PAJA WAS NOT ONLY A GIANT OF ACTING, HE WAS ALSO A TITAN OF EMOTION! He wrote some of the most beautiful love letters in Serbian acting history to his Mirjana —

They met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. By chance, they sat next to each other. Having grown up with two brothers, Mirjana was accustomed to men paying no attention to her. Whenever she spoke, she felt that no one was listening. Paja listened to her with great attention. She was amazed by this. When they parted, she could not stop thinking about him. Several days later, she was walking along Tadeuša Košćuška Street. Across the road, on the Kalemegdan side, she spotted Paja. She broke away from the group she was walking with, ran across the road and approached him. They never parted again.

Love flared up, but her mother was opposed to it. Indeed, it seemed that everyone had conspired against them. Amid the poverty of the post-war period, Mirjana came from a well-to-do family. She had graduated from university, danced ballet, played the piano and had a maid. To that family, Paja was more of a liability than a prospect. At first, they concealed their love. They had a secret hollow tree at Kalemegdan where they left letters for one another.

At a time when a man was expected to provide everything for his wife, Paja could not afford even the most basic necessities for her. When they made their love public, they found themselves without a roof over their heads and without an income. He tried to work wherever he could, and his main motivation was to be able to live happily with his “Mimibun”, as he called her. He never got over not completing university, especially a literature degree, as literature was what he loved most, although he had also attempted to study law, and in his letters he complained that he had so much work that he had no time to study. At the time, many people did not regard acting as a job, but as a kind of clowning. Her family viewed him as a rogue and her as a princess. But Mirjana refused at any cost to live without him. In those days, couples did not have lengthy courtships; they had to marry quickly, otherwise the pressure from the family would become too great and they would be forced apart.

EXCLUSIVE! PAJA’S LOVE LETTER (21 October 1955, Jajce)

"I don’t know, my sweetest baby cakes..."

My sweet wittle Mimi (.), I’m feeling a little low now because of something I don’t understand and because of something I know as well as I know myself. For several days now, three or four perhaps, I’ve received one or two letters from you every evening. And it is tewwibly hard when I feel alone, despite all my dealings with people, despite all my sociability and all the other things the fools attribute to me (allow me to call a good many of the people surrounding me by that name); alone without you, my wittle Mimibun (forgive the lower-case letters and my splitting words into syllables—you scolded me for the latter in your letter before last). I cannot go on like this for long, perhaps another five or ten days, and if all this shit is not over by then, I... what will become of me? And, most importantly, that does not mean that I always think something can happen only to me; I always include you in that “I”. (author’s note: “I” underlined twice)

I don’t know, my sweetest Mimibun, but it seems to me that if I have to eat shit throughout my life in order to be happy, then every time I have eaten my fill of it and earned my reward, I would like you, when I bring that reward home to you, to be able to say: “My sweet wittle Pavvie, you weren’t eating shit. That was work you were doing because you and I wuv each other beyond measure”—and then, my sweetest little pookie, I would be able to begin all over again the following morning. I say this and I am certain of it: what I am saying is not weakness; if it is anything at all, it can only be called a passing depression caused by your absence.
I cannot explain it to you—I know, most wonderful Mimibun, because you will never believe how hard I am working and what strain, both physical and mental, I am enduring. Why, when the car brought me back to the hotel at four o’clock this morning, I could barely manage to climb up to my quarters: the hotel is about 80 metres uphill from the road, and 200 awkward steps lead up to it—they are vewy high—and I, my sweetie, had to stop on the hundred-and-twentieth step to catch my breath; that is how completely the filming has exhausted me since they brought in [illegible]. .
Day and night, with a break for sleep—but only for sleep from eleven o’clock onwards—we work like mules; they want at any cost to make up for those 25 rainy days last month. It cannot be done, Mimibun. I know you are happy when you read these lines; you like it when your Paja works, “works” at anything at all—you have said so at least a hundred times. Yes, he works, and he will work until he drops, but if only you could be with me for an hour a day, my little Pookie, so that I would not have to write to you about it. I would want you to see it for yourself, and when I am tired as a dog, to tuck me into bed and “west me”; you know how.
I don’t want to whinge; of course we shall live to see that, and vewy soon, but there is one thing that worries me more than anything else—studying. For six days, my sweetest darling, I haven’t had a single second to read. My conscience gnaws at me because of it, although it shouldn’t, really, because it isn’t my fault. If anything is to blame, it is fate which—pfft, listen to me saying “fate”; all right, let it remain that for now—has made me poor, so poor that, with all the shit surrounding us or clinging to us, I am unable to make my one and only sweet Mimibun mine, to snatch her away, hold her tightly and shout to everyone: “You can’t have her—get lost!” And so I try, in this way, so that I might [illegible] something [illegible]. I only want us to be together as, as soon as possible. It drives me, Mimibun; that thought haunts me terribly. I cannot shake it off—and I do not want to. In the end, that thought must become everything to us, everything, because... otherwise... Dream, my wittle Mimibun with the most beautiful eyes, face and back and everything else, for whom Paja wishes to live and die. Farewell, until we meet again. I kiss you 1.000.00.000 times, everywhere. P.

