Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  Back inside I stopped in Aunt ’Lyena’s room. Although boxes remained on the floor, waiting to be unpacked, she had made certain that the corner shelf which held her icon and a small oil lamp had been put up. The flickering light of the oil lamp gave the whole room a soft, warm glow. Her Bible was lying open on her night table, next to the lamp. She had already been reading it. Her bed had been turned down and was ready for the night.

  “Aunt ’Lyena,” I asked, “when did you get the shelf put up?”

  “As soooon as I entered myyy roooom. Thaaat’s the mooost important thing. Yoooou should maaaake aaaa place for God as sooon as you ennnter the room. Isn’t your Iiiiicon uuuup yet?”

  “No, I guess they didn’t have time to do it.”

  “How saaaad. People expect God to be there foooor them at aaaall times, and yet they doooon’t have tiiime to light a lamp for Him or puuut up an icon.”

  “I’m sure everybody was just so busy with boxes and furniture.”

  “Oh, Anochka, I hooope that wheeen you grow up yoooou will nevvver forget to put God firrrrst and fooooremost in your liiife.”

  I put both arms around Aunt ’Lyena and hugged her as tightly as I dared.

  “I won’t, Aunt ’Lyena, I promise. And I’ll always remember what you have taught me—that my life is in God’s hands and that He will always cradle me in His hands as long as I live according to his teachings.”

  “I hoooope so, Asinka. I hooope so, my dear, and I’ll alwaaaays pray for you and remiiind God that yooou are sooo young and that he neeeeeds to hold yooou securely in His haaaands.”

  “I love you, Aunt ’Lyena.” We hugged, and I closed her door behind me.

  It took about a week for the house to be placed in good order, but each day it looked cozier. The paintings were hung on the walls, and the rugs placed on the floors. Father purchased a new Persian carpet that covered almost the entire living room floor. The colors—dark red, blue, green, and beige—added so much warmth to the room. The french doors faced west, and the long white curtains and dark green drapes came alive in a light evening breeze and the rays of the setting sun. I walked into the room on the first day that the house was finished and noticed that Mother’s grand piano had the lid down. I put it up, sat on the stool, and suddenly wished with all my heart that I could play as well as Mother. “Well,” I thought, “someday I’ll continue practicing, but for now . . .” The doorbell rang, and I glanced at my watch. It was 4:55 pm. I knew that it was Miss Spencer, and I went to open the door and to welcome her to our new home.

  I don’t know if it was my mellow mood, thinking of Mother and the beauty of the new living room, but as the lesson progressed, I was surprised that I no longer objected to drilling the th sound. Maybe I had grown wiser and decided that it was silly to resist her insistence on correct pronunciation. After all, I realized, that was the whole point of her lessons. Beginning early in my first year of Gymnasia, just about this time, I also made a conscious decision not to curtsy before anyone. That too had become childish. Instead I bowed my head very slightly when greeting an adult. I think attending the first year of Gymnasia made me feel much older and more mature.

  The house was finally cleared of all the boxes, and everything looked as though we had always lived there. It was homier than our home on Dr. Kester. It was simpler to maintain an even heat, which would be good for Mother, although we all agreed that the radiators were a bit ugly and sometimes noisy. Priska arched her back and hissed several times at the strange noise coming from the radiators, but in a week or two she would learn to ignore it.

  Life in Dedinye gradually became pleasantly routine. Unfortunately, our friends did not stop as often as before. It was far less convenient for most of them than Dr. Kester Street had been. Only Uncle Borya seemed to be in our home in Dedinye as often as he was at Dr. Kester. Triska would have been lost without him.

  Father planned to leave on December 21 to bring Mother home. He went through the house several times to be absolutely sure that everything was as near perfect as he could make it.

  “Asinka, do you think the house is all right? Is there anything else we should do to make it presentable for Mother?”

  “No, Papa. Maybe some flowers would look nice, especially on her dresser.”

  “Oh, yes. Let’s not forget. When Kristina goes to the market, she should get fresh flowers.”

  “When will you be back, Papa?”

