Our daughter Tatiana and granddaughter Kristina patiently read the initial manuscript, searching out grammatical errors or possible historical errors, as I entered it into a computer.
Dr. Harold Bowman and his wife, Priscilla, read the first rough draft of a privately printed family edition and offered suggestions for refinement, but most importantly, at the time I most needed it, offered encouragement to pursue publication. Harold was a particularly dear friend and always supportive.
Günter and Barbara Dilssner, citizens of Blankenburg am Harz who became treasured friends, gave generously of their time and hospitality to Asya and me, strangers at the time, as we tried to locate the site of the former camps.
The mayor of Blankenburg am Harz, Heinz A. Behrens, graciously referred us to the city archivist, Ingrid Glogowskii, who gave most generously of both her time and her expertise. She provided Asya with the official death certificate for her mother and led us to the cemetery chapel, Asya’s mother’s grave, and the site of the former slave and forced labor camp where Asya spent most of her sixteenth year.
Finally, I owe a special debt of gratitude to three people: Don McKeon, editorial assistant at Potomac Books, for first recognizing the importance of the story and for recommending its publication, to Bridget Barry, acquisitions editor at the University of Nebraska Press, for her advice, guidance, and expert assistance in reducing the manuscript to meet publication requirements, and finally to Elaine Otto, copy editor, who provided invaluable guidance in the final preparation of the manuscript for typesetting.
D. L. S.
ONE
The Early Years
Winter can be both long and very cold in northern New England, yielding only reluctantly to something aptly called “Mud Season.” By June, however, the Hanover Plain is bright with the color of early flowers and that special green of spring. I had been told that, by tradition, it did not rain on Commencement Day. So it was in 1978.
My teenage children watched proudly as I accepted a graduate degree, and my husband held my hand tightly, pride reflecting in his eyes, as a 1930s model car drove slowly by—the driver blowing the horn and happily waving his new degree. The sound of that old horn seemed to pierce my heart, when the memory of Mother returned and I wondered if she was watching, proud of this latest accomplishment. One of my earliest memories as a toddler was rushing to a large window to look for the car that would bring Mama back to pick me up—a memory, if truly a memory, which would prove both useful and confusing in the years ahead. The sound of an old horn always started a rush of so many memories. It seems only yesterday that I longed for the sound of that old horn with all my heart, but it was so very, very long ago . . .
We lived in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, in the heart of the capital’s government and diplomatic sector. Our home was the large ground floor unit at No. 6 Dr. Kester Street, with four bedrooms, three baths, a large parlor, a dining room, a study that served as a music room and housed Mother’s piano, and a small adjoining room that served as Father’s office or den. A large kitchen and pantry and a maid’s suite with private bath completed the unit. If I close my eyes in writing this, I can see all of the wonderful french doors, the beautifully polished parquet floors, and, best of all, the very large windows that lined the hallway leading to my bedroom, Aunt ’Lyena’s bedroom, a shared bath, and a guest room. Those hallway windows overlooked one of two enclosed courtyards and would play a special part in my early childhood. I loved every inch of that home, but it was the people who filled my childhood who were important—my parents and the close family friends who had such an influence on me and my development. My story begins with them.
My father, Vasilii Mitrofanovitch Popov, was born in Penza, in the heart of Russia, in March 1895, one of seventeen children born to General Mitrofan Popov and his wife. Four of the seventeen died in infancy. All were born at the family estate near Penza, into a family of position and privilege, although not the great wealth once held by the family he would marry into.
Vasilii enrolled in the Imperial Military Academy and entered the Russian army as a commissioned officer upon graduation. He was always very proud of his service with the Drozdovsky Regiment and the raspberry colored uniform facings by which it was known.
