Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  As worried voices and crying throughout the house overcame me, I rose and walked to the cemetery and then to the woods beyond. The woods were dark, densely shaded by the thick trees, muffling the noise from the highway and the house.

  How strange that the birds keep singing in spite of all the chaos, I thought. So this is what war is like—my city is burning and people are dying. Those who are alive, like those now in the house, are crying, wringing their hands, talking to no one in particular, and staring in total disbelief and shock.

  I tried to picture exactly what the day was like for the people back in the city, but could not. I had experienced only about one hour of the surprise bombing, but except for awakening to the “thunder” of exploding bombs, and the terrifying experience as we drove to escape the city, I had no way to picture the destruction that I knew was taking place. I wanted to talk to someone, wanted someone to tell me that everything would be all right again. I wanted Papa to explain why they were destroying Belgrade, not just to hear him say, “It’s war.” I wanted to know what would be coming next.

  I walked back to the house, unable to understand how everything could have changed so suddenly. Only last night as I said my prayers at bedtime, I had been so sure that God had heard me and that everything was going to be all right. Well, I thought, maybe it is all right. We are all still alive.

  Aunt ’Lyena and Sonya were walking toward the cemetery; I wondered if Aunt Sonya had her flask of vodka in her huge purse. Much of their very close friendship stemmed, I knew, from Aunt ’Lyena’s ability to be completely nonjudgmental about Sonya’s drinking problem and sympathetically trying only to strengthen Sonya.

  I wondered where Lyalya was and smiled in spite of myself. Would she faint at the sight of this multitude, or just puff on her gold cigarette holder, fluttering those beautiful eyes at the crowd? She couldn’t possibly walk on this gravel in those high, high heels.

  I hoped Uncle Borya was at our home in Dedinye. It was comforting to think of him rubbing Priska’s ears to calm her. Then suddenly I realized I was thinking of completely unimportant things. What did anything matter now? People were dying in Belgrade. I walked slowly back to the house.

  Sometime in midafternoon, the planes disappeared and the sound of explosions grew very far apart. As the lull became apparent, everyone grew quiet, all wondering, Is it over? Is it finally over?

  The same question reflected in pale, exhausted faces all around the yard. As an hour passed with no planes in the sky, many of the people who had crowded into the house and yard began to gather their bundles and prepare to return to Belgrade, concerned about property or friends who had remained in the city. As another hour passed with no planes in sight, people began to leave. Those who remained seemed somewhat relieved. The departure of some encouraged all to believe that perhaps the worst was over, that soon we could all return. They began to rummage through the bundles or suitcases they had brought, looking for something, anything, that might help them relax now that the opportunity was here. Someone went down to the farmer’s well carrying buckets for fresh water. It was peacefully quiet, and I walked up the rise behind the house.

  The sun would soon set, off in the west where the horizon was clear. On the other side of the highway below, farmers were beginning to round up their cows and sheep, and the sound of cowbells could be faintly heard. In the new silence, the bird song seemed louder, more beautiful. Aunt ’Lyena and Sonya were walking slowly toward me, returning from the cemetery, each with an arm around the other. I wondered if Aunt ’Lyena had been praying for Sergei?

  “Aunt Sonya, is Uncle Sergei coming back?” I asked as they came close.

  “Knowing Sergei, he is probably digging in the rubble and taking the injured to doctors or the hospital in his cab. I don’t know where he is.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for him tonight, Aunt Sonya.”

  “Yes, Asya, please do. Your Aunt Elyena has been praying for us all. But I’m afraid God can’t hear anything above those dreadful planes and the explosions.”

  Aunt ’Lyena embraced her, assuring her that God can and does hear all our prayers as they both wept. I walked back up the rise behind the house to look across the cornfield toward Belgrade. In the dusk, the outlines of the taller buildings of Belgrade were visible through a smoky haze, a smoky cloud rising high over the city. I looked hard at the sight and could see a pink haze forming the lower part of the cloud. It was quiet. Even the birds seemed to be settling for the evening. A light April breeze sprang up to replace the warmth of the sun, and as a slight chill started, I returned to the house.

