It was bewildering and rushed for young Milan. He got vague answers from his mother. Dad was evidently not coming back. Ever. He had gone off to Italy during the war and the only thing that Milan knew was tears.
Italy is almost a next door neighbor and there was pressure on the adults to fight in the war. . Before he went away, Dad taught Milan a few things about life and survival. Basic things that suddenly seemed very important.
How to be a man was one of the things Dad taught, and how to fight. It was father son stuff and made Milan feel grown up and tough. Soon after those times, there was a uniform and a backpack sitting next to dad at the dock. Milan not see across the sea but it seemed like his father was going to know the sea and some of it’s secrets. Milan was bright for a four year old boy, but had a lot of questions that he didn’t know he had.
The uniform Dad had on was a brown one, there was a lot of talk in the neighborhood about that as concentration camps were being staffed nearby and many of their friends were being targeted to be taken to the camps. By men in brown uniforms. Sometimes young children dressed in a similar way. You know the history and have seen the films of Germany in the late 1930’s. Obedience to death for ‘others’
There was something about where some people went to worship and Milan wasn’t on board with church anyway. His soccer friends were confused as he was. One family that lived nearby moved into their home. They were Jewish and afraid for their lives. Milan’s family was compassionate and filled with faith.
That family upstairs didn’t go out, ever. Food was getting scarce but the two families were tight. Their sons were forbidden to play outside. The upstairs family was not seen nor heard when Dad’s friends came over to play Bris Kula cards. Milan liked the mora cantada finger games. Guessing in games is an appeal to most people. The card game was colorful and brisk. And loud. It seemed that was the game of choice when people were visiting or stopping by.
Most of the world was unaware of the extent of Jewish persecution in the Slavic countries during WWII. Tens of thousands killed. Milan’s father was not there for that, he was in Northern Italy getting ready to accept an M1 round.
From those days onward, Milan hated military uniforms. All the medals and sashes, the epaulets
It was after the war was obviously over except for the big meetings with more fancy uniforms and formalities that it convinced Milan and his remaining family to emigrate to the United States. Fleeing the inevitable disasters and revenge that trots along after military losses or victories. Someone is to blame and the horror continues.
Our country knows these things and true refugees were always welcomed to Ellis island. The inevitable learning a new language, customs and even games is customary. The most natural movement into the population is into ghettos. A bad name for a pretty good idea. Markets with familiar foods and signs and schools that taught language and rules for America were the way Milan and his people survived and thrived.
[New York City still has these neighborhoods and some of the food cultures are amazing. People do not call them ghettos nowadays. Burroughs and ethnic enclaves is the language now. When you visit, those neighborhoods have the best food and the owners will tell you things about the neighborhood and It’s flavors unique.}
The uniforms were still a trigger for Milan. Any uniform, especially brown ones would rush into him and cause the fear and anger. Today we call it many names, PTSD, trauma reactions.
Milan (by the way, pronounced as Melan) was living in a big city neighborhood and stood out with an usual first and last name. I just remember him by his first name. He lived down the block and over.
I am a rather odd person and so was he. There was something that was understood between us and we shared stories when we met at the local candy store. The store was directly across the street from the elementary school. Location, location, location the Realtor’s always say.
I was a three musketeers guy and Milan liked the crunchy ones like Butterfingers. I was the only kid that pronounced his name correctly and he never made fun of my unusual name,
We were never close friends, but we did rely on each other on the playground and walking home. There were the usual idiot bully types and name callers. Milan was good to be around as he knew protection.
We had a little revenge on a few of them. Milan knew how to do those things too. We tied open wire trash cans in alleys with the wire connecting two of them strung across the alley. Lighting them on fire when we knew one of the families parents were coming home Then we ran. It made quite a racket and the cars were worse for wear.
I learned a French word, Sabotage. Old country stuff from Milan’s wartime experiences. He was pretty stealthy but we eventually got caught. I was beaten in our basement by my father. He used a dowel rod on my backside. Milan never talked about those things. Neither did I.
We were ‘different.’ We both were. I shared my three musketeer bar and developed a taste for the butterfingers bar. Back I those days, my candy bar came with two grooves and was split in three ways, I haven’t had one since those days. Probably the bar is so small now that it would take three of them. I still like butterfingers. (Read ‘ Santa Fe Super Chief ‘ at my web site for a butterfingers redoux)
The last time I saw Milan was on a winter day, walking to school. I was wearing my boy scout uniform and he became someone else as he pushed me into the snow and washed my face in it. His face was twisted in rage and it was beyond scary.
I had all my merit badges on a sash and his mind was instantly back in Croatia. The snow was cold and icy and we did not shake hands and make up. He didn’t even know it had happened.
Brown Hitler youth was the trigger from his childhood. It got between us and I never saw him again on my way to and from Grade school. Decades later, I tried looking him up but there was no trace. A brown boy scout uniform destroyed our friendship.
I made it to star scout and all my pals were eagle scouts. My dad was a scoutmaster for a while and wasn’t until I was much older I began to understand what had happened. During my war experiences I developed some ‘triggers’ too and if I ever meet Milan again, things would be very different. I miss him.
Jack Gator, Scribe
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