterical fit. I put her in bed, but after a while she woke me up again. This time, I saw white foam on her lips and when she mumbled that she had taken some pills, I was scared that she had taken some of drugs which could be dangerous for her. (I had brought some drugs from Yugoslavia in case we needed them in Canada). I asked Mr. Lyonnais to drive us to the Hospital l'Enfant Jésus, where she was admitted in the psychiatric ward. After performing a lavage of the stomach and a psychiatric examination, the doctors found that my wife was suffering from hysteria. I was relieved that there was no danger to her life.

This was my first experience with Canadian psychiatrists. After they diagnosed my wife's condition as hysteric, they advised me that they would like her to stay in hospital longer in order to give her "psychotherapy". At that time her French was nil. I wondered what kind of psychotherapy would be provided without oral conversation. Of course, I did not allow her to stay, first because I did not believe that the psychiatrists could help her, and secondly, I was taught that hospitalization in case of hysteria is a contraindication.

When the other two boys arrived, the attitude of my wife did not change at all.

Although we left our apartment in the Lyonnais' house in an unfriendly way, my wife told me that they invited us to their cottage so our children could become acquainted. I thought it would be good for the children to have fresh air and learn French, and I also thought accepting the invitation would make my wife happy.

When we were ready to go, she decided not to go, apparently because she "would not like to disturb the people" (the Lyonnais'). After long negotiations she finally agreed to go.

Two days later, when I came home from my work I saw my oldest son, Gligor, moaning bitterly. My wife was in her typical "sad" posture. When I asked her what had happened, she said, "Madame Lyonnais thinks our Gligor is not normal", but our second child, Slobodan, approached me and whispered, "mother beat him".

I took Gligor in the car and drove him around to try to calm him. I asked him why his mother had beat him, and he said that he did not know.

In a situation of this sort, I thought my wife was cruel to the children because she did not like me; she was expressing her hate for me with violence towards the children. During these difficult moments my love of the children only became stronger.

As to her behaviour with others she did not change one iota. She continued to meet all kinds of undesirable persons. Regarding my respectable friends and acquaintances, like Rev. Claude LaVergne, Prof. Dr. Jaromil Danek and his wife, Prof. Dr. George Sotiroff, Dr. Michel Jean and others, she would find a hundred and one reasons not to meet or receive them in our home, or would agree only after long discussions.

It is not that I was not perceptive, but I didn't want to know everything about my wife's trysts. I gave in for the sake of the children. On the other hand, I had been taught that hysterical persons are incurable. Like many psychiatrists, I do not believe that hysteria is a disease. I am inclined to accept the opinion that in the case of hysterical personality it is a matter of heredity (genes) combined with the wrong upbringing.

After so many years she is still playing her show. Recently she sent me a message through her friend (pimp) that "she misses me".

A couple of weeks after our arrival in Quebec City I started to attend a French course. After three months, when I had finished the course, I worked in the St. Foy Hospital as an intern with a nurse's salary. This was a very hard time for me. Without a car during the winter, I would freeze while travelling from one end of the city (Giffard) to another (Place Laurier). Sometimes I used to change buses four times.

Before going to work I take my son to kindergarten and afterwards bring him back. My wife did not want to care for him. When I was not able to go for him, he was smart enough to go home alone but, as it happened, because he did not speak French, the Francophone children had considered him an "anglais". He was attacked and stoned many times on the way home or to school. Once, during a snowstorm, a car hit him while he was crossing the street, and he suffered a sacral bone fracture. Thus, I was the one forced to take care of the boy.

After six months I tried to pass the examination required for foreign physicians to work in Quebec. I did not expect to pass it the first time and I was curious about the questions and criteria in the examination. The questions were not difficult, but since my French was very poor, I failed. I needed only 3% more to pass.

My French was a stumbling block at my job, too. Since I was taking case histories and writing medical records, proper use of the language of my patients was essential. I felt that I could not do the work which I was assigned. My employer gave me the chance to work two days and study French the rest of the week.

Because of my reduction in income I was forced to look for other jobs. To satisfy my wife I bought a car and moved into a more comfortable and expensive apartment, even though our financial situation was unsatisfactory.

While in Quebec I met a fellow countryman, Dr. Filippo Juretic, whom I advised about my professional and family situation. He had connections with many physicians. He wrote many letters in order to assist me find some professional employment.¹⁷

Dr. Juretic had recommended me to work in mental hospitals in New Brunswick. At that time, because of a shortage of physicians, foreign physicians were allowed to work there without a preliminary examination. The idea was acceptable to me, but, again, my poor English skills were a problem. In May, 1971 he introduced me as a "brilliant and honest doctor" with a solid background in psychiatry to the director of Psychiatric Services of New Brunswick, Dr. Tadros.

