riding the rails

…the lengths we take for family’s sake…

John Grigoryevich Malloff - 1929

BC / WA / OR / CA

‘Why would you travel so far to see someone who has forsaken you?’ George Nikolayevich Malov asked of his son.

            ‘He is my older brother,’ John replied, with a loving concern that slipped from his brow down into his eyes.

            ‘He’s only your half-brother, besides nobody knows where he is.’

            ‘Mama said he was in California,’ John added decidedly. 

            ‘California is well over 1500 versts by rail, plus it is as big of an oblast as British Columbia.’ George paused, the expression on his face held the statement captive as he looked down at the table to locate his pouch of tobacco. He gently shook the burlap sack of Bull Durham, grabbed a pinch and loaded his pipe with his thick index finger. ‘That’s not an easy way to travel south. Nor will you be able to just find him there, waiting for you.’

            ‘Father, they use miles there, miles! Plus, Canada calls them provinces and America calls them states, nobody says oblasts,’ John added emphatically, trying to prove that he had some knowledge to impart on his old man.

            ‘Miles or states, whatever, you want, this won’t change the fact that it’s a fool’s errand,’ George said as he struck a match, holding the flame to the inside of his cupped hand. He lit his pipe and drew a few puffs. Behind him a kerosene lamp flickered, it cast its illumination from behind his head and into the smoke above. ‘Tell your mother then, if this is what you want,’ he concluded as if the conversation was mute to begin with.

            John stood up, grabbed the contraband groceries that he had brought from Danville for his father, a kolbasa[1], more tobacco and a flask of bourbon then placed them on the table. He looked at his dad with acceptance and sighed with slight emptiness. ‘I’ll be back before harvest to help with the hay,’ he added.

            ‘Here take these ten dollars,’ George reached into the left chest pocket of his jacket to pull out some money. ‘Be careful with the hobos in the jungles, rely on your own wits and keep your money next to your chest, remember to get off before the train hits the station or you’ll get caught.’ George added in a matter-of-fact tone, like a foreman stating instructions to a greenhorn.

            ‘Ok papa,’ John said, welcoming the ten dollars, he added, ‘spasiba’[2] turned around and left his father’s shack beside the barn. He closed the door carefully behind him and secured the wooden latch. As John walked back to the common house where his mom waited, he looked back at the shack window, he could see the light casting the shadow of his father’s head against the wall as a whiff of tobacco smoke escaped near the sideboards of the window.

            Once inside his house he greeted his mother, Anya Nikolayevna Dubosova. His mother and father came together as a result of two separate social tragedies. Anya Nikolayevna was previously married to a man, Samsonov, who requested to leave her and their two children as he wished to start a new life with their babysitter. Near the same time, George Nikolayevich was widowed after his wife died giving birth to their third child. As a result, Anya had two daughters to raise on her own and George had a son, a daughter and a newborn baby to raise on his own. To solve the situation, Peter the Lordly Verigen decided that it would be best to merge their two families so that they could raise the children together. The infant was given away to adoption, some said that George’s deceased wife’s sister raised the child. So, this is how John’s parents ended up coming together. John was the result of this union. Their only child together.

            ‘Will you go?’ Anya Nikolayevna asked.

            ‘I will.’

            ‘Well then, let’s get you packed. I baked some pyrahi[3] for the journey and I have five dollars to help you along the way,’ added Anya. They both made their way into John’s sleeping quarters. John reached under his bed and pulled out a small cardboard suitcase that his grandfather Nikolai Vasilyevich Dubasov had given him. It was just big enough to hold a change of clothes and a small lunch. It had a wooden handle and two leather straps with buckles that had been taken from a horse harness and had been pop-riveted onto opposite sides of its mouth to hold it securely closed. He opened the two straps and folded his shirts and trousers into it. Anya passed him the small bundle of pyrahi wrapped in a linen cloth. 

            ‘Be careful Vanya, it’s dangerous in America, people have guns.’ Anya whispered as if not to tip off his plans to the others sleeping in the next room over.

            ‘I will be careful mama.’

            ‘Ride in the cars as much as possible. Too many people lose their lives on the rods. Especially when it goes down hills. Give Petyushka[4] a big hug from me when you find him. Tell him to return home to his family,’ Anya added, providing him with yet more advice alongside her personal request.

            ‘Ok mama,’ John agreed to do his best.