  Inside, everyone had begun to prepare their mattresses, pillows, and blankets for the night. Aunt Sonya would take my bed. I had been happy to give it up because I knew how much comfort she brought to Aunt ’Lyena. I knew I would find a place. Cold, fresh water had been brought from the farm below. The top of the wood stove had been cleared, and tea was brewing. Fresh eggs, sausages, and ham had been purchased from the farmer, and the cooking food began to smell good.

  People began to relax, sitting wherever they could find a chair or something to sit on. Those relaxed enough to eat had just finished when the muffled drone of aircraft engines was heard again. The house was silent for a moment, a shocked silence registering on the faces of everyone as they realized that the planes were returning. The first attack had taken place at dawn, when the first light enabled the war planes to easily locate their targets. The fires that now burned continuously allowed the planes to locate their targets in the dead of night and continue the attack twenty-four hours a day.

  I went outside and ran up the slope to look across the cornfield again, others from the house following. The pink haze at the bottom of the black cloud over Belgrade now looked orange as the blackness of the night deepened. As I watched, the flash of explosions began again, hundreds of explosions, and the black cloud that hung over the city turned red. Belgrade was burning. Aunt ’Lyena was wrong. God did not hear her prayers. What about those poor people in the city? They must have prayed, too. Why would God allow this horror to go on?

  The village below was in total darkness. Muffled voices could be heard from the highway. People were still fleeing Belgrade. Cars were occasionally heard, driving at a snail’s pace because they could not use their headlights. One by one, everybody returned to the house, resigned to the continuing, distant horror.

  Inside, a kerosene lamp was lit and the wick turned down as far as it would go. Blankets were hung over all the windows. The dim light from the lamp cast moving shadows of people and objects, creating an eerie mood on top of the already dismal atmosphere. Everyone sat in silence, counting the explosions that were now continuous, at regular, short intervals. There seemed to be no pause. I don’t think anyone slept that night. Some dozed at best. Morning came. Everyone looked exhausted. Fresh water was brought up from the farmer’s well and people began to dip washcloths and wash their faces.

  “It’s still going on?” someone asked, really more a statement.

  “Yes,” someone answered, “all night long. It never stopped.”

  I went outside to find my parents already sitting on the bench in front.

  “Good morning, Mama.”

  “Good morning, Asya. Where did you sleep? Or did you?”

  “No. I curled up on a windowsill in the kitchen, but I didn’t sleep.”

  “Have you had something to eat?” Father asked.

  “Just a piece of bread, Papa.”

  “That’s not enough, Asinka,” Mother added. “Do we have anything to eat in the house?”

  “Yes,” Father answered wearily, his mind a million miles away. “We bought food from the farmer, and all of our friends brought food with them.”

  The sun was now rising in the east. We couldn’t see much from the top of the slope except for planes and the ever-present black cloud of smoke hanging over the city. The red glow of the fires disappeared in the bright sunlight, but the drone of aircraft engines and the continuing sound
of explosions was a constant reminder that the bombing continued.

  It was Monday, April 7, I remembered, wondering why I had thought of the day and date. The spring sun felt warm, but I was chilly because I was so very tired. Moving in order to warm up, I walked down between the fruit trees, reaching the farmer’s house just as they were bringing in the morning eggs.

  “Ah, good morning, Asya,” said Jovanka. “Were you able to sleep with all that noise? Or did you have any room to sleep? Your house is so full of people.”

  “I don’t think anyone slept, Jovanka. I know I didn’t.”

  “Come on in the house. You’re so pale. I’ll fix you a cup of warm milk. We just finished milking our cows.”

  Her kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread and a pot of hot milk rested on the stove. A plate of smoked ham stood on the table.

  “Come, sit. There is your milk. Have some bread and help yourself to the ham. It’s from our own pigs.”