Love kept him alive

Life was harsh towards them, but between themselves they developed tenderness on an extraordinary scale. They used pet names for one another. The letters were written in baby talk — “wuv you”, “my sweetest baby cakes”, “pookie”, “We wuv each other beyond measure,”— and such expressions appear on almost every page. This great figure of Serbian cinema, great in every sense, this supremely self-confident giant, hungered only for tenderness, tenderness, tenderness. He suffered because there was not enough tenderness in the world, because everything he saw was so much rougher than he was, so unsuited to the delicacy of his soul. On several occasions he wanted to kill himself, as Mirjana told me more than once. I am convinced that the only reason he did not do so was her. His love for her kept him alive, as he also wrote.

His love letters are about far more than love. They are a breviary of inner worlds; they are a brutal description of Serbian and Yugoslav reality. Paja was the Serbian Don Quixote, a genuine fighter against windmills, fighting for a little justice and a handful of bread. His bitterness and pain were authentic and natural.

Mirjana personally gave me this correspondence six years ago. I respected her wishes and her privacy. We displayed one letter in the museum at the time, and it formed part of our permanent exhibition, but out of respect I did not even want to read that letter while she was alive. I had not touched the baker’s paper bag for burek, stuffed with letters, since then. When I opened them, tenderness poured out, mingled with the harshness of life. It became clear to me why Mirjana had not wanted to publish them during her lifetime and why she had insisted that they be made public after her death.

The first letter was read publicly over their shared grave on the centenary of Paja’s birth, 10 July 2026.

Glory and gratitude to them!

Fame irritated him

The line between the private and public lives of public figures is thin, almost non-existent. The public seems to have the right to peer into their deepest intimacy, while, on the other hand, that intimacy objectively is of significance even to the public, particularly when the work is so great, enduring and influential. It is as though a person ceases to be a person and instead becomes a pillar, a foundation of the identity of millions of people and of an entire country, losing the right to privacy. And yet that person remains human: weak, vulnerable, full of flaws and pain. The public is hungry, and feeds most eagerly on unhappiness and pain. Unfortunately, there was a considerable amount of both in the lives of Paja and Mirjana.

Probably the most sensitive subject she spoke about, and would later regret discussing, was Paja’s depression and desire to commit suicide. Paja was a deeply unhappy man. His family had endured difficult years; he himself was unable to have children with the woman he loved; he disliked the society in which he lived; and fame irritated him. On several occasions, he told her that he was planning to kill himself, and this increasingly upset her. Once, he even set off for the roof carrying a pistol, and in anger she told him that he should do it in the basement instead, which he had built himself and converted into a workshop. Later, some malicious people even attempted to take that basement away from the Vuisić family, and we only just managed to defend it.

“I go out into the street with Paja and a bus passes. Every single passenger stares at him, then waves and shouts to him. He throws his bag onto the pavement and kicks it, then turns around and furiously goes back to the flat. He swears and cannot stop, and then mutters into his beard, more sad than angry, and says: ‘Can’t I even go out into the street in peace any more?’”

Paja did not like his profession, and after he had spent twenty years acting, his wife begged him to give it up and do whatever he wanted. She knew that his greatest love was writing. He invented the pseudonym Mišljin and even enrolled at the Faculty of Philology. Whenever she urged him to return to writing or begin any other job, he would tell her: “I’m not a fool. Acting is what I know how to do best.” That ended the conversation. In memory of this passion of his, we are publishing several poems he wrote.

THOUGHTS

‘I don’t act...’

I don’t act; I merely behave in front of the camera. Acting is when someone pretends to be something they are not. I do not pretend to be anything.

I love only those for whom I do not have to renounce myself in order for them to like me.
Some people leave something behind them only after they squat down.
Everything is becoming more expensive; only human beings are becoming cheaper and cheaper.
Whoever invented missing someone, may they be missing some sense.
Sometimes, after speaking to certain people, a person feels the need to stroke a stone affectionately, smile at a tree and remove his hat with the utmost respect before a donkey.
A person does not have to be stupid for you to deceive them. It is enough for them to be sincere, kind and honest.
How intelligent and broad-minded people are when giving advice to others. Had I not known them, I would have thought that their own lives were perfect, and that mine was the only one they had left to put in order!

He loved building boats

His time on the Syrmian Front marked Paja’s life. When he learned that the Germans had capitulated, he threw down his rifle and left the front without permission. He was deeply hurt that a deserter, a soldier who had shot himself in the hand so that he would be sent to hospital, was later promoted at the front to the position of commissar. Among the documents is also his request not to be forced to continue serving in the army after suffering a haemorrhage on the Syrmian Front.

