Croatian Resort Plunges Back Into Chaos : Balkans: The latest Serb offensive against Dubrovnik ends hoped-for renaissance and sends residents into shelters.

In times past, a celebrity-sighting on the cascading stair outside the fashionable Talir Cafe would have created a sensation.

But on Tuesday, Mise Martinovic, a famous Croatian actor, was joined by his daughter, Perica, another theater great, and a clique of renowned Croatian singers, painters and musicians. They weren’t the central attraction as they stopped in this medieval seaside town for the 46th Dubrovnik Summer Festival, long among the premier arts happenings in Europe.

None of these artistic luminaries were performing. They weren’t giving autographs. They weren’t even talking shop. Their conversation was dark and sullen, the words of fun-loving people depressed by a place so bereft of both fun and love.

“It is not good. Something changes inside you. Danger becomes normal,” said Vlaho Ljutic, an opera singer in shorts and penny loafers resting against a 13th-Century stone wall. “We just exist in this situation.”

Once again, the good old days--the frisky summers when 40,000 people crushed into town to watch Shakespeare and hear Beethoven--have disappeared here. After three years of inching back from the abyss of war, the hoped-for renaissance in Dubrovnik has been abruptly cut short by a barrage of deadly artillery.

The marble streets are empty. The summer festival aborted. Townsfolk are bitter, hateful and disappointed. The horror of the Balkan combat has knocked once again at the fortress walls of one of its most stunning victims, turning everyone’s attention from entertainment to vengeance.

“We cannot live like this any more,” said Sanja Uroic, an opera singer and Ljutic’s fiance. “The shelling has to stop. . . . Whatever it takes.”

Off and on for almost two weeks, rounds from Serbs positioned just over a rocky ridge in Bosnia-Herzegovina have been raining on the outskirts of Dubrovnik, the first sustained assault near the Adriatic port since the city was pummeled relentlessly in 1991 and 1992.

Croatian officials say Serbs in Bosnia, ruffled by Croatian victories in the breakaway Krajina region of Croatia, are seeking retribution from a sitting duck. Other reports suggest that the Serbian attacks may have been prompted by Croats who appear poised for a major offensive in the mountains east of Dubrovnik to push Bosnian Serb forces out of range of the city.

“All those who have been shelling from [Bosnia] must know well sooner or later the hand of justice will touch them,” said Gen. Zvonimir Cervenko, the Croatian commander in chief who toured the front line near Dubrovnik on Tuesday. “I am not threatening anybody but just pointing out the legitimate right to defend. I am not going to allow the population of Dubrovnik to spend its time in cellars.”

Three people playing water polo were killed on a beach about five miles north of the city, and at least three others have been injured in the shelling. Several rounds hit the city’s newly rebuilt airport, closing it to all traffic. On Tuesday, 144 tourists were registered at local hotels, down from a paltry peak of 1,300 last week.

“This is terrorism,” Mayor Nikola Obuljen said in a City Hall office sealed tight with sandbags. “We didn’t suppose they would repeat this.”

So far the old city has been spared. But the surrounding hills have been burnt to a crisp from forest fires set off by flaming shells. The suffocating stench of charred trees pollutes the air north and south of the city and, at times, has formed an ominous smoke cloud over the city’s red-tile rooftops.

A general alert has been declared, the summer cultural offerings suspended indefinitely and the town’s aquarium converted into a bomb shelter for the first time in three years. The people of Dubrovnik have been sent scurrying like rabbits into underground warrens, seeking safety anywhere that the fortress walls are thick.

“It was scary to have to come back here,” said Ana Siljug, 13, who spent three months living alongside the fish in the aquarium in 1992. “But I feel safe here. I only go home to eat.”

On Tuesday, a Roman Catholic holiday in Croatia, the evening Mass was moved from the main cathedral to a fortress hall with walls so dense a compact car could virtually park on the windowsill.

“The priests have said that we shouldn’t sing the complete hymn--that we should cut it short and sing only parts,” said Neza Boic-Bogdanovic, a church organist. “As a sign of rebellion, we will do the whole Mass. Please emphasize that we will die for Croatia. Anything to keep the Serbs out of Dubrovnik.”

Earlier in the day, city officials decided to begin shielding the city’s many treasures--from precious outdoor sculptures to ornate church windows--with wood planks and sandbags. It was an anguished decision.

Many of the items were only uncovered last year, and some officials argued that cloaking them again could create a morale problem among residents already stunned by the city’s hurried slide toward warfare. But in the end, it was deemed too risky to leave them unprotected.

“We wanted to keep them uncovered to show everyone that we don’t want war,” said City Council member Ivana Burdelez. “But as long as there are people here, we want our art to be here too. We are fully aware of how vulnerable we are.”

The power of symbols has also been a concern among organizers of the summer arts events. Four years ago, the main summer play was a ponderous Greek classic about a city under siege and the dilemma of sparing people or things.

This year, the play was called “Uncle Maroje,” a comedy by Croatian author Marin Drzic that follows the travails of a businessman who loses a fortune on a trip to Rome. “People were glad to see a merry scene, something lighter than war,” Ljutic said.

What comes next year? A story of peace and reconciliation?

“Who knows,” said Mise Martinovic, who runs the Dubrovnik theater.

His daughter, Perica, looked doubtful.

“I had many Serb friends before the war,” she said. “Nobody calls, not even a letter.”