  “We should be back on the 26th.”

  “Oh, good, then you’ll have time to get a Christmas tree when you return, and I’ll be starting my vacation from school. We’ll have almost two weeks to prepare, and maybe I can start working on decorations before you even get home.”

  “Too bad we won’t have a big tree,” Papa said. “The ceilings are much lower here and the rooms are not as large.” He was looking around as he spoke and his voice trailed off, sounding almost apologetic, as though he were trying to explain to Mother why we would have only a small tree.

  “Papa, it doesn’t matter if we have a smaller tree.”

  “I know, I know. I just want everything to be pleasant and happy for her.”

  Papa walked to the french doors in the living room and stood for a moment looking out at the view of the front yard, and the wooded area beyond, across Shenoyna Street. He opened one of the doors, filling the room with the now brisk evening air.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “I forgot to tell you. Borya will come tomorrow, and he’ll be bringing a little black Scotty puppy. I was supposed to pick him up today, but I was too busy. I hope you’ll like him. Mother always liked little Scotties. Well, goodnight. I’ll be gone by the time you are up tomorrow.”

  Once in bed that night, Priska next to my legs purring and performing her nightly grooming, I laid awake thinking of how Father had tried so hard to make everything perfect for Mother’s return. He loved her very much. She had been through so much in her life, and all her illnesses must have been very hard on both of them.

  Strange, I thought. Mother is so very pretty, poised, a perfect lady in every respect . . . so athletic, yet she has contracted so many illnesses, while Aunt ’Lyena, who is so very plain in appearance, and so unathletic, so frail, seems never to have had a sick day in her life. Still she has the most beautiful soul I could imagine. Surely, God must have His reasons for arranging things the way He does. Maybe someday His plan will be clear.

  My thoughts were interrupted as Priska began shaking the whole bed by intensively grooming herself.

  “In a couple of days, Priska,” I said, stroking her, “you’ll have to scoot under the bed. Remember, Mother does not like you sleeping with me.” Her gentle purring put me to sleep right away.

  I had just returned from school the following day and started to work on some homework when the doorbell rang. Kristina opened the door, and Uncle Borya entered. He took the puppy from under his coat and placed him on the floor. The puppy immediately ran all over the house, sniffing everywhere. Kristina did not look happy about it. She wanted the house to be immaculate.

  Suddenly we heard a piercing yelp, followed by hissing and a loud meow. The puppy was trying to run toward us while Priska was blocking his way, standing with her back arched and her hair standing up all over. Borya grabbed Priska and placed her on his lap, and the dog ran under the piano, still yelping. Kristina, mumbling to herself, went to get her new Hoover, convinced that the entire house was now full of dog hair.

  The following few days were hectic for Kristina, as she baked and cleaned the house and kept peace between Priska and Scotty, the puppy’s unofficial name while waiting for Mother to return and give him a proper name. It seemed as though her new Hoover was on before I left for school and still in use when I came home. Uncle Borya teased her.

  “Kristina, you are going to wear out the new rug with that noisy machine. All the threads and colors will get pulled out.”

  “We moved here so that Madame would have fresh air. Well, what good does the fresh air on the outside do i
f the inside is full of dog hair?”

  She sounded grumpy, but I think she had begun to enjoy the convenience of her new Hoover.

  The day before Mother came home, Kristina must have bought out a whole flower shop. When I left for school the following morning, she had already placed fresh flowers everywhere. She kept Scotty locked in her room, afraid that Priska and he would get in a fight and knock down the vases.

  I couldn’t concentrate in school. I ran from the trolley stop, but as I approached the house, I slowed and almost tiptoed, afraid to disturb Mother. As I put my foot on the first step, she was there at the door to greet me. I ran up the steps and, without thinking, hugged her tightly until I felt her stiffen. I relaxed my grip, snuggling my head against her, realizing, “Oh, that beautiful scent. Yes, Mother is really back.” She gently embraced me, kissing the top of my head.

  “You have grown, my little one.” She spoke in French, then quickly changed to English. “Oh, I forgot. No more French, just English, right?” she added with a bright smile.

