“You could hardly call this a glamorous life.”
“Yes. If I’m lucky enough to get as far as Russia, I’ll be traveling from one foxhole to another, and my nights will be spent lying awake trying to make sure I’m not in the way of a bullet. But Papa is getting old, and for his oldest son to refuse to serve would hurt his pride and break his heart.”
“Oh, Kolya, I wish you were not going.”
“Well, I’ll be back soon, and then maybe we’ll be able to finish our education and begin to make something of our own lives. Besides, I want to be the best man. Where will the wedding take place? Rome? Will the pope conduct the ceremony?” he teased.
“No,” I pouted. “Probably at the foot of some ruins. Maybe I’ll even run away to escape all this.” I answered, pointing toward the noisy apartment.
Somewhere in the distance the faint sound of a tenor was accompanied by the strumming of a mandolin.
“See,” I smiled, “he’s out there someplace, my Romeo.”
The door to the apartment opened, and strains of Russian music spilled into the yard, overcoming the tenor.
“Kolya, Kolya, our boy, we’re drinking to your happiness and to victory and success in Russia. May you be the one to lead us all back home again,” someone shouted.
Kolya walked back into the apartment. As he entered, his father repeated a toast.
“To Kolya, who has filled my heart with pride, and who goes now to open the path for all of us to return to Mother Russia.”
I remained outside listening, sitting on the grass. I listened as Kolya thanked everyone, saying that he would do his best to make his father—all of them—proud, as he said good-bye and came back outside.
“I still have a few things to take care of before we leave, Asya, so I’d better get going.”
“Not so soon, Kolya. Will we see each other again before you leave?”
“No. Tomorrow there are preparations and formalities that will take up the whole day, and we leave early the following morning.”
“Do you know if any other of our Russian boys are leaving?”
“Yes, there are a couple of my friends from school. They seem to go just to escape their families and the situation here. You know how it is.”
“Oh, Kolya, I wish I were old enough to just leave. I can’t stand it at home anymore—or at Yaintse or anyplace. All of the Russians are so depressed one day and then hysterically happy the next. They seem to live in their own closed little world. I know that they have gone through so much in their lives, fleeing Russia, living here and there without belonging anyplace, but I’m so confused. Kolya, please don’t go. My life will be so empty if you’re gone. You’ve become the only friend I have, the only person I feel I can talk to about so many things. Please don’t go.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be gone too long, and maybe I can help in Russia. Besides,” he added lightly, “I don’t think they would let me change my mind now. Let’s hope that when I do return, things will be back to normal. Good-bye, Asya. Be a good girl, and don’t trust any man. Stay as sweet as you are. Maybe I’ll come back and try to compete with that mythical Italian.”
Kolya bent and kissed my cheek. As I raised my face to look directly at him, my eyes filled with tears. Kolya held my wet face in both hands and bent to gently kiss my lips. Unconsciously I turned and kissed his cheek again.
“See what I mean,” Kolya smiled. “Don’t trust any man. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But you’re such a sweet girl. Good-bye, Asya.”
Kolya returned to open the door to the apartment and shout a final good-bye to everyone, as I sat back down on the grass and rested my head on my knees again, crying bitterly. I heard Kolya’s footsteps behind me once again and felt his fingers brush my hair before he disappeared into the night, in the direction of the tenor, still heard faintly. I prayed, for the first time in a long time, asking God to watch over Kolya, to keep him safe and to bring an end to this terrible war. In only a few moments Papa touched my shoulder. “Time to go home, Asya.”
We walked to the trolley stop in silence. I walked next to Mother. Father broke the silence as the streetcar stopped before us.
“That boy has no business in the army. He doesn’t have the temperament, but God be with him. I think it will finish General Nazimov if anything happens to him.”
I fell asleep that night crying and praying for Kolya’s safe return. I cried not for Kolya but for myself and the loneliness I was beginning to feel so strongly. I had come to think of Kolya as wise and strong and gentle. He had become my last link to the happy, carefree days of childhood, someone with whom to share the laughter of childhood memories, but who could be relied upon to thoughtfully discuss the stresses of growing up amid the ruin of the war. Even though I had not seen him frequently, I had always felt that he was there if I needed someone to talk to, and his leaving left a void I could not imagine anyone else filling. From Kolya’s departure in late October 1943 until final liberation in April 1945, the events of the war and its effects on me tumbled one after the other in a jumble of sadness, excitement, and tragedy.
