Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  After breakfast we followed the nun back to the dormitory, where we folded and put away our plaid outfits and changed into play clothes. There were no rules for play clothes, just whatever had been brought from home. Then we were let loose to run and play anywhere except the vegetable garden and the grotto.

  While there were always two nuns to supervise us, we were free to climb the trees, sing, yell, and run barefoot through the orchards—so completely different from what I was accustomed to. While I was a bit inhibited at first, I soon joined in. In no time at all I learned to love climbing trees and wandering, alone or with another girl, the many winding paths that meandered throughout the orchards and the small meadows and wooded areas that bordered the orchards and gardens. Those winding paths of Hopova early formed a love of solitude and nature that would help me through the many difficult times that lay ahead. We ate lunch at picnic tables and lay quietly on the grass after lunch, but then it was glorious, free, do-as-you-please time again.

  At 3:30 the nuns assembled us at the picnic tables to quietly read the books each girl had brought from home. My parents packed fairy tales and storybooks in French, German, and Russian for me. We read until 5:00, when we returned to the dormitory, washed, changed back into our plaid outfits, filed into the chapel for evening prayers, and then to the dining hall for dinner at 6:00. After dinner, we were asked to write a brief report describing what we had read earlier that day. The report was always written in Russian, regardless of the language of the book, and a nun checked the grammar. By 8:00 we were all in bed, watching the shadow on the wall and waiting for the nun on duty to begin to nod off.

  Aunt ’Lyena came to stay for a few days that first summer, and although she spent most of her time in the chapel or at the grotto, we spent some time together. I remember walking with her to the grotto where we prayed silently.

  “Aaalways reeemeemmmber, Anochka,” she said softly, “the grrrootto is a veeery hooly plaaace.”

  She explained that several miracles had occurred when ill people washed at the grotto spring and prayed to the Virgin Mary. I remember watching Aunt ’Lyena deep in prayer and wondering if she ever prayed for some cure for her own ailments or whether, as I knew was her habit, she prayed only for the well-being of others.

  Toward the end of that summer I fell out of a tree while climbing in the orchard. Bruised, scraped, and shaken, I cried as one of the nuns gently cleaned my scrapes.

  “Don’t you think, Sister,” I asked through my tears “that we should wash them at the grotto so that they will get better?”

  “Who has told you such a thing?” she asked, frowning.

  “My Aunt ’Lyena visits the grotto often to pray,” I replied solemnly. “She told me that the Virgin Mary answers prayers and that some people have been cured there.”

  The look on her beautiful face softened.

  “Well, it is true that the grotto is a very holy place and that miracles have happened in the past when people have prayed earnestly and truly believed in God’s goodness. But the grotto is not for healing scrapes and bruises. You should always keep the memory of the grotto in your heart, and in the years ahead if you find yourself in deep despair, think of the grotto and remember it.”

  She smiled, hugged me warmly, told me that my bruises were the prettiest she had ever seen, and sent me back to play. The memory of that little nun’s lovely face and tender words would remain with me throughout my life. That night I lay awake thinking long and hard, trying to discover “despair” in my life without really understanding the meaning of the word. I finally decided that I was free of despair and fell asleep watching the flickering candle and the peacefully nodding shadow of the nun on the wall of the dormitory.

  In the turbulent years that followed, I would recall the nun’s words often and wish with all my heart to return to Hopova, to be able to seek solace in its serenity and its peaceful grotto, but that was never to be. I would spend at least a part of each of the following three summers at Hopova, and my summers there remain among the most treasured memories of my childhood. Meanwhile, although I was blissfully unaware of them, world events kept advancing rapidly.

  November 1, 1936: Benito Mussolini, speaking in Milan, described a recently formed alliance between Italy and Adolf Hitler’s Germany to be an “axis” extending from Rome to Berlin. From then on his words were used to define the “Axis Powers” as Germany and her allies during World War II.