  “Oh, Mama, it’s so good to see you. How do you feel? Do you hurt? Was it very bad? Are you able to breathe all right with just one lung? Did you see the lung they removed? What did they do with it?”

  “Oh, my, so many questions all in one breath. Your mother is getting dizzy just trying to remember all your questions,” Father said in Russian, holding Mother’s hand gently as we moved into the living room where she could sit down.

  “Now,” Mother began, “it does hurt just a little. No, it did not hurt during the operation since I was under ether, which was the worst part because I was so sick from the ether following the surgery. No, I did not see the lung, and I don’t know what they did with it. Any other questions?”

  She looked at me with that beautiful smile. I noticed now that she was very pale, her dark eyes even darker because of her pallor. Even her beautiful hand, now resting on my leg, looked pale and thin.

  “Miss Spencer has done a good job. Your English has come along beautifully. Do you have a lesson this evening?”

  “No,” Papa interjected. “I told Miss Spencer that you would be coming home and that you and Asya would need some time together. And besides, you’ll be speaking English with her.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Papa.”

  “Do I sense a slight dislike for Miss Spencer?” Mother asked.

  “No, Mama, I like her fine. She has really helped me a lot. I think it’s just that she never smiles.”

  “It’s just the way of the English. They often come across as so very formal and dry.”

  We heard the samovar “sishing” in the dining room as Kristina brought in a tray of tea and pastries with a glass of milk for me. Aunt ’Lyena followed Kristina to join us for tea.

  “Yooou should reaaally have milk, toooo, Marusha,” she said, looking at Mother with deep concern.

  “I will, ’Lyena, but it seems that was all I had in the sanitarium—four times a day. The tea is a welcome change. Have you seen Sonya lately? How are she and Sergei doing?”

  “Poooor Sooonya is driiinking even moooore than before. She is sooo cooonceeerned that the waaar may spread heeere to Belgrade. Offf course, thaaat could be juuust an exxxxcuse, too.”

  “I’m sure she is worried about the war spreading. Everyone is,” Mother replied. “In Switzerland they too think Germany is unstoppable, that Germany is like an octopus, reaching for prey in all directions.”

  “Welll, we juuust haaave tooo praay haaarder.”

  “Don’t you remember how hard you and I prayed when we were girls, and here we are, parents, country, all we had, gone.”

  “Yeeess, buuut wee haaave muuch to be thaankfuuul fooor. We aaare aaalive, and youuu haaave yoour own faaamily nooow, God muuust haaave had reeeasooons for uuus to go throoouuugh whaaat we did when weee were yoooung girls.”

  “Oh ’Lyena, I love you, You’re such an optimist.”

  “Nooot an oooptimmiiist, Marusha deear. I juuust haaave faith iiin God and iiin his wisdoom and gooodness.”

  Mother rose and turned to kiss and embrace me, saying that she was tired and needed to rest a bit. Papa quickly moved to take her arm and went with her to their room. I went off to my own room to begin my homework.

  I was overjoyed that Mother was home. She was so much more affectionate than her usual self. But she looked so pale, even more serious than usual, and I worried that all the talk about war again would sadden her and delay her recovery. I sat at my desk, poring over an open school book, but could not concentrate. I found myself again wondering what war was like.

  Father had told me that he and his men often sat for days in wet, cold trenches waiting for an enemy attack. That they, in turn, had stormed enemy trenches, bayonets fixed, guns firing all about them as soldiers on both sides were mortally wounded or killed outright, neither side having time to bury their dead as they pursued the enemy or tried to escape an attack themselves. Is that how it would be with us? I wondered. But we have no guns. Would we have to dig trenches? Suddenly I felt very cold and moved to open the radiator valve all the way. The radiator clanked, bringing heat into the room, and I hurried to finish my homework to have as much time as possible free to be with Mother during vacation.

