Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  “Well, I happen to agree with the General,” said General Nazimov forcefully. “I fully expect my sons to follow events very carefully and be prepared to defend their country.”

  “That is absolutely absurd,” Aunt Nadia stated emphatically. “Exactly what country would you want them to defend? They are Russian. We have no country to defend. We had our chance in 1918, and we lost.”

  Aunt Nadia looked directly at her husband, who had never acknowledged that he was now just a civilian, an émigré without an army to command or a country to defend.

  I noticed Father trying desperately to think up another toast, just as Baroness Andersen spoke up:

  “Is there a war? I just want to go home to Russia. I wonder if my servants are waiting for me?”

  “Dear Baroness,” said Uncle Borya, rising quickly to offer an elegant bow. “Dear Baroness, there is no war in Russia, and I am sure all your servants are waiting with champagne and caviar.”

  “Well, I hope so, and you, my dear Borya, are cordially invited to my soiree.”

  “Thank you, Baroness,” replied Borya with another bow.

  I watched Lyalya as she rolled her eyes, sent a large puff of smoke toward the ceiling, and smiled at the Baroness across the table.

  Mother was very quiet and looked relieved when the samovar was placed in the middle of the table and Kristina brought a tray of pastries. The aroma of freshly ground Turkish coffee filled the room as Kristina ground the beans with a long brass grinder, brewed the coffee, and served it in tiny demitasse cups with sugar cubes. I was allowed barely half a cup, just enough to be soaked up in three cubes of sugar. It was very rare that my parents would allow that, and when they did, I felt very special—and quite sophisticated. General Skorodumov almost spoiled it as he watched, shaking his head as he saw me dip the first cube.

  “That’s not good for you, Asya. It would be better for you to chase butterflies as my brother suggested than to take that poison.”

  “Oh, leave the girl alone. You’re just old and cranky, General. Why don’t you go off and form an army someplace,” Lyalya stated.

  This was the only time I saw Lyalya genuinely aggravated, and she put her arm around my shoulders and kissed my cheek. Her sharp comment would prove sadly prophetic within another year or two. Everyone moved into the living room as the coffee was finished.

  “Will you play some Chopin for us, Maria?” the Baroness asked as she plopped onto the couch, her skirts taking up most of it.

  “I am very sorry,” Mother replied, “but I’m so very tired. Perhaps some other day, Baroness?”

  “Well, you too are most welcome at my soiree, and perhaps you can play there.”

  Lyalya’s eyes rolled to follow a large puff of smoke she blew toward the ceiling as she said with a great sigh, “Baroness, let me help you off this couch. It’s so soft you’ll never get up by yourself.”

  “And who are you? I don’t want to get up just now. Maria is going to play a little Chopin for us.”

  “No, Baroness, she is going to play at your soiree, remember? And we’ll all come and have a wonderful evening. But now we must go.”

  Wonderful Aunt Lyalya, she saw that Mother was exhausted and made the first effort to get everyone moving. The embraces from each of our friends were almost too much for Mother. She stood holding on to the piano, and in her smile I could see that she was exhausted and relieved that the evening was coming to a close.

  That evening was the last formal dinner with all our close friends that I remember—the last time that all of our friends would be gathered together. It wasn’t a normally pleasant evening, not the relaxing conversation that everyone was so accustomed to. Everyone had seemed on edge. The war talk was stressful and very frightening. I suddenly wished that it was summer and that I could chase butterflies and find a secluded place on cool grass in the woods to lie quietly and watch puffy white clouds form mysterious shapes to enhance my fantasies.

  Mother seemed to be looking forward to her return to the sanitarium. Perhaps, I thought, it hadn’t been wise for her to come for a visit. She looked very tired and pale. Her first few days at home she had been relaxed and cheerful, but her experience with Abdul had upset her, and the last dinner with our friends had been very trying for her. I believe that all the talk of war upset her terribly. Her memories of Kotchubeyevka, her own experiences, and her concern for her present family added to her distress. The evening before Mother was to leave, she came to my room.