  Mother added English to my home tutoring at the start of the 1937 school year, filling the language calendar from Monday through Friday with English, French, German, Russian, and Serbian. Mother spoke each of these languages, in addition to Polish, Ukrainian, Greek, Spanish, and Italian. Unlike Father, she spoke each language fluently and with no discernible accent, and she expected the same of me.

  In midwinter 1937, an open sore formed on Father’s chest, and he was hospitalized and isolated, seen only through a hallway window into his room. His doctors stated that this apparently unknown bacterial infection did not respond to treatment. As soon as they determined that there was no danger of contagion, he was released from the hospital, but at home he continued to feel ill and seemed to have lost all of his old energy. There was no change throughout that year. I remember Aunt ’Lyena gently chiding him: “Vaaashaa deear, Yooou shouuuld baaathe that woound with the waaater at Hoopova. I knoooow thaat the Bleeesssed Mooother wiill heeelp, aand that God willl aaaansweeer your prraaayers.”

  March 12, 1938, Anschluss: Nazi Wehrmacht troops entered Austria to “symbolize” the unification of the German populations of Austria and Germany. This constituted the annexation of Austria into greater Germany. Austria would cease to exist as an independent nation until late 1945, not to regain full sovereignty until 1955.

  In July 1938 Father borrowed an automobile from someone and drove me to Hopova for my summer vacation. He was still not feeling well and had to keep the sore in the middle of his chest bandaged.

  “I’m going to stay at Hopova tonight,” he told me as we drove out of Belgrade. “I want to say a few prayers and bathe the sore on my chest with the water at the grotto. Aunt ’Lyena is convinced that it will help.”

  We met after breakfast the following morning, and he asked me to show him the grotto. I took his hand and led him along one of the winding paths that led to the grotto, where we knelt together before the icon at the spring. Father prayed while he removed the bandages. Kneeling beside him, I could see the sore—now over two inches in diameter in the center of his chest. It looked like a very bad burn, moist and raw in the center and bright red and swollen around the edges. He prayed as he scooped water from the pool to wash the wound. He repeated this three times and then rebandaged his chest.

  “Does it hurt badly, Papa?”

  “No, Asinka, it doesn’t hurt, but it just gets bigger. It won’t close up and heal as it should, and it has been over six months since it appeared. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” he said, adding, “Everything is in order,” his usual reassurance. “You concentrate on having a good time with the nuns and the other girls and enjoying this beautiful place.”

  My third summer at Hopova proved even happier than the first two. There were new girls to become acquainted with, and since I was now an “experienced” summer boarder, I could show them all the neat places and walks that I had already discovered. I felt a little odd, though. Although many other girls were my age, the books they brought from home, I noticed, were childish compared to the books I brought, which then tended to be classic tales or novels in French or German. Mother had recently given me a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in English, but I had not yet attempted to read that. Aunt ’Lyena visited a week or two after Father had left, and I accompanied her again to the grotto where we both knelt in prayer. This time I heard her mention Father’s name in her prayers, and as I was reminded of his chest, I too prayed for him.

  The summer passed as quickly as the previous summers had, and when it was time to return to Belgrade,
I remember feeling a bit sad at leaving. I think I was beginning to mature a bit and to recognize those things in my life which were to be treasured. And I think I understood that Hopova was one of those treasures and that it would soon belong to the past.

  September 30, 1938: British prime minister Neville Chamberlain and the leaders of France and Italy signed an agreement with Adolf Hitler in Munich to permit Germany to annex a large portion of Czechoslovakia in exchange for a promise of peace. Chamberlain hailed the accomplishment as “peace in our time.” Hitler broke the agreement eleven months later.

  November 9, 1938: Nazi gangs smashed, looted, and burned synagogues and Jewish-owned businesses and homes in Germany and Austria. It came to be known as Krystallnacht, a “night of broken glass.”

