Once I was a dancer-singer with Porgy and Bess. On tour in Europe and North Africa in the mid-1950s, we arrived in Yugoslavia, the first American group to enter that country since the Iron Curtain had been drawn across its frontiers. During our stay in Paris, a Yugoslavian woman had taught me some Croatian words and phrases. Since she spoke a heavily accented French and no English at all, I was never sure how I sounded or if my vocabulary was correct.
Zagreb and Belgrade were gunmetal gray and the people seemed influenced by their surroundings. I looked for laughing folks and children playing, but I was unsuccessful in my search.
After a few days, I was invited to a hilarious party on the outskirts of Belgrade. I saw more frivolity and heard more laughter during the hours I spent there than I had witnessed in the entire visit to Yugoslavia. The guests were given festive foods and drink. My hostess told me she had some records I might like to hear and she called for quiet in the room. People sat down on the floor in groups, sharing bottles of wine and slivovitz. The host put the record on a windup record player and Lester Young's saxophone yowled out of the silence.
My ears and my brain were at odds. I was in Yugoslavia, and the ordinary people of the country had no freedom to travel. According to my contact in Paris, Yugoslavian citizens found it nearly impossible to obtain exit visas or travel documents; they were prisoners in their own land. And outsiders seldom visited the Iron Curtain countries; few wished to come and fewer were allowed. But here I was, listening to Lester Young. The host replaced it with Billie Holiday and then Charlie Parker.
He saw my startled expression and said, "We love music. Everyone at this party is an artist. We are painters, sculptors, writers, singers, dancers, and composers. Everything. And we find ways to stay aware of innovations in art everywhere in the world. Bebop is the most important movement in music since Johann Sebastian Bach. How did we get the records?" He smiled and said, "Don't ask." I didn't.
The party was slowing down when an old woman emerged from a side door. She wore a chenille bathrobe and slippers to match. I recognized them, for my grandmother in Arkansas made the same for herself. She walked through the crowd, greeting each person informally and receiving embraces in return. She had to be the great-grandmother of the house. She made her way to the center of the room before she saw me. Her face was struck with panic. She screamed and turned, nearly falling, and headed for the room she had just left.
The host, hostess, and other guests came quickly and apologetically to me.
"Miss Angelou, please excuse her. She is ninety years old."
"She is very old and ignorant."
"She has never seen a black person before."
"She does not mean to hurt your feelings."
I said, "I understand her. If I had lived that long and never seen a white person, the sight of one would give me a heart attack."
The hostess went to the door through which the old woman had disappeared, and in a moment the two came out together. The hostess, draping her arm across the woman's frail shoulders, gently guided her toward me. When they were about four feet from where I was sitting, I said, in Croatian, "Good evening, Mother. You have a beautiful house, Mother. Thank you. You have beautiful children and good food, Mother. Thank you." The old woman inched slowly away from her fear and came to join me on the sofa. I asked, "How are you?"
She whispered, "I am well," and kept her gaze unwavering on my face. She raised a wrinkled hand and touched my cheek. I didn't move or smile. Her hand brushed my hair slightly, then the other cheek. Without shifting her look from me, she called her granddaughter.
"Go, and bring food and drink."
"But Grandmother, she has already eaten."
I said, "Go please."
Her granddaughter brought a small meat pie and a shot of slivovitz with the customary accompanying apricot preserves. I took a bite of the savory and one small spoonful of preserves. Without hesitation, I gulped down the jigger of brandy and followed it with another spoonful of preserves.
The old woman smiled and patted my cheek. She began to talk to me so fast I couldn't keep up with her. I laughed and she laughed, showing a full set of the regulation metal teeth. She rose laboriously and headed for her room. I called, "Good night, Grandmother." But she didn't respond. The host said, "She has already forgotten you. She is very old. Thank you for being so kind."
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