  Over the next several days it was wonderful to walk through the house catching the faint scent of Mother’s perfume in the air. It gave me a secure feeling. Everything was going to be all right. The lid was raised on the piano, and the soft music of Chopin and Schubert, Beethoven and Brahms filled the house. The only hint of trouble was when Mother went to the stables to check on her horses. She told us that she could not understand why Abdul acted up when she tried to ride him. Why she wasn’t able to control him as she always had? Since she was still a bit weak, she decided to ride the gentle, even-tempered Silva and to let Abdul get a bit “more civilized.”

  “Maybe he has been cooped up too long,” she told Father, who was already concerned about her trying to ride so soon. “But the groom who cares for him told me that he has not been able to control him either. He hasn’t been able to ride him, and during the exercise walks Abdul behaves absolutely wildly.”

  “Well, he is pure Arabian and high-strung, and maybe he just missed you as much as we all did.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right. He’ll be fine when I come back to stay. Do you know when that will be?” she asked, looking like a little girl full of hope.

  “The doctor said that if you follow his advice closely, he felt certain that the first of May would be a good time for you to return for good.”

  “Oh, yes, Mama, the first of May would be wonderful. All the trees and flowers will be blooming, and the birds will be singing everywhere. And I’m sure that the spring here in Dedinye will be extra beautiful.”

  “You know,” Mother said, “it often saddened me when in the sanitarium patients spoke of other patients who had died, a number of them in the springtime. Everyone thought that must be such a sad time to die, just when nature comes alive. But I would like to die in springtime, when there is so much fresh beauty to console people.”

  “Mama, did a lot of people die in the sanitarium?”

  “No, not while I was there. But let’s not talk about morbid subjects. We should concentrate on making Christmas decorations.”

  Father had a tree brought to the house the following day, and all of us began making preparations for Orthodox Christmas on January 6. Aunt ’Lyena, Mother, and I began making ring chains out of brightly colored foil paper, and Kristina busied herself baking pastries and preparing kutya, a dish made of honey and poppy seeds, for the holidays. When Mother took a break, the house was filled with the soothing sound of her piano, and1939 faded away without much notice on my part.

  Aunt ’Lyena and I went to evening mass every night during the week before Christmas. Plans had already been made for one of Mother’s usual dinners with all of our regular friends a few days after Christmas. It seems that all of them came, all of the “regulars,” plus Aunt Nadia a
nd General Nazimov. Kolya and Yura must have been busy with another school function. For some reason which I could not understand, I detected some restraint on the part of everyone. As usual, the conversation was in French, but it seemed subdued. It was the first time that I remember becoming aware of and concerned with the possibility of hostilities reaching Belgrade.

  I was still not comfortable joining in the conversation, but I did pay close attention. The countries now mentioned in connection with the war—France, England, Italy, Spain, Greece, and Africa—left me almost dizzy. I pictured the map of Eastern Europe in my mind. All right, I thought, we border Italy, Austria, Hungary, Romania, and Bulgaria and down to the south Albania, Greece. But what do we have to do with these other countries? Why are we so consumed with the threat of war?”

  “Asya,” Lyalya’s voice interrupted my thoughts, “you are so quiet today. How come?”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “You’re getting too serious since you started Gymnasia,” Lyalya said.

  “It wouldn’t hurt young people to think of current events and to realize that our lives are changing daily,” General Skorodumov interjected.

  “But not for a young girl who doesn’t yet understand the true meaning of life,” Nicolai Fedorovich, the General’s brother, said. “Let her live without worrying for a while. Let her go and chase butterflies for now.”

  “Believe it or not, life is not a theatrical stage. Life is not make-believe. I hope when you finally come down to earth, it won’t be with a bang,” the General retorted.

  Everyone knew the two brothers were getting too serious. They could never see eye-to-eye. Father quickly rose.

  “A toast,” he said, “to returning to Russia and to all the beautiful women in the world.” He looked around, smiling at Mother and the rest of the ladies.

  “Thank God, you came up with a sensible toast, Vasya. I was already preparing for a faint,” said Lyalya, but now in Russian, raising her wineglass and flashing one of her charming, coquettish smiles, to which all of the men bowed and lifted their glasses.