Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  I awoke early the following morning and wanted to dress and leave before my parents arose. My whole body, especially my chest, ached, and there was a buzzing in my ears. As I got out of bed I grew terribly dizzy and lost my balance. I lay down on the bed to rest for a few minutes before going for a walk and awoke to the sound of Mother’s voice.

  “I think Asya is ill again. She has been sleeping since I arrived home about two hours ago.”

  I felt a hand touch my forehead and opened my eyes to see Father’s face twisting with concern.

  “God save us,” he said. “She’s burning with fever. Try to bring her fever down while I go and try to find the doctor.”

  I heard Mother respond, but my head seemed to fill with a buzzing sound again, and I drifted off without understanding her words. The doctor arrived and shook his head as he diagnosed pneumonia, gave me some pills, and left instructions for my care. Kolya’s mother, Aunt Nadia, a trained nurse, spent the next several days nursing me back to health.

  Mother’s reaction to my late arrival and the slap she had delivered shocked me into realizing just how much my recent behavior was upsetting her. In spite of that, I could not bring myself to tell her what was bothering me—about the “problem” with Father. I grew increasingly despondent over the next several weeks, refusing to speak to my parents except to answer them briefly, not because of any animosity, but simply from lack of will to converse. I no longer felt a sense of place or purpose. Left alone, I chewed my fingernails until there were no nails left. I had always taken great care with my hands, trying to make them appear as beautiful as Mother’s. But nothing seemed to matter now.

  After about two weeks, I had recovered enough to begin taking walks again, but no longer the full day adventures to Koshutnjak or Topcider or to Gypsy Island. I would never return to Gypsy Island. I worked at the hospital and took short walks in the central area of Belgrade. I visited the market and the shopkeepers I had known since schooldays, and walked through the small parks close to the garage, careful to return before dark, but still waiting to be sure that Mother was home before entering the garage. I saw Kolya on just four of those walks during late summer and early autumn of 1943, each time quite by chance, each of us walking alone. Three of those meetings are vivid memories.

  One exceptionally hot day in late August, I had found a shady bench in a park quite close to the garage. I sat there, eyes closed and thinking of nothing when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hello, Asya. Mind if I sit down?

  “Kolya. Hi, how are you?”

  “No, how are you? My mother told me you were pretty sick. That you developed pneumonia after that last day swimming when it rained.”

  “Yes. I’m better now, but I was pretty sick, and I guess I upset everyone. You know, Kolya, Mama was furious when I got home so late that day. She slapped me, really hard, for the first time in my life. She said that I was ‘acting like a dirty little prostitute.’ I still don’t understand why she did that. But I don’t go swimming anymore. I’ll never go to Gypsy Island again.”

  Kolya didn’t answer for several seconds, and I looked at him to see his face reflecting deep sadness. I felt secure with him. I knew without ever thinking about it that we could talk about anything without ridicule or dismissal and in complete confidence.

  “My mother didn’t tell me that, Asya. I’m so sorry. You know, everyone has changed so much since the occupation. Even you and I are so very different. You used to be smiling all the time, but that last day on the beach is the first time I remember either of us smiling or laughing in a long, long time.

  “Everyone has changed so much. Our parents must worry about things that we, especially you, can’t begin to guess. We know now that over 17,000 people died in just the three-day German bombing of Belgrade, not the 7,000 that we had first heard, and people are still dying from unexploded bombs, now even from Partisan attacks and allied air raids. Someday this war will end, but I don’t think anything will ever be the same. I guess I should be doing something to help.” Kolya paused thoughtfully for a moment.

  “Say,” he said, changing the subject, “are you still waiting for your Italian to come along? You know the city is full of Italian troops now, too.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you still think they’re romantic?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. I haven’t thought about anything like that for such a long time.”

  “Still,” Kolya continued as though something were on his mind, “you remember how you always talked about how romantic, how gentle you thought the Italians were. If that is true, then how could they have joined forces with Hitler and the Germans?”

  It was apparent that Kolya was bothered by something, but I could not guess what it was. For some time now, when Kolya and I met, we talked as equals despite the difference in our ages. Looking back, it is clear that this was the result of the conditions we found ourselves in, but at the time it was perfectly natural, and neither of us gave it any thought. In this conversation, however, I could not guess what Kolya was driving at.

  “Well,” I answered, “if you think about it, there’s a dramatic difference between the two occupation patrols. The Germans never crack a smile. They’re all business, and everyone is quiet when they are nearby, but the Italians are always smiling and usually singing, and everyone is at ease when their patrols go past. It seems that most of them carry a mandolin instead of a rifle. Haven’t you heard the beautiful music that fills some parts of the city? The music, especially the singing, is so beautiful that sometimes you can even forget the sound of Nazi boots on patrol.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Maybe it’s just Mussolini who’s insane, and the people don’t want to fight. They certainly don’t look like warriors. Maybe they were drafted and are only doing what they believe is their duty to their country. I guess everyone has to follow his own conscience.” Kolya paused and smiled as he continued lightly, “So you haven’t changed your mind about the Italians?”