When the revolution erupted, his unit was placed under the command of General Anton Denikin. Command soon changed to General Peter Wrangle, who renamed the White Army the Russian army, and Vasilii was promoted to the rank of captain. Wrangel led the army on a major offensive through Ukraine, entering Poltava victorious in the early autumn of 1920, and Captain Popov led a small detachment of soldiers into the central jail in Poltava to release any White prisoners confined by the Reds.
As he started unlocking cells, he found two young women—one an exceptionally beautiful girl of about nineteen, and her cellmate, close to the same age but handicapped. They were identified as Maria Petrovna and Elyena Petrovna Kuliabko-Koretskaya, daughters of the former governor general of Ukraine.
I have often tried to picture the scene that day in that Poltava jail cell—the very dashing, handsome young captain who must have stood speechless, at least for a moment, before the beautiful girl he found. I can almost see her drawn to her full height, demanding to know who this was that had entered the cell and stood now facing her and her sister.
Within weeks of the release of the two girls from jail, Wrangle’s forces suffered crushing defeat at the hands of a newly reinforced Red Army, and Wrangel organized a mass evacuation on the Black Sea coast offering soldiers and civilian the free choice of evacuating with him, into the unknown, or remaining to face the Red Army.
Captain Popov, together with Maria and Elyena, elected to join the exodus with Wrangel to Constantinople. I know that the three then traveled on to stay at least briefly in Shanghai, where the girls had friends and at least one cousin, before returning to Constantinople. I like to think that he and Maria were already deeply in love, but they simply never talked about this time in their lives.
King Alexander of Yugoslavia soon issued an invitation to all tsarist forces, welcoming them to Yugoslavia, and General Wrangel quickly organized and led a mass immigration of his Russian followers to Belgrade. Captain Popov and his two charges decided to join them.
Once settled in Belgrade, a Russian émigré community was quickly organized, perhaps by General Wrangle, centered on activities of the Russkii Dom (Russian House), which quickly became a vibrant social center for the community, establishing a school for émigré children. Captain Popov and his two charges were founding members of this group.
I don’t know where or even when my parents were married, but I was born in Belgrade, October 6, 1928, into a well-ordered household consisting of my parents, my aunt, and our housekeeper, Kristina. Russian children were always given the name of an Orthodox saint and a second name, a patronymic, which was the name of their father with an ending meaning “son of” or “daughter of” followed by the family name of the father. Accordingly, I was named and baptized Anastasia Vasilievna Popova—Anastasia (after the youngest daughter of the tsar), Vasilievna (after my father, Vasilii, with the evna feminine ending), Popova (with the feminine a ending). Russian is rich in the use of diminutives—pet names fondly used among family and close friends. I would be variously called Asinka, Anochka, or Asya, with Asinka used most frequently when I was a child and Asya commonly used as I became a young adult. Similarly, Father, Vasilii, was called Vasya, and Mother, Maria, was most often called Marusha by Father.
Father was the light of my life. Vasilii Mitrofanovitch Popov had dark brown hair and large blue eyes that exactly matched the color of the bachelor-button flower. The Russian word for this flower is Vasiliók, and I always imagined that the flower had been named after him because of his eyes. He was five years older than Mother, about six feet tall, broad-shouldered, slender, and athletically built. He was always very generous with his affections and took great pains to instill in me, from very early on, the importance of character. He often told me
stories that he invented and that always held a moral—the importance of being truthful and earnest at all times, and never to forget that I was a Russian and his daughter.
“As you go through life,” he said, “there will be times when you will be helpless. Disappointments will be found along the road of life, temptations and hurts that will weaken you, just as the walls of a house may be weakened by storms. But if the foundation is solid and strong, then one can reinforce the walls and the house will be made even stronger. So it may be in your life. But all the hurts and disappointments will only make you stronger. Never surrender your integrity! As long as your integrity, faith, and honesty are strong within you, then your foundation is solid and you will pass through all the ravages of life.”