  “I wanted to say good-bye now, because you’ll be in school when Papa and I leave tomorrow.”

  As she sat on my bed, Priska lay curled around the lamp on my desk, and I quickly sat at the desk trying to block her view of the cat.

  “Sit here, Anochka,” she said, patting the bed. “You don’t have to hide her.”

  “Yes, Mama. Do you like the little Scotty that Papa got for us?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t have a chance to get to know him or even to give him a proper name. Priska doesn’t seem too fond of him. I’m not wild about him either, to be truthful. But I don’t want to talk about the dog. How are you doing? It hasn’t been much fun for you: new school, moving to a new home, and me being away so much.”

  “I’m fine, Mama. I’m very busy, but I love school. I just miss you.”

  She put her arms around me, and I snuggled close, inhaling her perfume. How I wanted to just squeeze her hard and kiss her, but she was so frail. She hugged and kissed me. She was so much more affectionate than I remembered her ever being, and I didn’t want to let her go.

  “I am so very proud of you, Anochka. You are doing so well in school and exceptionally well with your languages. You do remember that knowledge of other languages is very important. I’m not insisting on your piano lessons. You can always pick them up again later. The world is changing fast, and we live in such uncertain times that knowledge of other languages is like a safety net. You’ll never go hungry if you are fluent in other languages.”

  “I remember, Mama. Is that why you learned foreign languages when you were a girl?”

  “Well, it was a bit different with me. When I was growing up, young ladies were simply expected to know at least two other languages.”

  “I wish I could see Kotchubeyevka.”

  “Someday we might all go back. At least we can hope for that. But we don’t know what the future will bring. Right now Europe is in such turmoil. Oh, God, I am so tired. I don’t think I could cope very well with another war. Above all, I don’t want you to get caught up in a war. Let’s just hope and pray that it will all turn out all right.”

  “Mama, is war really terrible?”

  “Yes, it is, but you shouldn’t trouble yourself with these thoughts. Let me hug you hard enough to last until we see each other again in May.”

  As I tried to sleep that night, my mind was racing. This was the first time I felt Mother had really shown love and affection for me—the first time I could remember being permitted to hug and kiss her. The thought that fear of contagion might have forced her to keep me at a distance in the past never occurred to me. She had been so gentle; her eyes had shown so much tenderness, love, and sadness at the same time that I was just grateful.

  It was also the first time that Mother allowed me to see her deep concern about the political situation in Europe and the possibility of war extending to us. Just recognizing her concern was worrisome. And why did General Nazimov say that he wanted his sons to defend “our” country? That thought was a bit frightening.

  Christmas vacation ended the following day. I submitted the home assignments that I had completed over the break, and when they were returned I found that for the first time five points had been taken off my grade. I had dated the paper December 1939, when I had completed it, instead of January 1940, when it was due.

  “Your assignments were done extremely well as usual,” Miss Visnic said, “but you did not pay attention to the correct dates. I have noticed, as have other teachers, that you don’t seem to be
paying attention as well lately. Is anything bothering you?”

  Miss Visnic looked concerned but very stern.

  “No, nothing is bothering me. I am sorry I overlooked the date.”

  “Is your mother feeling better? When do you expect her to come home to stay?”

  “Mother left this morning. We expect her to return in early May.”

  “It must be very hard on you and your family. I hope that the spring will bring only good news for you. I am sorry about the points, but you know that we demand the highest performance.”

  “Yes, Miss Visnic, and I’m sorry about the dates.”

  SIX

  Life in Dedinye

  Father returned from Switzerland a few days later, and life both at school and at home, as well as my tutoring with Miss Spencer, returned to normal. Our friends stopped by occasionally to inquire about Mother, and Uncle Borya was with us as much as ever. Kristina planted flower seeds in the brick terraces. The weather warmed, and the days grew longer. I enjoyed walking to and from the trolley stop more and more because as I lightly kicked at the leaves looking for beetles, tiny green sprigs began to appear, and it seemed that each day there were more of them.