            There was a touch of sadness and apprehension attached to John’s pending adventure. His older half-brother Peter had a rather intense falling out with his father the year before. Peter swore never to return to the village out of the shame of it all. He left the family one night during a heated feud stating he’d never return. The rift had grown into something much larger than that of a mere dispute between father and son. It had taken on the added complexity of village life, as the morals of the community were superimposed over the natural bonds of the family.

            George Nikolayevich was a fiercely independent man, even in Russia he had little patience for abiding by the orders of others. He did not necessarily subscribe to the edicts of the Verigen leadership back in Russia, nor did he agree to much of what was being decreed now in Canada either. He often did not see eye to eye with the communal way of life that the Doukhobors adhered to as a group. Why should he work hard and contribute his wages so that others could loaf and free-boot off the labours of more earnest men? It wasn’t right by him.

            The roaring twenties were slipping away and the era of the Great Depression was creeping in. Earlier, somewhere around 1915 George and Anya and the majority of the Canadian Doukhobors, otherwise known as the Community Doukhobors had migrated to British Columbia. They did so to enable themselves to abide by their communal living ways, practices that the Canadian government disallowed them to maintain on the Prairies. The Community Doukhobors, headed by Peter Vasilyevich Verigen maintained that all land and labour was to be shared equally and that all proceeds were to be distributed equally. Those who sought work outside of the community structure were expected to contribute their earnings to the community treasury for disbursement as the leadership saw fit. Most of the community to this point had been uneducated and highly dedicated to their Christian roots.

            More than fifty years prior, while exiled in the Transcaucasian region of the Russian Empire, Peter Vasilyevich Verigen, who himself was even further exiled in Siberia, had recommended that all Doukhobors renounce the use of weapons and the other vices which lead men to corruption, mainly the consumption of alcohol, tobacco and meat. At that time George Ivanovich wasn’t quick to become a willing convert of any such diktat and did not join the flock so to speak. During the initial years in Saskatchewan, life was quite difficult and food was hard to come by, such indulgences as alcohol, meat and tobacco were unavailable. Now that he could put his feet up and take a breath in BC he wasn’t about to avoid such pleasures just because someone was telling him to do so.

            The major disagreement between George Ivanovich and his son Peter Grigoryevich had happened the previous autumn. It occurred when, after returning from a six-month long sojourn working the wheat fields near Bridesville, British Columbia, George Ivanovich returned home for the winter. He had done well for himself and returned with some extra money, money that was expected to be contributed towards the community treasury. Instead of doing so, he used it for his own needs. He bought for his oldest son, Peter Grigoryevich Malloff, a nice sheepskin jacket for the coming winter. Something like a sheepskin jacket was anything but an inconspicuous item among the community. Soon enough word had gotten around the village. Peter Grigoryevich was the lucky recipient, getting unwanted attention, perhaps even some jealousy and admiration for such a worthy gift. The accolades amongst his friends were not to last.

            The following Sunday during molenoye when the entire community was gathered to hear Peter the Lordly Verigen speak things took an unfortunate turn. During his sermon, Peter Vasilyevich admonished George Ivanovich for the personal indulgence he bequeathed upon his son as a shame upon him for not contributing to the community coffers. This insult was more than Malov was willing to tolerate. Without so much as a retort, he stood up to face Peter Vasilyevich from the middle rows of the assembly, put on his hat, turned his back to the leader and walked out of the prayer hall. This public display of defiance towards the leader whom many Doukhobors considered akin to a saint, was just too much of a stigma for the community at large and his village or Osatka[5] in specific. His wife Anya was horrified by this and she feared that he had brought a curse upon the family for such a brazen act. In the coming weeks George Ivanovich began to live on his own beside the barn in a two room shack away from the main living quarters of his village. Socially he was forgiven, yet he existed on the fringe of acceptance, much like a horse outcast from the herd, grazing on the perimeters.

            This disassociation did not bother George Ivanovich much as he kept his own council for the most part, as he did back in the days in Transcaucasia. It was his son Peter Grigoryevich who bore the brunt of the fallout. His peers bullied him and teased him for being the son of an outcast. They shamed him for receiving a gift of which only weeks earlier they themselves were envious over. Ironically, Peter felt duty-bound to donate the sheepskin coat to the leadership as he no longer wished to bear the burden of such a gift. This was what contributed to him having a serious argument with his father, from which there was no recovery. One night the dispute escalated and Peter vowed to leave the village never to return to the shame that his father had bestowed upon them. This solidified George Ivanovich’s distaste for the leadership of Peter Vasilyevich Verigen and what he described as the ‘moral saddle from which he rode’. His loving gift had been turned into a village incident that had driven a wedge with a darker implication between him and his eldest son.