The field of psychiatry was not my preference even while I was a student because it seemed like such a nebulous branch of medicine. Secondly, I did not have respect for the physicians who worked as psychiatrists. A schoolmate who was very bright and became a professor of psychiatry, was later found guilty of bribery and corruption for placing persons in a mental hospital. In addition, another student whom I did not expect to finish university because he was not that intelligent, eventually became a physician and director of an asylum. Apart from my opinions on psychiatrists and psychiatry, I doubted whether I could work as a psychiatrist since I had not worked in the psychiatric field before. Dr. Juretic's words were, "You know the work better than I do."

Taking into consideration my personal and family situation at the time, I felt that I should consider any work that was available.

In the meantime Dr. Juretic advised me to learn English. While waiting for a reply to my application for work in New Brunswick, I commenced studying English in Hamilton because I knew that it was impossible to work with patients without being able to communicate with them.

At that time, I had been employed in the distribution of "naturopath" drugs in Quebec City for the Rolmex Company. The company suggested that I represent them in Ontario where there were more of my countrymen, especially in Toronto. My wife agreed to move to Ontario, and I went to Hamilton to get settled into my job and eventually find a suitable apartment for my whole family. I even succeeded in obtaining a government allowance to pay for my English course.

I visited my family approximately once a month during that time. I heard that my wife was frequently entertaining Mr. Zoran Majcen and Mr. Jean-Marc Lyonnais. As usual, she would give me bizarre explanations for their visits. I was most irritated when I heard that she was receiving and drinking with sailors in the presence of our children. We had a serious argument about that, and she promised she would not receive any more men in the house.

Around the middle of September I announced to my wife that I had arranged everything for moving, but this time she vigorously opposed the idea of moving to Ontario. She even organized a meeting with the Lyonnais' and Dionnes to try to persuade me not to move. I could not do anything but continue to live in Hamilton and visit my family monthly.

In October I heard again that my wife had received sailors at our home. We were in bed, around midnight, when I mentioned what I heard. She suddenly ran out of the house, crying "Help!" and "Police!". I could not do anything to avert the scandal.

Two policemen came and although my wife was not able to speak French, with a gesticulation she tried to say that I wanted to kill her. While one policeman looked around the house, the other one asked me what happened.

I tried to say in my poor French that we had a family problem, but the incident was not that serious. I told them that she was suffering from hysteria, for which she had been hospitalized. I believe the policemen found that the woman had really made much ado about nothing, for they left advising us to settle our problem between ourselves without making so much noise. This occasion was again proof that the Canadian police were well trained and ingenious. But for me, the scandal was too much. I could expect everything and anything except involving the police in our family problems.

After the police left, I told my wife that, we could not continue to live together, and that the best thing for the both of us and the children would be to separate forever. While I insisted on a separation, she tried to apologize and persuade me that it would be in the best interest of the children for us to try living together again.

The next day, in the presence of my wife, I spoke to my two oldest sons, Gligor and Slobodan, and in the most tactful manner I could, I explained to them that their mother and I could not live together and that the best thing would be for us to separate. They started to cry, "we do not want separation", while my wife was calling me a four-letter word and other vulgar and offensive words of contempt. Thus, no solution was found.

I returned to Hamilton, where I received an affectionate letter from my wife. She informed me that everything was in order and that we should continue to live together for the sake of our children.

Without suspecting that she was planning anything evil, on November 11, 1971, I went back to Quebec City to see the children.

The next day I was at H�tel Dieu Hospital for an X-ray of my stomach. The X-ray was not performed. Instead a physician approached me, who introduced himself as a neuropsychiatrist, and asked me to stay in the hospital "for taking care of my ulcer", which I found silly and shocking. Since I am a physician, I told him that I knew how to treat my own ulcer, and that I had just come for an X-ray. The doctor left without saying anything.

While waiting in the hospital, my wife appeared and asked me to stay in the hospital "to cure the nerves". It was clear to me that my wife had already plotted my hospitalization. I challenged her by saying that I would prefer a psychiatric examination for both of us, since I thought that she was the one who was mentally disturbed. At that instant, she rose from her chair, stamped her feet heavily on the floor and left the change cubicle. She went away without saying anything. (This incident is written in the medical records as if I was the one who punched her and went away. However, she admitted in court that this was not true).

After I realized that I would not be getting an X-ray, I left the hospital. I was shocked when I was arrested on the street without a warrant. When I asked why I was being arrested, the policeman answered that I was not being arrested. Then I asked him why I was in his car, but he did not answer.

Since no examination whatsoever was performed on me, I was shocked when I found myself in a mental hospital between very sick and dangerous patients.