  We made frequent trips to Yaintse to check on the progress there. Father was upset because we had still not found fresh water, and he was delaying the start of construction of the house until water became readily available. Although the well had already been dug quite deep, no water had been reached, and he grew concerned.

  Father now seemed to spend more of his evenings at Russkii Dom. He never discussed the reason. It was obvious to me that most of the Russian émigré community gathered nearly every evening for meetings, but the frequency of meetings did not alarm me because the community social life also seemed to be much more active. There seemed to be many more plays, concerts, and ballets, but perhaps because I was now attending Gymnasia and beginning to mature a bit, or because he felt that the social events would provide some distraction from worrying about Mother, Father simply took me more often.

  In any case, I enjoyed each event. When I attended a ballet or concert, I secretly imagined myself a prima ballerina or a concert pianist, and I genuinely regretted that I no longer continued with ballet or piano lessons. I had resisted the piano lessons so much that I had been relieved when Mother stopped pressing me to continue, but I was sorry for that childish foolishness.

  In late March, Father was contacted by Mother’s doctor to say that because of the worsening political situation, it would be wise to bring Mother home early. Medically, he felt that she was strong enough to return, and being with her family would be beneficial. He was concerned that political developments could cut her off from us, and that would be detrimental to her health. Father was concerned about taking her away from the excellent medical care she was receiving but equally worried that German advances might trap her in the middle of the chaos plaguing Europe.

  Mother returned to us in the second week of April. When she arrived, the weather was warm, in the low 70s, and spring was bursting everywhere. She was completely relaxed and enjoyed reading in the little gazebo and in the sunroom that overlooked the grounds of the White Palace, where I often joined her. Best of all was the music that was once again heard throughout the house as she resumed her love of the piano.

  The only dark spot was early evening. Mother and Father now listened intently to the radio news broadcasts. Only a few days before Mother left the sanitarium, Germany had invaded Norway, Denmark had surrendered to the Germans, and now, in early May, Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg were in German hands. The dark cloud that hung over Europe was spreading and becoming ever more threatening.

  May 10, 1940: In London, British prime minister Neville Chamberlain resigned.

  May 22, 1940: In his first speech as prime minister, Winston Churchill told the British House of Commons, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, sweat, and tears.”

  May 26, 1940: Evacuation of British troops from Dunkirk began as hundreds of small, private fishing boats joined the effort to cross the Channel, rescue the troops from the beaches of Dunkirk, and return them safely to England.

  Mother’s strength returned rapidly, and by late May she was determined to resume visiting the stables and riding. She was relaxed and happy again; however, her personal happiness was soon to be shattered. Father and I went with her on her first trip to the stables. Before even entering the stable we could hear Abdul rearing wildly and making a noise I had never heard before, almost as if he were snarling.

  Mother approached him very gently, but he began foaming at the mouth, rearing high and kicking the walls of his stall. I was petrified and ran from the stable. Mother and Father came outside shortly, and soon the Kalmik groom, the only person Mother would trust with her horses, brought Silva out to her, saddled and ready to ride.

  When Mother had ridden off, Father called the groom aside.

  “The veterinarian has examined Abdul several times now,” the groom explained. “He can find nothing physically wrong with him, but I’m no longer able to take him for his regular exercise in the ring or even to enter his stall on most days. No one here at the stables will go near him. Madame must be very cautious around him.”

  Mother soon returned from riding Silva, but on our return trip home, she was distressed about Abdul.

  “You must be very careful, Marusha,” Father told her. “You should not even enter his stall. Even the groom is concerned.”

  She understood Father’s concern, but replied, “How can I not ride him? I’ve loved Abdul since he was a yearling. I might as well stop riding all together. I know he’ll come around. He just missed me, as you suggested before. He’ll come around.”