            The sun had not yet risen over the village. John was sitting on his bed, dressed and waiting to hear his mother stir downstairs. His cardboard suitcase sat on his lap. He imagined what was before him as he said a silent prayer asking for help so that he could find his brother, wherever he was, in the state of California.

            After sharing a breakfast of rolled oats, honey and cream with his mother, John picked up his small cardboard suitcase, put on his canvas hat and jacket and gave Anya Nikolayevna a strong embrace. She in return crushed him into her bosom.

            ‘Well, then mama, I will be off now,’ said John, ‘I’ll be back in time for harvest.’

            ‘How will you go?’ She asked, trying to prolong the inevitable moment of departure.

            ‘I will make my way to Spokane from Republic, then south to Portland and then on to Sacramento. From there I will find my way to the Coloma gold mines and ask for Petyushka.’

            ‘Be careful and watch out for strangers in the jungles when you sleep,’ Anya Nikolayevna said again, as if by repeating her concerns it would lessen the chance of something untoward happening to her son as he traveled. She squeezed him again extra hard and kissed him on both cheeks. She lifted his hat and kissed him on the forehead.

            With that John turned to walk out of the village before too many people began to wake and try to dissuade him from his journey. He walked past his father’s shack by the barn, leaning in he could hear his papa snoring. A slight smile cramped John’s face, he grabbed a long shaft of grass from the side of the shack, took the freshly plucked end and stuck it in his mouth. As he walked south the sun slowly began to creep up over the mountains behind him. The rays lit up the tips of the new growth on the field before him. Within a minute he was in the United States. With any luck he would be in Republic by dusk, ready to catch his first train.

            John Grigoryevich Malloff was a man who could travel long distances on his own accord. He wasn’t confined by any sense of not knowing the road before him. Nor did loneliness call out to him from his point of origin. He didn’t need the companionship of friends to satisfy him. He had an inner security that allowed him to venture freely. John was born in the town of Verigen in 1912, named after their leader Peter the Lordly Verigen, it was near Yorkton Saskatchewan. He now lived in the village of Osatka, which was also nicknamed Bogdanovka due to a crazy woman who lived there and originated from the village of Bogdanovka in Georgia. Osatka was located on the southernmost part of Grand Forks BC, the village he was now leaving behind. The American border wasn’t more than fifty meters from his home.

            John’s plan was off to a good start. He had managed to walk to Curlew, half of the way to Republic by mid-day. He then caught a ride on the back of a hay wagon from Curlew to Republic. While on the wagon, he passed through the small town of Malo, named after his father, for his rum-running adventures in the previous years. Once John reached the train station in Republic, he didn’t have to wait long before he was able to seize his first ride on the Northern Pacific Line to Spokane.

            This was his first attempt at riding the rails. During this era many people were doing so, by 1933 it was said that there were millions of youth travelling the rails, scrambling across the country trying to land work or opportunity in distant towns as the Depression began to sweep west. There was an ebullient exodus of hobos crisscrossing their way around the country heading westwards in search of something, anything, everything.

            It wasn’t easy to avoid being caught by the conductor’s assistants or the station hands, the Bulls as they were called, but it was even harder to get into a secure position on the undercarriage of the box cars before the train started to move. There was a certain safety in numbers and it was somewhat easy to learn the ropes as there was always somebody else nearby who you could watch or even ask for advice. It was an education on wheels so to speak.

            Before he slid under the train to ride the rails, John had the wherewithal to change his clothes. He had planned for this and he had brought with him his farm coveralls, so as not to get his pants and shirt dirty from grease and grime of the rods. While outside the station in Republic, he had met an American man from Seattle named Max. Together they slipped past the Bulls and onto the underside of the boxcar where they foisted their bodies up onto the brake rods. Max provided John with some advice to ensure a smoother ride. John placed his suitcase on his stomach and lashed it around himself with a few shoe strings so that it wouldn’t fall off. He then reached up to the vertical railings called the grab irons for good reasons. Slowly the train was off, slowly John sped away towards parts unknown in search of his older brother.

