Aleppo to Venice

The ride to Ankara was sheer pleasure after the limo to Aleppo. We had our own compartment situated to the left side of the car; the center-outside window was on a leather strap with holes to check its descent. A small, brass peg was used to hold the the window at certain heights. The passageway was on the other side of the compartment; narrow etched-glass windows framed a glass door to enter and depart. The seats were deep red and overstuffed with armrests. These seats made into the bottom bunks and the top ones, where my sister and I slept, were hidden behind two convex doors that opened down. The steward had a special T-shaped tool to unlock and lower them. Heavy cargo like belts were fitted in place so the top bunkers were not thrown down in case of a calamity. There were a few inconveniences.

At the start, it was warm and we let the winddow down. I leaned out a little and could see most of the train ahead (especially on a curve). Only a few cars were behind us. The engine, maybe ten or 15 cars ahead, was belching the blackest soot and smoke you can imagine. As we went to the high country, it got worse. My mother noticed soot and cinders on me and the seat. That was the last time the window was open! The water tasted horrid. We went to the old standby, mix a little Rose's Lime with it!

The dining car was as good as the one in the movie, Murder on the 'Orient Express.' It was five star all the way, heavy silver, cloth napkins and table clothes, many glasses, water for the fingers, and thick carpet. The windows were framed with etching and there were etched glass privacy panels to separate some tables. The passageway went right up the center and we ordered early and went to eat when called by the car steward. I cannot remember his name or nationality. He spoke six or seven languages; he wore starched clothing and was scrubbed shiney with plastered down hair. He knew about everything and frequently helped my folks with travel plans and ideas.

In Ankara, we were side-tracked and sat for several hours. Two Turkish boys came up to our window and rubbed their index fingers back and forth in a sign of friendship. They smiled and said, 'Amerikan-Toork.' Our looks must have been obvious. Locating Americans may have been their daily bread. We fed them out the window, a little picnic. My mother would not let me get off and play with the boys (it's dirty AND you might be left behind!). Otherwise, we chugged and click-clacked all the way to Istanbul. These were the days before bonded rails. The beat was comforting and we all slept well.

We stayed a week in Istanbul and reboarded for Belgrade. My mother (name Melitza Angelich) had relatives and we were going to visit them, then fly to Dubrovnik, and on to see the house my grandfather lived in and helped construct. The closest towns were Vrbno and Trebinje (Put a lot of rrrrr-trill in your tongue to pronounce these nouns). There were few tourists in Yugoslavia and my mother was a little nervous. Her family supported Mahailovich and you all know what happened to him! We were not going to see Milan either. He was sick and going to be that way for five years (code for prison-politics).

These relatives were from Bosna NOT Bosnia, spoke Serbian, were Serbian Orthodox, and considered themselves Austrian! We were told at Melena"s apartment to watch what we said. The neighbors. They would not let us stay in a hotel and that was that. We were crammed into a three room walk up, clean and well cared for, but very small. The instant we got into the apartment, the women took my mother into the bedroom and checked her undergarments. I could hear them oohing and ahhing. These people had no finery but remember when they did, before the war. One little boy sat on my mother's lap and looking at her fingernails said, "Meleva, why is it that your fingers are so bloody?" He had never seen nail polish.

We were walking outside the Singer Store in Dubrovnik and my mother heard a passing woman say to her friend. 'Mmmmmmm, Americans. See that bag on her arm; it is full of gold!'

After a day in the seafront Dubronik Excelsior, we rented a taxi and headed for Trebinje, 25 kilos away give or take. About half way there a herd of sheep were milling in the road and an old man in a WWI uniform stopped us. He leaned into the back window and said, 'Meleva, do you remember me? I am Petro Petrovich, one of you father's friends in Montana. I used to come to your house for Sunday dinner." They hugged through the window and then my mother got out and they hugged some more and had a good cry. Petro had earned money in the mines and returned to Yugoslavia for a wife. He spent all his money and before long he was the father of nine and could not afford to leave again. There was absolutely no traffic so they sat in the car and talked for a half hour in the middle of the road. He had been waiting for us for two days. Word from the Belgrade relatives had gone ahead.

Back in Belgrad, we reboarded the train for Venice. Several relatives gave us secret mail which my mother'lost' quickly. We settled back and began to enjoy the ride and reflect on the visits when the conductor rattled the door for tickets. My mother told us the rest later. The Putnik travel agency had purchased the compartment for us but forgot to settle on the wheels! The conductor told his assistant that these Americans, he called us a barnyard animal name, should not be on the train and he would put us off at the next stop. Of course, he did not know my mother spoke fluent Serbian. After he had raised his voice to us several times, my mother thinks he was showing off to his assistant, my mother delivered the blade. "Sir," she said in Serbian,"we have just left an audience with Tito. When you force us off at the next stop, I will be on the telephone to him immediately! What is your name, please?" The poor fellow was struck dumb (Very back luck to choose to beat up on this family). At the next stop, the tickets were purchased and we went along our merry way. My mother also told us she told the conductor that all Americans study Serbian in school.

We rolled into Venice with no fleas.

Rolf Christophersen