Ivan Hrvatin’s father was sixteen when he joined the partisans as a courier. It was winter when he had to cross several mountains covered with ice on one of his missions. On his way, he stumbled upon a lone German soldier. Surprised, he managed to shoot first, but he hardly aimed. The shot was wide of the mark. The German scampered away as fast as he could over the rocks. The young man could not bring himself to aim and shoot again, but he remembered the ringing of ironclad boots for the rest of his life. At the time, he was barefoot, and the boots were his for the taking.