            At Spokane he and Max spent the night together discussing the bumpy ride and stretching their bruised bodies. Outside the train station was a squatter camp, at the time these camps were affectionately called the hobo jungles, where all sorts of rail-riding folks gathered to share a smoke, some soup or maybe if lucky, some coffee. Often times various groups like the Salvation Army would administer charity for these young people as they made their way across the country. There was a simplicity and honesty to the endeavour, comprised of simple people looking to catch a ride towards opportunity elsewhere.

            ‘Not bad for a gaycat[6],’ Max stated, looking at John as they stretched and rested their weary limbs. ‘Not bad at all.’ 

            ‘I’d be what you’d call a dingbat[7],’ he added. ‘I’ve been riding the rails for three years now.’ Max paused to scrape something from the bottom of the tin can he was using to slurp down his soup. ‘There is a freedom to it. A freedom to live. Well, there is also a freedom to die.’ As he began to laugh in a coughed-up manner.

            John smiled, ‘Thank you Max, thank you for teaching me how to get onto the rods quickly, how to wrap cloth over my hands to dampen the vibrations and how to hide behind the wheels.’ He shifted his spine and stretched trying to soothe out the stiffness from the three-hour journey.

The two men sat and conversed, with Max sharing some trade secrets and John telling him about the garden and farm back home and his quest to find his older brother. They lit a fire and tried to sleep in a grove of birch trees a few hundred yards away from the propped-up tents and fire barrel of the local jungle.

            ‘Once you hit Portland you best be careful,’ Max warned, ‘the Bulls over there, well they get mighty aggressive. In general, the closer you get to the Californian border the more congested the rails become.’ The fire was dying down and he began to rub his hands and bed down for the night, pulling his wool blanket over his torso.

            ‘Matter of fact, outside of Lewiston sometimes they even have a cue of dingbats waiting their turn for the next train, I recon as a gaycat you best just act like dingbat.’ Max paused looking for his pipe in his chest pocket. ‘When there is a lot of riders waiting in the brush, just ask who the tail is and take up a position behind him. If you jump the line they’ll wanna fight yuh at the next hobo jungle.’ He began to roll himself a cigarette. The two slowly fell asleep, the night was brisk and it wasn’t easy for John to sleep. Thus, the first day of his travels south came to an end.

            In the morning John and Max warmed up and gathered their belongings. John was even more cramped and sore from the cold night’s sleep. They made their way to the fire barrel to get their bearings, warm up and start their day.

            ‘They call this coffee,’ Max handed John a can with a brew made from slightly charred hickory bark. The morning sun caught a more weathered side of him. The lines on his face revealed a longing and a fatigue that was softened by the warm afternoon of the previous day.

            ‘Thank-you Max,’ John stretched out his hand and accepted the brew. There was an innocence to his mission, yet he was now in a world of limited comforts. ‘Shall we make our way down the line?’

            ‘Yeah, let’s get in a position, I think the Great Northern be passing in a few hours. That’ll take us to Union Station in Portland, you might wanna find some extra rags for your hands. It’ll be a long one.’

            It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Max and John were able to slip onto the rails of the next iron horse. Slightly south of Portland, just past the town of Bend Oregon the train stopped at a water and coal station. Trains regularly stopped at such stations to refuel and take on water for the boilers. It was at such times that the gaycats and dingbats would take a break and stretch or mend their aching bodies as best they could. It was also a time for them to quickly check the door latches for an open boxcar so that they might upgrade their traveling arrangements. Often it was at such water stops that there would be a hobo jungle hidden just off in the distance. It was at this particular stop that there happened to be a lot of jostling and a few new people scattering towards the train from a nearby hobo jungle. The jungle was nestled under a large white oak tree, beyond the tree was a hay field with many large stacks of hay that awaited gathering. During the commotion a few whistles started to sound and out of nowhere a handful of security guards hopped off the train and started checking the undercarriages of the box cars.

            ‘Bulls! The bulls are charging!’ A loud alarming cry was heard. Like mice under a palette, almost thirty bodies frantically scattered and ran for the cover of the hobo jungle under the towering oak and the wheat fields beyond.