  As 1939 began, there was every promise of it becoming a wonderful year. The soft sounds of Mother’s piano filled the house, Father’s health was steadily improving, my studies both at home and at school were interesting, and I was doing exceptionally well. The friends who joined us for dinner brought lively conversation and frequent laughter. I knew at a very early age that I was to attend the Sorbonne in Paris and that Kolya Nazimov and I were expected to marry after we had both finished our education. However, in 1939 my childhood would come to an end. My whole world would begin to change dramatically and rapidly.

  Family dinner conversations gradually became more and more concerned with political events. I knew that Germany had absorbed Austria in a vote held in March of the previous year, but I still did not fully understand the long-range implications. I knew also that a territorial dispute existed between Germany and Czechoslovakia until, I thought, it had been settled by a treaty in the previous November. No one seemed alarmed, but during dinner conversations there was concern that Germany appeared to be strong and belligerent and that events could possibly result in hostilities.

  March 14, 1939: The Republic of Czechoslovakia was dissolved as Nazi Germany prepared to occupy the country.

  April 7, 1939: Italy invaded Albania. Less than a week later, Italy annexed Albania.

  By late spring the sore on Father’s chest had disappeared without leaving any visible scar. Aunt ’Lyena was overjoyed, since she had urged him to visit the grotto at Hopova.

  June 4, 1939: The liner ss St. Louis carrying over nine hundred Jewish refugees from Germany was denied permission to dock in the United States.

  I left for Hopova in July 1939 for the last time. Perhaps I already anticipated my “new life” in Gymnasia, but I did not climb the trees in the orchards or run carefree and heedlessly through the lush green meadows. The summer was cut short, signaling that the pages of my life were beginning to turn more rapidly. Father appeared at the end of the second week to pick me up, explaining that there were a great many preparations for Gymnasia that must be attended to.

  For many students, the completion of elementary school would mark the end of their education. Gymnasia offered a progressive program providing four years of intensive studies in preparation for university admission. It was roughly comparable to completion of high school plus the first two years of college in the United States, and it was normally entered at age fourteen or fifteen after eight years of elementary school. “Double promotions” in elementary school were not uncommon during the 1930s, but my progress was unusual. With the advantage of intensive home tutoring beginning at age three, I would enter Gymnasia just before my eleventh birthday. I remember several serious discussions that led to my parents deciding that all my home tutoring had prepared me well scholastically and that I was much more mature than the average eleven-year-old.

  My parents had decided on the more progressive Trécha Zhénska Gymnasia Kralitse Maria (Third Women’s Gymnasia of Queen Maria) instead of the Russian Gymnasia, and I was particularly excited because of the uniforms. The girls at the Russian Gymnasia wore very drab uniforms—a dark brown dress to mid-calf, a black, full apron, black socks, and high black shoes. Trécha Zhénska girls, however, wore short, navy blue pleated skirts, a white satin blouse with Peter Pan collar, white knee socks, black patent shoes, and a navy blue cashmere beret. The beret was worn at all times and displayed three gold chevrons indicating Third Women’s Gymnasia, and gold roman numerals below the chevron indicating the grade. I could hardly wait to attend that school—really, to wear that uniform.

  When we arrived home, Mother explained that there were many things to do in preparation for the start of school and that she had many things to tell me.

  “Are you excited about entering Gymnasia, Asinka?” Mother asked in English. I had noticed that she spoke to me now more often in English when we were alone. It seemed a bit odd to me, but my thoughts were occupied with entering Gymnasia. “Sit here on the sofa, Anochka,” she began. “This is to be a big year with many changes in all our routines. But first, tell me—did you enjoy Hopovo this year?”

  “Yes, Mama, but it wasn’t the same. I thought that the other girls were just children this year.”

  “Of course. That’s because you are growing up. You’re going to begin Gymnasia in just a few weeks and that will bring changes and new responsibilities. You’ll soon become a young lady. The girls you meet in Gymnasia are older and already behaving like young ladies. You will have to behave accordingly and to study hard.”

  It seemed to me that between school and my tutors I studied constantly, and the words “study hard” made me wonder a bit, but I was excited about what was beginning.