  She went several times to the stable until one day about two weeks later when she returned, pale and badly frightened. The left shoulder of her riding jacket had been completely torn off where Abdul had bitten her. She was holding her riding helmet, which had been trampled.

  “He was going to kill me. He wanted to kill me. I know. I felt it.”

  Mother was in tears as she called the vet to explain what had happened. Her shoulder had been badly bruised and had begun to swell. Father insisted that she see the doctor. Luckily, nothing had been broken, but she had to apply compresses to bring the swelling down. The bruise was terrible to see—green, black, and purple—and spread over her back and chest.

  Within a few days the veterinarian visited the house to tell Mother that Abdul had to be destroyed. “He has gone mad, and nothing can be done for him. He now presents a mortal danger to everyone around him.”

  “How can this be?” Mother asked. “I’m the only person who has ridden and cared for him. I’ve had him since he was a colt, before he first began his training.”

  She looked at Father, tears now streaming down her face.

  “You have to do something,” she pleaded. “You can’t let them kill Abdul. Please do something.”

  Father felt helpless. No matter how hard he tried to explain the danger to her life and to others, she could not, or would not, listen to any reasoning. Throughout the night I could hear them talking, Father explaining and consoling, Mother sobbing. The following day when I returned from school, Father told me that Mother had gone to the stables with the vet and that she would stay with Abdul for a couple of days.

  “Papa, does Abdul really have to be destroyed?”

  “I’m afraid so, Asinka, but I’m most concerned about what it will do to your mother.”

  When Mother returned, my heart ached for her. She looked absolutely devastated and cried for days. Gradually I learned that she had not allowed anyone to touch Abdul.

  “If he must be destroyed, then it is my responsibility, no one else’s.”

  She refused to allow anybody else to come near Abdul. After sitting for hours outside his stall and witnessing his mad and tormented behavior, she finally agreed with the vet. The vet told us that Mother had borrowed his pistol. As she approached the stall, Abdul
quieted, his ears moving as though he was listening for the sound of Mother’s voice. He approached the gate snorting gently. Mother kissed him, took two steps back, raised the gun, and fired at his head. As Abdul fell, she entered his stall and remained there for hours, inconsolable. The vet and the groom had left her alone in the stall to give her a little private time with her beloved Abdul. Her feelings and affection for the horse were well known throughout the stables.

  When I heard the story, I cried. Abdul had always terrified me, but he was such a beautiful animal, and it was very sad to think of his life ended, especially like this. I remembered my trips to the stables with Mother several years earlier, remembered how he had always approached her when the groom brought him out to her, how he always bowed his head just long enough for her to gently rub his forehead before he started rearing and prancing nervously, impatient for Mother to mount and to be off. And I knew that his end had been just like that. He approached and lowered his head just for a few seconds, just long enough to receive one single, fatal bullet from the only human he had ever trusted. It was a terrible picture. I put it out of my mind as quickly as possible, realizing how devastating it must have been for Mother.

  Abdul’s name was never mentioned again by anyone in the family nor by any of our friends. The sorrow in Mother’s eyes was evident and would continue so for weeks. Years later, remembering this event, I would marvel at the inner strength it must have taken for her to act as she did—to refuse to allow anyone else to do what she believed was her responsibility alone but which was certainly the most difficult thing she had ever undertaken. Unfortunately, the event seemed to resurrect Mother’s reserve. She began to pull back into herself. The affectionate, caring manner and softness that I had welcomed so much when she returned from the sanitarium slowly disappeared.

  Within just a few days, I finished my first year of Gymnasia and received, along with my final grades and report, my coveted Roman Numeral 11 to be sewn onto my beret for the return to school in the fall. No longer, I realized, would I have to fold the beret just right in order to hide the i, which proclaimed to the world my lowly status as a “beginning student.”