  “Never,” I answered, smiling. “Mine will come along someday—if I should live that long.”

  “What if he doesn’t, and you have to settle for a Russian?”

  “Never,” I laughed. “I’ll just find me a wandering Gypsy.”

  Kolya grew quiet, pensive again.

  “Asya,” he asked seriously, “have you ever kissed a boy?”

  “No,” I responded feeling a blush starting, “but a man kissed me once.”

  “Who?” Kolya asked with a slight frown.

  “You, you silly goat. You sure have a short memory. Or you kiss so many girls that you just can’t remember them all.”

  “Oh, that. That was nothing, just a kiss on the forehead. I mean really kissed.”

  “What is ‘really’ kissed? You mean on the mouth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, well, no. Someone tried once, but I ran away in time. Besides, he smelled of tobacco and horses.”

  “You don’t mean your Mama’s friend?”

  “Yes, but I never told anyone,” I replied. Nor, I knew, would I ever be able to tell anyone about Father.

  “Why not, Asya? You know old men like that can be very dangerous.”

  “You know Mama. I’ve never been able to speak to her about many things, let alone something like that. I’m glad now that I didn’t ever tell her. Have you forgotten how she was when I got home late from the beach soaking wet? Besides, it didn’t seem so serious.”

  “This war has turned everything upside down.” Kolya sighed deeply. “But parents demand too much. Perhaps they feel guilty about their own behavior, and that’s why they fail to understand their children.”

  “Aren’t all married people the same?”

  “I hope not. Or else this is one man who will remain a bachelor.”

  “Oh, Italians are different.”

  “Not again!” He laughed. “You and your Italians.”

  We parted, heading in different directions. Our meeting ended on
such a light note that I forgot about it until events would bring its meaning into sharper focus for me. I saw Kolya three times in the next few weeks. The next time he was walking on the other side of the street as I exited a park. I waved and called, but he continued walking with his head down, lost in his thoughts. Then in mid-September I saw him sitting alone on a park bench and walked over to join him.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while. Have you been swimming at the island?”

  “Oh, Asya, hi. No, I haven’t been to the island since you and I got caught in the rain that day. It isn’t the same anymore. All my friends from school are gone—most of them anyway. What about you? What have you been doing?”

  “I still work as a volunteer in the hospital, but not much else. I don’t take the long walks that I used to. I haven’t been to Koshutnjak in a long time. I don’t feel as easy about walking anymore. Everything seems so tense now.”

  “I know, I don’t think the war is going as well for Germany as it was a few months ago. They seem to be tightening up the occupation here in the city, too. Asya,” he continued after a pause, “have you heard about this General Vlasov who is supposed to be fighting against the Bolsheviks alongside the German army?”

  Andrei Andreyevich Vlasov distinguished himself in the Soviet army and rose through the ranks to be promoted to major general in 1940. When he was commanding the Soviet Second Shock Army at the battle of Stalingrad, his army was surrounded by the Germans and all taken prisoner. While in captivity, Vlasov volunteered to form an army of captured Soviet soldiers to fight with the Germans to liberate Russia from the Bolsheviks. Although the Germans issued Russian Liberation Army patches and attracted volunteers from among captured Soviet soldiers and Russian émigrés in Nazi-occupied countries of Europe, Vlasov himself was never permitted to command them. He was captured by Soviet forces on May 12, 1945, and executed by the Soviet Union on August 1, 1946.

  “Yes, I think everyone has.”

  “Well, I understand that a lot of the Russians here in Belgrade have joined up. They seem to have a lot of faith in him.”

  “Well, Papa doesn’t!” I replied emphatically. “Papa said that if a man has reached the rank of general in the Russian army, even as a Bolshevik, even as one of the “Hooligans,” he couldn’t possibly betray his own country. He doesn’t think Vlasov can be trusted, and he doesn’t trust the Germans anyway. Besides, he couldn’t possibly put on a German uniform and fight against his own country at a time like this. Papa would never volunteer. He would gladly volunteer, even give his life if the tsar were still alive, but he mistrusts anyone else. Besides, he could never bring himself to wear a German uniform.”

  “I thought that one of your close friends had become an influential Nazi here in town?”

  “You mean Uncle Max. He and Aunt Olga used to be dear friends, especially of Mama’s. All these years he was a devoted Russian who worked with Papa on projects at Russkii Dom. But when the occupation started, he remembered his name was German and that his family had emigrated from Germany. Now he struts around in a brown uniform with a swastika on his arm. Maybe it’s unfair to be critical of him. Maybe he’s only doing what he thinks is best for his family. But no one else we know has done anything like that.”

  “What do your parents think about it?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t seen them in a long time. I understand their daughter has joined the Hitler Jugend and is attending school someplace in Germany.”

  “Opportunists,” Kolya said quietly.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s a nice way to put it. What about you, Kolya? Would you ever consider joining Vlasov’s army?”

