Farewell to Salonica by Leon Sciaky

Author:Leon Sciaky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Paul Dry Books
Published: 2012-02-21T16:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Tillers of the Soil

Seated by the window, as the train raced over the rails and the telegraph line dipped down gracefully, to be jerked up by each pole, I watched the lonely, treeless brown hills succeed the green fields, and the muddy Gallico come into view and disappear as we clattered over the big iron bridge. We were on our way to Kilkish.

I had not had much sleep that night. The excitement of the contemplated trip had kept me awake, and several times, while everyone slept, I had left my bed to look at the clock ticking its unhurried seconds in the dark varandado.

It had been Grandfather’s idea, this. And a very unusual one it was. It had been received with recriminations by Mother and Grandmother. What, live a whole summer in that Bulgarian village? Heaven knows what might happen. It wasn’t safe. Women and children of the city had never done such a thing. Oh, some people did go to Sedes to bathe in the thermal waters, but it was only a half-hour out of the city by carriage. Kilkish was another thing.

“It will be all right,” Grandfather had said. “I have provided for everything, and you will be as comfortable and as safe as here.” After all, would he not be with us? Father would come every weekend and it would do the children good to be out of the city during the hot months.

When Mother and Nona Plata, after lengthy deliberations, had finally agreed, a consent fraught with misgivings, the preparations had started and had been carried out with as much thought and care as if we were undertaking a lengthy expedition into an unknown and unexplored continent.

“Here, Yussefico! Pack these dishes carefully. Wrap them in paper.”

“And the pots and pans! Where did you put them, Yussefico?”

“Daughter, you don’t need all these things!” Nono had laughingly admonished. “Kilkish is only one hour away by train. You will find everything in the babu’s house.”

But Mother and Grandmother had other ideas. What did men know of such things?

“How about teskeres?” Father had asked Nono. “Shall we have them made?”

“Don’t trouble about them, son. We don’t need them.”

The teskere was the local passport which had to be visaed by the police at the railroad station before one would be allowed to depart. Grandfather never used one. A wave of the hand to the police officer sitting at the little table in the narrow, smoky waiting room was all he deemed necessary. Teskeres indeed! Many a time he would arrive just as the train was about to pull out. His carriage would come rattling over the cobblestones and before it had reached the station his stentorian voice would warn the stationmaster of his coming. And the train would not get under way until he was safely settled in his compartment. His fare he would pay at some other time. After all, these were little courtesies one could expect! Did he not transact enough business with the railroad?

But we were in ample

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