“This is the best coffee I have ever had,” said the mechanic and smacked his lips to show us what he meant, as we were sitting in the greasy cockpit of my father’s boat, after dinner, and after a long day we had spent toying with the stubborn Swedish motor that kept presenting us with ever new puzzles and unpleasant surprises. We all hoped that it was finally safe enough for longer trips to the distant islands in the Adriatic, where the tourists had not yet penetrated. “That reminds me of something that happened to me some time ago,” said my father, and proceeded to tell us the following story. Two decades or so ago he won an architectural competition for a memorial to the Partisans from the Durmitor Battalion, which was to be erected near Žabljak, a growing village on the Black Lake in the foothills of Durmitor—a foreboding mountain in Montenegro. He went there with his final drawings and spent a couple of days with the local people involved in the construction of the memorial. Most of them were old Partisans. One evening, my father sat with these men around a large fire in the vicinity of the construction site and drank traditionally prepared coffee, when one of them exclaimed that that was the best coffee he had ever had. Another man then told them, the people lounging around the fire, about the best coffee he had ever had himself. This took place during the War. His unit learned one day that an Italian armored column was heading toward Žabljak, a well-known Partisan stronghold. They therefore collected everything they could carry with them, assembled all the villagers, and went to hide somewhere in the thick forests of Durmitor. The next evening they returned to the village only to find that most of the houses were burned to the ground by the Italians. This man’s house was burned, as well, and he retrieved but a couple of items from the black and smoldering rubble. Among these was an old coffee pot. He fetched some water from the nearby stream, got some coffee and sugar from the more fortunate neighbors, and prepared his coffee on the smoldering remains of his home. “And that was the best coffee I have ever had,” he said, staring into the gay flames of the fire. The others were not surprised. Our mechanic was apparently not surprised, either.