  “No, certainly not, but . . . well, you know how my father feels. We talk about it a lot. He says that as a Russian it’s my duty to do my best to try and liberate Russia from the Bolsheviks. I guess we’ll never see eye to eye.”

  We sat in silence for a moment or two before I decided to start for home. I left Kolya alone with his thoughts there in the park. I had grown accustomed to thinking of Kolya as the wisest person I knew. He always had a thoughtful answer to every question I posed, regardless of the subject. Now his apparent confusion about whatever was bothering him upset me.

  Then, one day in early October, as I left the hospital to walk home, I noticed a German soldier walking in the same direction on the opposite side of the street. I saw from the corner of my eye that he crossed to my side and began to walk faster as the sound of his boots drew closer. I began to worry that he was trying to catch up to me when I heard a familiar Russian voice at my shoulder.

  “Hello, mind if I walk you home?”

  I turned toward the soldier in disbelief, shock registering in my voice as I spoke. “Kolya. God save us! What are you doing in that uniform?”

  “Well,” he smiled, “you know—like father, like son. The old General finally laid down the law, saying that this is my chance to fulfill a patriotic duty.”

  “What does your mother say to all of this?”

  “Well, I was surprised, but she finally agrees with Father,” he said, adding with a light laugh. “They always wanted me to go to Russia someday.”

  “When do you leave? How long will you be gone?”

  “I’m leaving for camp tomorrow. They have waived a lot because of my graduation from the Cadet Corps, but I still go through a short training camp. Just a few weeks, I think. Then I’m hoping to be assigned to Vlasov, but I’ve been assured of going to Russia.”

  We had stopped to talk just short of the garage. Kolya said that he had to hurry to an appointment and could not walk the rest of the way with me. I think he was not yet ready for my father to see him in his uniform. He knew how opposed Father was. Kolya turned to walk back in the direction of the hospital, and I continued the few yards to the garage entrance. I did not mention meeting Kolya to my parents that evening, and the subject of his enlistment did not come up for some time.

  My birthday passed without notice. I remember thinking about it briefly, thinking that at fifteen I should be completing Gymnasia and consider myself a “young adult.” But I certainly didn’t feel any different. At dinner about a week later Father mentioned Kolya’s enlistment.

  “Asya, you may have heard that Kolya has joined the Wehrmacht and that he hopes to be assigned to General Vlasov. He is to leave in a few days, and his parents are having a small party as a farewell for him on Friday evening.”

  “Will we go to say good-bye?”

  “Yes, of course. Kolya and Yura have been like members of our own family since even before you were born.”

  His voice was gentle, but it was clear that he did not approve. His shoulders sagged as he spoke. It was the first time I remember noticing that. The light and mirth in his wonderful blue eyes had dimmed long before. I looked at him much more objectively since our “encounter” a few months earlier. I still longed for the old Papa who had filled my life with so much love and joy, but I would never again experience an unguarded moment with him.

  I looked at Mama seated next to him, still as beautiful as ever, though no longer dressed as nicely. I watched her closely, remembering all the happy times in the house on Dr. Kester Street. I remembered watching adoringly as she played the piano and wondered now how she could play a Chopin nocturne or a Beethoven bagatelle with so much feeling and beauty, yet seem so cold and distant. I longed to rush and embrace her as we sat there, but could not bring myself to move. Something I did not understand had grown up between us. Watching her, I remembered one of the phrases she had always admonished me with: “Asya, if you don’t study and do well in school, you’ll end up just like Kristina.” That always caught me off guard. I thought that Kristina was wonderful—warm and loving and kind—and that being like her would be just what I wanted. I came to realize, of course, that Mother wasn’t criticizing those qualities but expected me to be more accomplished.

  On Friday evening, we dressed as nicely as possible with what was left of our clothes and boarded a trolley for the ride to
the Nazimovs’ home. Father admonished that we would not stay very long. He was so strongly opposed to Kolya’s action. By the time we arrived, the home was already filled with people, all of whom I knew by sight but not well, including two of Kolya’s friends from the Cadet Academy with their parents. The group began singing Russian folk songs, and as a toast followed each song, their enthusiasm grew.

  The toasting changed, quickly it seemed to me, from good wishes for Kolya to more somber, tearful toasts to Russia, her freedom from the “Hooligans,” and fervent wishes that soon “Mother Russia” would be free.

  I watched from a corner, and as the room filled with smoke and sadness, I moved to the door to go out into the quiet of the evening. I thought that everyone had forgotten Kolya and the reason for their gathering. As I reached the front yard, the door was closed a second time, and I looked to see Kolya following. He looked very sad, as though he did not himself understand what he was doing in uniform.

  “You don’t want to go, do you, Kolya?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Then why go?”

  “Oh,” he replied softly, “I guess it’s to please my father. I think he is reliving his own life through me. But he doesn’t seem to understand. Everything is very different now, different from his days as a young officer in St. Petersburg. They faced combat during the revolution, of course, but for the most part their military duty consisted of beautiful uniforms, gay parties, reckless living, and adoring women melting before them. I think that’s what he wants for me.”