My mother, Maria Petrovna, was born on her family estate, Kotchubeyevka, near Poltava in Ukraine, November 4, 1900. She and her sister were born into a life of great wealth, position, and privilege. Only one or two years separated them. Elyena Petrovna, who I believe was the older and who I would come to know and love as Aunt ’Lyena, suffered a birth defect that left her slightly handicapped, with a palsy-like tremor and a speech impediment.
Both girls began their education at home, under the tutelage of nannies and private tutors. The girls excelled at all subjects, particularly languages, gaining fluency in several by the time they were six years old. When the time came for a more structured, formal education to begin, Maria was enrolled in a private boarding school in Lausanne, Switzerland. Elyena, because of her handicap, remained at Kotchubeyevka to continue with home tutoring.
Mother was exceptionally beautiful and accomplished. She had a fair complexion and never used makeup other than light lipstick. Her eyes were dark brown with almost black irises surrounded by lovely bluish whites and very slightly slanted, rather almond-shaped, and her jet-black hair just brushed her shoulders. With a tiny waist and long, slender legs, her figure was nearly perfect and always earned admiring glances from both men and women. She took great pride in her hands and insisted that a manicurist visit her at home twice each week to see to their care. Her voice was low and well modulated and commanded attention whenever she spoke. She never raised her voice, even when correcting me.
Mother had managed to keep a family album of photographs showing her family at Kotchubeyevka and of herself at boarding school in Lausanne. I always thought my own baby pictures looked out of place among the formal family portraits. I would often leaf through the album, examining the sepia-toned pictures. One was a portrait of Mother’s father in riding clothes, with a pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. He was seated in a large chair, crossed legs highlighting his riding boots, arms resting comfortably on the chair arms, his right hand lightly holding a riding crop. He wore a leather device on his left hand—narrow leather straps extended between each of his fingers and were attached to a wide leather band that encircled his wrist. It looked terribly important to me, and I thought it must be something that only general governors wore.
I remember at about the age of six while looking at the album with Mother, I remarked once to her that I thought it must be wonderful to live in such a home, surrounded by so much art and beauty. Mother’s look softened as she said, “Always remember, Asinka, they were very nice, but they were only ‘things.’ One’s family and close friends are the treasures of life. They are the real treasures to be valued.”
“Yes, Mama.”
It would be many years before I began to appreciate Mother’s wisdom, but without realizing it I quickly adopted her values.
Mother would always hug me warmly but never kiss me. I wanted so much to jump up, hug and kiss her, and bury my face in her neck. She always smelled so good. But she would always restrain me and limit my closeness. The seed of rejection can be planted early and grow rapidly. If a passing automobile sounded its horn at such times, I would recall a dim, dark “memory,” perhaps a dream of being left someplace and being told by my mother to listen for the sound of the automobile horn. Told that the sound of the horn would mean that Mama was coming to get me, I would run to a large window and look out to the street for an automobile at the curb.
The “memory,” or dream, never included the face of my mother, and I began to think that the wrong mother had picked me up—someone kind, but not as loving as a mother should be. I never related this “memory” to Mother. Perhaps my parents simply left me overnight with friends while they traveled someplace on business or a brief vacation, but the explanation, if any, is now gone forever. It would be many years before I began to guess at the reason for Mother’s apparent distance.
Aunt ’Lyena was very frail with light brown hair streaked heavily with gray, softly falling to below her waist, but which she always twisted into a tight bun. She wore thick eyeglasses through which her very dark eyes appeared enormous to me. Her head twitched constantly and sharply to the right. Her hands trembled, and she held everything with both hands in order to avoid dropping it. She had a serious speech impediment, which caused her not to stutter but to draw out the length of many syllables so that good, for example, became goooood and bad became baaaaad. This often made it difficult to understand her and encouraged everyone to avoid any unnecessary conversation with her. I always understood her speech, and she remains sharply in my memory as the kindest, gentlest person I have ever known. It was Aunt ’Lyena who read me bedtime stories each evening, heard my evening prayers, and took me to church every Saturday evening and Sunday morning.