  The warm milk felt soothing going down, but I couldn’t eat anything. I was just too tired, so very tired. I felt something warm covering me. Suddenly I sat up, looking around, trying to understand where I was. I was on a daybed in Jovanka’s kitchen, a soft blanket covering me. Jovanka stood by the stove, mixing something in a very large pot.

  “I’m so sorry, Jovanka, I must have fallen asleep. How did I get to the bed?”

  “My husband, Mirko, put you on the bed. You fell asleep at the table. Now you look much better, rested. But you must eat.”

  Jovanka put a cup of warm milk in front of me, and I helped myself to some bread and the fresh butter on the table.

  “They are still bombing, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they have never stopped. I am just a farmer’s wife, you know. I went to school for only four years, but I bet you I am a lot smarter than those people in governments. How can anyone be so godless and evil as to kill so many people, people they don’t even know?” She continued stirring her pot, but now with fast, jerky movements. “They will all burn in hell for that. God will see to it.”

  “Maybe there is no God now. Maybe the devil has taken His place.”

  “Oh, don’t say that, Asya. You know there is a God. He is just teaching us a lesson. We all have to repent our sins and be good again.”

  “My Aunt ’Lyena believes that, too. She keeps praying and praying.”

  “So she should. We all should. Do you pray, Asya?”

  “Yes, every night and sometimes during the day.”

  “That’s good. Now let me fix you something to eat.”

  “Oh, no. No, thank you. I’ve got to go back to the house. My gosh.” I looked at the clock, shocked to see it was already 12:15. “Thank you for the bed and the milk. I’ll see you later when I come for water.”

  As I walked up between the dwarf trees, I realized that the bombing had never ceased. We seemed to be getting used to the constant drone of aircraft engines, the continuous sound of explosions, and that terrible screaming sound. I noticed several people on the dirt road that led from the highway and divided our land from the cornfield, and as they approached the house they were bombarded with questions:

  “How did you all get here? What’s happening in Belgrade? Is anyone left alive?”

  They reported that the highway had not been hit, but that Belgrade was a smoldering ruin. They had started out very early that morning, between bombing runs, and had to crawl over or between piles of rubble, since the streets were blocked with debris. Bodies were seen everywhere, placed close to the street awaiting identification, while those still alive tried to find shelter in bombed-out buildings. Ambulances were everywhere, but they were little help at night, since they couldn’t use their lights. I saw the Nazimovs among the newcomers and ran toward them.

  “Aunt Nadia, where are Kolya and Yura?”

  “They stayed behind, trying to help out, digging people out from the rubble, some dead, some barely alive. Oh, it is so gruesome. It’s a real hell, a burning hell.”

  All the people that were arriving were wide-eyed, disheveled, some obviously in shock. Almost all of them were crying, praying, and cursing the Germans—some cursing God. Aunt Sonya rushed out to inquire about Sergei.

  “Have you seen him? Why didn’t he come with you?”

  “We saw him, but only from a distance. He was clearing rubble, trying to dig out those still alive and taking them someplace in his cab.”

  Sonya quickly crossed herself, thanking God that Sergei was all right. Nobody knew anything about other friends or acquaintances. The city apparently had collapsed into complete chaos. They reported that in the central part of the city there wasn’t a street left undamaged. Whole city blocks had been leveled. And still the bombing continued. Along the highway an endless stream of cars, now mixed with horses, wagons, people walking, and Yugoslavian military vehicles, all headed south, away from Belgrade. The second day of continuous bombing was slowly coming to a close.

  In Yaintse, the sunset was as beautiful as the day before. The cows, bellies fat from grazing all day, slowly moved toward the farms, and a few farmers could be seen herding in their sheep, the animals all looking peaceful and content, unaware of the human tragedy all around them. There hadn’t even been any clouds for the past two days—with the exception of the black cloud that hung over Belgrade. As evening darkened into night, I knew the cloud over Belgrade would turn from black to orange to red. It was as if God were mocking us.