When I recall the torture during the six months of my internment, I still shiver and cannot understand how it is possible for something like that to happen in Canada. I am haunted by the thought that I had been labelled and libelled as a "dangerous schizoparanoid" on hearsay evidence given by a mentally disturbed woman.

Many psychiatrists are of the opinion that "More clearly defined for women than for men, this type of (hysterical) personality makeup is recognized by the traits of vanity, self-indulgence, and self-centred attitudes associated with histrionic behaviour, dramatization ... labile, emotionally capricious, prone to outbursts. These women demonstrate an exaggerated exhibitionism, sometimes coupled with lying and deceitful behaviour or play-acting to attract attention or avoid shame¹⁸."

My wife's statements during my internment and her testimony in court confirmed without any doubt that she is exactly as described above. The fact that my wife used the most despicable means to commit me in mental hospitals -- is proof per se that she has never been my wife. Or as her aunt said, "she has never been well in her mind"¹⁹.

In the Judgment even the trial judge Pierre Boudreault had described my ex-wife as a person "with loquacity and volubility having certain theatrical quality and rather unusual". This description fits perfectly with the description of hysteria. The psychiatrists could not have described a hysterical person better. After the above-mentioned words the judge continued, "the court had some hesitation regarding the credibility of this person". Nevertheless, in the same breath he said "her attitude did not convince the court that she was completely deprived of credibility". Without specifying what convinced him that she was credible, the judge assumed everything that she said in court against me was credible!

Of course, even the most notorious liars are not completely deprived of credibility, but Judge Boudreault was inclined to make liars credible, because as he said, "the (appraisal of) credibility is matter of judgment" (sic!), i.e., not the facts beyond reasonable doubt but Mr. Justice Boudreault's empty words determine who is credible and who is not. Because he is the judge, his judgment is vis major even though the evidence contradicts the judgment! What sort of judges do we have? I suggest they themselves need to be judged.

Mr. Justice Boudreault did not use common sense regarding my ex-wife but rather he used his right of "discretion" or took for granted the opinion of "experts".

Perhaps I am biased in describing my ex-wife's character and personality. Others could check my observations. Since she is still alive it would be very interesting to see the results of independent medico-legal examinations of both of us.

The means my ex-wife and her friends used to degrade me to the level of mentally sick made me so "delusional" that I became suspicious of the paternity of my children, especially the fourth one, since he was born under unusual circumstances. She gave two different versions about her pregnancy. She told me that she had conceived the child in Quebec, but in the medical records she stated that she became pregnant while travelling from Skopje to Vienna with my brother. I made an examination of his paternity and the medical findings show that the chances of his being my child are 0.0001% and the chances that he is not my child are 99.9999%.

I write reluctantly about my ex-wife, who initiated my own and the children's ordeal and served afterwards as a useful pawn in the evildoers' hands. I know that children do not like to hear bad things about their own mother. When they were small I did not want to disturb them, but since they have become adults they should know the truth, which was systematically hidden from them. They know only half truths. As I used to tell them, it is better for them to know the plain truth than live with their heads in the sand.

For my sons and myself, reality is terribly painful, but by confronting the situation as it is, the pain would be less hurtful. After all, their father is nearing the end of his life, but they will have to suffer forever with the stigma of being the offspring of a "schizo-paranoid" man.

My hospitalization, degrading as it had been, and the physical and mental abuse are the least of my suffering. Even the stigma of being mentally sick I could overcome. But the loss of my children is my most malignant wound, which I have had in my heart for so many years and which I cannot overcome in spite of the passing of time. I am scared I shall go to the grave with this malignant wound.

The horrific nature of the crime committed against me will forever haunt me; the terror and shock of being violated persisted long after the event. My experience in a hospital where I had not even been treated as a human being has left me with a terrible feeling.

I compare myself -- I have written about this and it was published elsewhere²⁰ -- to one who has been operated upon by mistake, and the surgeons, instead of admitting this, try to cover up their blunder by making an even bigger one as they sew the instruments in my stomach. Haunted as I have been by these horrible events created by corrupt people, I have only one choice left and that is to try to reverse my present situation.

This is why I am resorting to this final attempt -- writing a book. I am hoping that after so many years I will be able to meet with a sympathetic public response that will spark off a public inquiry so as to clear myself and my children from a blot which had been imposed upon me by my own colleagues.

It is inconceivable that a sane person could be in a hospital for six months. I know that my words alone without sufficient supporting facts will be taken with a great deal of disbelief, especially since I am a "former patient". Therefore I am compelled to support my writings with reliable citations, most of them from the very people involved in my hospitalization, or with references by the trial judge, Mr. Justice Pierre Boudreault, as well as the psychiatrists who participated in the post-hospitalization examination of me and the legal authorities who took part in the legal procedures thereafter.