            John began to follow the crowd and Max, pulled him back by the arm. ‘This way my friend, trust me.’ Together they slipped back under the box car and slinked their way down the far side of the train. Max was checking the boxcar doors as they went. With all the commotion headed the other way, the two men quietly slipped into a boxcar full of cattle. They nudged their way past the cows towards the corner of the car. ‘This may not be the smartest thing, but it has worked for me before.’ Max was smiling as John was a little more concerned. His humble carboard suitcase was smashed from the frantic escape and it was covered in grime. For some reason this made him feel more vulnerable. He pushed himself further into the corner, comforted by the familiar smell of the cows and hay. Through the boxcar the men could watch as the Bulls tore up the hobo jungle with sticks and pitch forks.  To their horror they watched as the Bulls lunged into the haystacks just past the jungle.

            ‘What if they find us? Will they kill us or lock us up?’ John asked, in a whisper that hid his fright.

            ‘We’ll get a beating that’s for sure. Probably a month in the slammer too.’ Max leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘It’ll be ok Johnny boy, just you watch.’

            Just then the horn from the engine blasted three times, signaling that in three minutes the locomotive was about to start rolling. The engineer released the steam from the ballast tanks, it blasted out of the engine and within minutes the pistons started their slow and gradual climb, each chug bringing relaxation to John. He looked up at the cows and laughed, how simple it was for them. He tried to clean his suitcase with some hay and push the crumpled carboard side back into shape. Both men appreciated their first-class tickets into California.

             Max had decided to travel with John to the mining camps northeast of Sacramento and see if he might get work. Outside of Sacramento the two men were able to catch a bus out to El Dorado Hills on the southern edge of Folsom Lake. From there they managed to hitch a ride on a supply wagon heading up to Placerville. It was at Placerville where Max and John were both offered two-weeks of work at the mine. Max eagerly accepted the offer. John stuck around for a day asking whomever he could if anyone knew of a Peter Malloff. He met one person who had mentioned that he had worked with Peter north of Placerville at the Coloma gold mine a month earlier. This elated John as the news was just as he had heard from the rumours in Grand Forks.

The next day John parted ways with Max and he promised to stop in on his way back through Placerville. Max was sad to see his new friend leave but he was grateful that John’s quest for his older brother had led him towards a spell of work. The road to Coloma through the mountains was rugged. After ten hours of walking John was able to hitch a ride on a supply truck into Coloma. He arrived in darkness. The weather was agreeable and he made his way to the barracks where the mine workers stayed. He began to ask around for his brother Peter. He had no luck as many of the workers were exhausted and had little time for him. He found himself a bench outside the trading post and stretched out for the night. He slept heavy, satisfied that in the morning he would find Peter.

The following morning, he made his way to the mess hall and within minutes had found a man who knew his brother. He took John to him. When Peter saw John he barely moved a muscle. Peter was somehow unimpressed to see his kid brother. John greeted his brother in the customary Russian fashion, opening his arms for an embrace, but Peter did not reciprocate the gesture.

‘Why would you come here?’ Peter asked. There was no warmth on his face.

‘Why to visit you and see how you are doing,’ John replied.

‘Well now you’ve seen.’ Peter was sure John had been sent to fetch him or beg him to return. It was a warm road of adventure with a newfound friend that had brought John to this cold table for a reunion with his long-lost brother. 

The following summer John Grigoryevich would visit his brother once again and this time Peter was much more receptive. They enjoyed a few weeks together and John worked with Peter in the mines. This was to be John Grigoryevich’s last trip riding the rails, but not his last trip to California to see his brother. He would return once more in the coming years to accomplish the most difficult trip of the three, to pick up his older brother’s body and return it to the Village of Osatka. So, it came to pass, despite the tenderness in John Grigoryevich’s heart, “Peter” became a name that would haunt his soul. 

[1] Russian variety of sausage made from ground meat and wrapped in a casing.

[2] Russian word for thank-you.

[3] Traditional Doukhobor bread pocket stuffed with a variety of fillings, potatoes, cottage cheese, sauerkraut, beets, peas, beans, pumpkin or sometimes raspberries or strawberries.

[4] Nickname for Peter.

[5] In Russian it means place of orchards or gardens.

[6] Gaycat was the lingo rail-riders used to describe someone new to the trade, a rookie.

[7] Dingbat was the lingo rail-riders used to describe a veteran rail-rider.