  Why doesn’t God send a rain storm to block visibility? He must be on the German side, I thought again. It’s much easier for them to find Belgrade on a sunny day, and the rain would help control all the fires. At night the city is in flames to serve as a beacon to guide them back in spite of the blackout. I knew I shouldn’t think that way. Father had told me that God would protect us. But what about other people? Why should we be protected while others die? Is God really taking sides? I was so very tired, tired of thinking, tired of seeking answers, and so confused.

  Inside the house, the windows were being covered as the kerosene lamp was lit, its wick again lowered all the way. The eyes of the people looked hollow, their faces pale, their shadows on the white walls enormous, mysterious.

  By now there was almost no space left in the house. Mattresses had been placed along all of the walls and in any available space in the bedrooms. I found a blanket and climbed up on the kitchen windowsill again. The sill just large enough for me to curl up on.

  I dozed off, the drone of airplanes and the distant explosions by now sounds I had grown used to. I think the continuing sound actually helped me to fall asleep for a couple of hours. I awoke with my body aching from curling in one position, unable to turn or stretch my legs out. Everyone else must have been sleeping—the sound of gentle snoring contrasting with the sound of explosions. The kitchen window faced the slope in the rear of the house, and as I sat up and looked out, I could see a small, dim, red glow at the top of the rise that I knew was Belgrade burning.

  I sat there thinking about the people who remained in the city, wondering if everybody was dead by now or badly hurt. If they were lying there hurt, injured, was there anybody to help them? But how could anyone help when the bombs kept falling? Someone coughed and stirred somewhere, and I quickly lay back down, pretending to sleep. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wondered if Kolya and Yura were still trying to get people out from beneath the ruins and if they could see anything in the dark. But the fires would probably light the way for them. Were they still alive? Oh God, I prayed, please keep them safe.

  The next morning, I was the first one up, and I carefully stepped around mattresses to slip out and go down to the farmer for water. I brought a towel with me and washed my face in the icy cold water at the well. The sun was up when I got back to the house, and so were most of the people as I brought the fresh water in. I knew it was refreshing to dip a washcloth in the cold water and wash your face, and everybody seemed to appreciate my bringing water so early in the morning. Someone had boiled eggs, and we ea
ch had an egg and a piece of bread with a little tea.

  When I went back outside, I saw Mother and Father walking down the path toward the police station. They knew the police chief and had received permission to use the bathroom at the station. They carried a couple of towels, and I knew that Mother could not face another day without a bath. People seemed to have become placid, immersed in their own thoughts and resigned to what was taking place. The planes continued, each formation arriving just as the preceding squadron had dropped their bombs and circled to return to their base.

  It was now Tuesday, April 8, and the black cloud climbed still higher over Belgrade. It was the third day of continuous bombing around the clock. We had no radio, though there was probably no need for one. Radio Belgrade surely had not resumed broadcasting since Sunday morning. Yugoslavian armored vehicles kept moving on the highway, and there was a steady stream of people walking, now in both directions, something I would see often over the next four years and never understand.

  I went for a long walk in the woods past the cemetery. I found the path that I had seen a few weeks earlier from the top of the cornfield, and I was certain it was a short-cut to Belgrade. I didn’t follow the path, but I could see the winding highway below, and the path led over the hills cutting the distance to the city almost in half. One day, I promised myself, I would take that path all the way to Belgrade—once the bombing was over.

  About 2 p.m., Mirko and Jovanka walked up the hill carrying two enormous pots of chicken stew and several loaves of fresh-baked bread. The house suddenly came alive as the smell of the food circulated. Everyone crowded around the two large pots, peeking in before they rushed off to find a bowl. It was delicious, and everyone was soon ready for a nap. I found an unoccupied mattress and laid down to snuggle into a blanket. It felt so good to be stretched out horizontally.

  When I awakened, the sun was already low in the west. Mother and Father were sitting together on my windowsill in the kitchen, speaking in low voices.