Balkan 1944 II

Balkan 1944 II

Once my cardboard suitcase and I were  safe  the young man who had rescued me introduced himself with a big smile, in German. His name was Oleg, Oleg Rodzianko. He belonged  to a group of Russians who had  been on tour in Albania for the past three months. His people were comfortably settled on straw at one side of the wagon, our girls occupied the opposite side and were equally  glad to be safe ashore. As usual I was standing, leaning against the doorframe and the big iron bar  which was pushed waisthigh across the opening. Slowly the train started to move as night fell. Once in a while the Russians  started singing  one of their hauntingly beautiful  songs of  longing for Russia. These were  White Russians who had fled  Stalins regime and  who fervently hoped to one day go back home. All this I learned  over the next few days from Oleg  who had calmly  stretched out his arm across my chest as I was about to pitch forward falling asleep standing .

The next few days we slowly chugged  north, more often than not stopping for hours-waiting. Oleg and I spent much time sitting in the shade when the train  stopped for whatever reason,-talking. He, mostly about going back  to Russia without Stalin  and I about my dread going back to Germany with Hitler and all the bombing. Finally we made it to Belgrade  where  we had hotel rooms and baths I explored the town a bit until there was an air raid warning. A few bombs fell, somewhere, nothing major, and  after a few hours I sauntered back to the hotel where I found  a few of the other girls   sitting in the lobby in a state of shock. “Kirsten, wasn’ t it awful” ?  I had no idea what they were talking about. They meant  the air raid and the few bombs.This was September  1944 , most major cities in Germany were  in ruins , some of them  already since several years, and these girls  had never heard a bomb drop.

Looking  back Istill marvel at the naivitée  of these girls. Though there was no such thing as television we did have radios and, of course, newspapers.But they were all from Breslau in Silisia which  was quite different from  the western regions of Germany.

Several  times, the next few days, we were told to get ready to be taken to a train  which was supposedly waiting  for us on the other side of the river. The bombs had hit the bridges and alternate routes had to be found. Each time it was false alarm. Finally we were off.Just as the trucks started rolling Oleg ,whom I had not seen for a few days, came to be taken across also.We arrived at a train station and were deposited on the platform. No train. So everybody settled on the ground and waited. After a while Oleg  suggested I come with him to see his parents who lived near by. We took the suitcase and  walked about five minutes to a very neat and modern apartment house.

On the third floor Oleg rang  a door bell. After a few minutes the door was opened by a tall slender elderly gentleman,clad  in a white suit and a small woman, also not young anymore.Oleg immediately started talking in Russian, pointing at me.They looked at me,started smiling and pulled me inside.Only after they had embraced  me and deposited me  at a table in the entrance hall did they embrace Oleg, their son, whom they had not seen  or heard from in  three months.I thought I knew hospitality but never quite like this.