Mirjana and Pavle Vuisić wanted their legacy to benefit others, particularly younger generations. Mirjana established their joint legacy collection at Adligat, which contains numerous objects belonging to the actor, including his favourite bag, keys, pipes, lighters and his famous will.

Among the many objects are Paja’s unpublished manuscripts, which over the coming year will gradually be presented to the public for the first time, drawings, plans for the boats he built, personal documents, membership cards, telephone directories containing his observations, numerous photographs and other objects that vividly bring the great actor to life for visitors.

He spent most of his free time on the Sava and adored building boats, taking great pleasure in their construction. When he completed them, he sold them or gave them away; he did not keep a single one for himself. In the meantime, they were gifted and resold many times, and today they sail along the Sava and the Danube, while those who use them do not even know that they were personally assembled by Paja himself, with his own hands and beard. The legacy collection contains his original plans for the boats he built, as well as photographs of the completed vessels.

Roles in as many as 177 films and series

Paja Čutura, conductor Krstić, postman Joca...

Paja Vuisić had memorable roles in as many as 177 films and television series. The famous Paja Čutura, conductor Krstić and postman Joca was striking not only on screen, but also in everyday life. Anecdotes about him have become legendary. Here is my selection of interesting stories that Mirjana told me and that I recorded.

Once, Paja had been drinking, but he was supposed to be shaved for a role. He went to a barber, but fatigue and alcohol overcame him. He lowered his head onto his chest; it had become heavy, and he wanted to take a nap. The barber asked him what he wanted:

“A shave!” 

“You’ll have to lift your head for that.”

“Then a haircut!”

And he sank into the sweetest sleep.

Paja was frequently stopped by police officers and taken to the police station to sober up. Before he became famous, he solved the problem by finding an old police identity card and inserting his own photograph, in which he looked neat, serious and had short hair. He added: “Pavle Vuisić — Internal Affairs Officer”. Police officers who stopped him were convinced that he was on a secret assignment and released him without further checks.

It is well known that he did not like Čkalja, believing that he overacted. Since Čkalja was delighted to receive roles, while Paja rejected them and regarded acting as a form of torture, Paja was often offered higher fees. He always insisted that Čkalja receive the same amount of money.

When he received a fee, he would sometimes go to a tavern and pay off the debts of everyone who had a tab there. He bought boat engines for poor fishermen on the Danube. Only after he had spent everything would he accept a new role. At the time, taverns often displayed a portrait of Tito on the wall. When Paja sat down at a table, he would usually ask the waiter for a blanket. When asked why he needed a blanket in the middle of summer, he would say it was to cover Tito, because he could not bear to look at him while drinking.

He regarded Bata Živojinović as a “craftsman”, believing that he acted too much and always followed strict instructions. Bata teased Paja that he could not appear for filming without a bottle of alcohol. But they respected one another greatly. Bata once said: “The rest of us had to study, practise and work. Paja merely stepped into the frame and was brilliant. That cannot be learned; you are born with it.”

Paja crossed against a red light and was stopped by a police officer, who recognised him and, himself upset that he now had to punish his favourite actor, asked:

“Paja, why did you cross on red?”

“Because white gives me heartburn,” he replied, naturally referring to wine.

The best-known story is about how he refused to meet Tito. There are several versions of this story, but Mirjana told me that Tito repeatedly asked to meet him, and that Pavle found an excuse each time and escaped to Ada. One day, while he was fishing on the Sava, police officers came to take him to the White Palace. He went with them wearing the athletic vest and white underpants in which he had been fishing. When they arrived, they tried to force him to put on a suit, but he refused. “You took me as I was, so take me to your marshal as I am.” Tito was upstairs and heard that something was happening. When they explained that Paja did not want to put on a suit, he told them to bring him in as he had arrived. He thus became the only man to speak to the marshal in his underwear. Mirjana, however, claimed that he was terribly ashamed of the incident. A close friend witnessed the scene on the Sava, and Paja told only him what had happened, but threatened that he must not tell anyone, otherwise Paja would never speak to him again for the rest of his life. Only after Paja’s death did the friend tell Mirjana the story.

During lectures in the first year of the Faculty of Law, the son of a high-ranking official harassed a young woman. No one reacted, and Paja was appalled both by his behaviour and by the fact that everyone pretended not to see anything. The same thing happened again the following day. This time, however, Paja brought a plastic pistol with him. When the young man headed for the lavatory, Paja followed him with the pistol tucked into his belt. In a highly convincing tone, he explained that all sorts of things might happen to him if he continued behaving that way towards ladies. The young man, however, had been heading to the lavatory to defecate, and his fear of the convincing Paja was overwhelming. He soiled his underpants and had to walk through the entire faculty building like that. The very next day, Paja was summoned to the dean’s office. He was given a choice: withdraw from the faculty voluntarily or be expelled. He left of his own accord, with his head held high.

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