  “Now,” Mother continued, “we are going to have a very important visitor in a few days. This is a gentleman I have known for many years. You are to be on your very best behavior, and you might practice your curtsy a bit. His name is Umberto, Prince Umberto. He is the son of King Emanuel of Italy and is now the Crown Prince of Italy. He will be in Belgrade on state business for just a few days. I expect you to be a perfect lady when he visits.”

  August 23, 1939: Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union signed a nonaggression treaty.

  The house became a whirlwind of activity. Kristina polished the samovar and all the silver until they shined as though they had never been used, and she devoted the rest of her time to baking very special pastries. The flurry of activity heightened my own sense of excitement. “A real prince,” I thought, as I imagined a princely figure in royal robes, just like the pictures in my books.

  On the day the prince was to visit, I sat quietly waiting for the doorbell to ring, refusing to move so that I might displace neither a bow nor a button. At long last the bell rang and a tall, dark, handsome man with a small, neat mustache entered. He wore a dark suit and a white stiff-collared shirt. He and Mother embraced warmly and exchanged greetings in French. Then Mother turned toward me and said, continuing in French, “Umberto, this is my daughter, Anastasia Vasilievna.”

  I was very surprised. That was the first time Mother had introduced me as “Anastasia Vasilievna” rather than Asinka, and it made me feel a foot taller. With all of Baroness Andersen’s past criticisms in mind, I performed my very best curtsy and greeted the prince in French as he bowed gallantly in response, taking my hand and gently kissing my fingertips. I thought that I would faint.

  The conversation was entirely in French as the three of us sat before the gleaming samovar, and Kristina appeared with her delicious pastries. I sat like a statue, speaking only when I was spoken to, as Mother and her friend reminisced about her visit to his family a long time before, occasionally breaking into Italian with a laugh. I watched closely and decided that he was as handsome as a prince should be, although disappointed that he dressed the same as everyone else. As he prepared to leave, he bowed again, but this time he kissed me on the cheek.

  “Anastasia, you are a very lovely young lady,” he said as I curtsied. “You make me wish that I was twenty-five years younger.”

  After dinner that evening I asked permission to play my phonograph. Father had given it to me a year earlier, but I was allowed to play it only on special occasions. I had a small collection of records,
including Russian songs by Alexander Vertinsky, then the rage among Russian émigrés, Beniamino Gigli, the Italian opera tenor, Tino Rossi, a popular Italian tenor, and even Spike Jones’s “Cocktails for Two.” I went to my room and played records by Tino Rossi singing Neapolitan love songs and dreamed of princes and palaces. After all, this was the first time a handsome man, a prince at that, had kissed my hand and my cheek.

  THREE

  War Clouds

  The following day Mother entered the living room where I was seated, still dreaming of having been kissed by a real prince. She sat on a chair and announced that she had several things to tell me.

  “First, Mrs. Ivanovich will be here tomorrow to take measurements and start sewing your new school uniforms. We have only a few weeks to get ready for school.”

  Mrs. Ivanovich was a very talented seamstress who made all our clothes. Mother, Aunt ’Lyena, and I never purchased clothes in a store.

  Suddenly Mother began to cough. Just for an instant, I noticed what I thought were small flecks of blood on her handkerchief before she quickly moved it out of sight.

  “Next, Volodia and Zhora have increased their university courses and will no longer be able to tutor you. I have found a very nice older English lady, Madame Spencer, who will come each day. She will teach English language, including grammar, as well as English literature and customs. You have done very well with foreign languages, but I think it is important now for you to strengthen your English language skills. You remember how important fluency in foreign languages is.”

  “Yes, Mama,” I replied, thinking only of Gymnasia and my new uniform.

  “Very well, and please remind Kristina that Madame Ivanovich will be here tomorrow morning.”

  Kristina’s smile and blue eyes lit the kitchen as I ran for my usual hug and began to jabber excitedly about my new school and uniform.