Church and religion were central to Aunt ’Lyena’s life, and I always looked forward to our weekly attendance. Our Russian Orthodox church was, for me, a center of magic, mystery, and reverence. The interior of the church contained a gold adorned altar and a great many Byzantine icons and was dimly lit by large round candle stands filled with hundreds of burning candles. There were no pews. The congregation stood throughout the lengthy service, but the children were invited to sit on the steps of the altar. From my perch on the steps the candles cast a mysterious glow and flickering shadows on the faces of the saints in the icons, convincing me that I could see their eyes and lips moving in silent prayer and that they would keep us all safe. I could always see Aunt ’Lyena standing in front, deep in prayer. Aunt ’Lyena would remain a strong moral force and example to me throughout my life.
Kristina was our housekeeper, and I could always count on her for an extra measure of affection. Kristina was Slovenian—a kind-faced woman with blonde hair fixed in braids that she wore wound about her head. She lived with us, cooked our meals, and looked after me and my well-being. She had large blue eyes and a smile that would chase all the clouds away and bring a tingling happy sensation into my busy but dull and quiet routine. Kristina was to become my confidante—a substitute mother to whom I could run with childish secrets and the questions that would trouble my childhood. There was, however, one secret which I always kept from her.
As far back as I can remember, I had to take a daily dose of cod-liver oil. The bottle was placed on the sill of one of the enormous hallway windows, between the inner window and the storm window. It was my responsibility to get a spoon from Kristina, fill it with cod-liver oil, and drink the foul-tasting stuff. It took me only a few days, however, to discover that I could open the outer storm window. From then on I simply opened the inside window, filled the spoon with the terrible stuff, opened the storm window, and dumped the spoon outside. I would then close the windows and return the spoon to Kristina. She, of course, never failed to heap praise upon me, particularly when I returned an empty bottle every few weeks.
“Oh, Asinka,” she would say, “what a good girl, and so grown-up.”
The little twinges of guilt this always caused must have been a small price to pay for avoiding the terrible liquid. The routine continued for years until my parents felt that I no longer needed it. Once when Mother was not at home, I went to her bathroom, which looked out on the courtyard from the other end. I pulled back the curtain to look out and was horrified to discover a long, dark oily
stain on the stones of the wall from a windowsill to the ground. I quickly closed the curtains and prayed that Mother would never look out through the curtains. It didn’t alter my routine, however. I simply stretched my arm further out before dumping the spoon. My secret was never discovered.
The cod-liver oil must have been the result of some childhood anemia because it coincides in my memory with a special drink that Father always prepared just for me—eggnog that he prepared with fresh milk, an egg, and spices that I had to drink daily to “build me up.” Father called it “Gogol-Mogul” and mixed it with great relish, handing it to me with a broad smile to encourage me. “Here you are, Asinka, Gogol-Mogul, delicious Gogol-Mogul.” Whatever it was, I thought it delicious and never needed encouragement to drink it, unlike the cod-liver oil.
All the people who were important in my life had a definite role. Father was the developer of my character, Aunt ’Lyena looked after my religious and moral development, and Kristina was a source of endless love and affection. Mother saw to overall planning and constantly added “aesthetic” touches, and all of our friends added a touch here and there to improve demeanor and appearance. Mother hosted weekly, relatively “formal” dinners that almost always included the same close friends, each of whom always kept me under close, constructive scrutiny:
General Mikhail Fedorovich Skorodumov was a very impressive man—an impeccable dresser, tall, broad-shouldered with jet-black hair graying at the temples, piercing dark eyes, a Roman profile, and upward curling mustache. He wore a leather strap device on his left hand, which commanded my utmost respect. I had no idea of its purpose, but Grandfather wore the same device in his portrait in our family album, and I was convinced that it signified a person of great importance.
Ancient Furies Page 2