In mid-December Father again did something that, in later years, I would admire as sound planning, although his judgment would ultimately prove tragic. He announced to the friends staying at Yaintse that they would soon have to make other living arrangements, that he wanted to find someone who would stay at the house to look after Aunt ’Lyena, and that he wanted someone from the Serbian population whom he could be certain would be able to remain indefinitely.
Father was clearly planning for something, but I did not even recognize his planning and could certainly not guess what it was. I wondered again why we didn’t move to Yaintse, but knowing how Mother would have suffered, I decided that Father must be making the right decision.
December 24, 1943: President Roosevelt appointed General Dwight D. Eisenhower to become supreme commander of Allied forces in preparation for something soon to be known as Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion of Nazi-held Europe.
As if to put a final touch to a terrible year, in late December Aunt Nadia received word that Kolya had been killed in action someplace on the Eastern Front, not three months after enlisting and before his twentieth birthday. I never heard where or how he had been killed, but I don’t believe he ever made it to Russia. He was probably buried where he fell. The news added to the depths of my own depression. From that day until final liberation, I simply drifted from one day to the next, existing without feeling anything, without really living. Father had been right. General Nazimov never recovered from the news, but I would yet confront him with what I felt was his lack of understanding and concern for Kolya.
When the news reached us, we went to visit and express our sympathies to his parents. Aunt Nadia was, of course, totally distraught. General Nazimov trotted behind her, his head lowered, forehead covered in deep wrinkles, and mumbling over and over, “He’s gone . . . he’s gone . . .”
“Well, that should make you very proud. He died in Russia, the Russia you love so much,” I suddenly burst out, tears streaming down my face.
“Asya, that’s enough. You mind your own business. Leave the room,” said Mother.
“Of course! Asya, be quiet. Asya, go to your room. Asya, you must behave like a lady. I no longer have a room to go to,” I answered loudly. “And why must I always remain silent? I’m human, too. I have feelings like you. Perhaps more than you, any of you. You, all of you, just sit around feeling sorry for yourselves, dreaming of some glorious past.
“Don’t you see the blood and death all around you? Don’t you think that everyone else who did not flee Russia under such terrible circumstances has also gone through hell, is still going through hell? What do you all see when you walk down the streets? Have you forgotten all the dead bodies of all ages dug out of the ruins? Serb bodies! And that wasn’t enough! From some stupid pride and misplaced patriotism, you—” Now almost shouting, I turned to face Kolya’s father. “You sent your so
n to die like a dog on some land he had no love for. What have you accomplished? Is his death going to give you a ticket back to Russia? Have you already packed? They probably couldn’t find his body in one piece. Oh, this rotten, stinking world. But still, it’s ‘Asya, be quiet. Asya, leave the room.’ No, I will not be silent.” I collapsed in tears into a chair.
“You must forgive her,” Mother said softly, shocked and embarrassed and apologizing to General Nazimov. “She is in that ‘awkward’ stage that young ladies go through.”
“She may be young,” the General replied sadly, “but I believe she has spoken the truth. Oh, God, we do live in our own dreams—in the past, ignoring the present—and the present is so terrible. At least we have our youth to look back on. But young people like Asya and Kolya and Yura have never really had a chance to live, and the past few years have been misery, more so for them than for us, years of bloodshed, killing, occupation.”
“Yes, but at least they have . . .” Mother apologized softly. “Well, Kolya no longer . . . but at least she has her best years ahead of her, whereas . . . what can the future hold for me . . . for us?”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rose slowly and left without saying good-bye to anyone. I walked to the trolley line to take the next trolley back to the garage. Our visit to General Nazimov’s home was never mentioned again.
FOURTEEN
Roach Manor
January 16, 1944: General Dwight D. Eisenhower took command at Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces.
Kolya’s death closed forever the door to my childhood, and I did not believe that things could get any worse. Of course, they did. Since I made sure that I arrived home early, Mother and I were getting along much better. We had not grown closer, but we each tried to avoid anything that might flare into disagreement.
March 6, 1944: U.S. heavy bombers conducted the first bombing raid on Berlin.
Mother still worked at the hospital when we were not in Yaintse and when she was not busy comforting someone. Russian boys who had joined the Russian Liberation Army in the Wehrmacht under the grand illusion of defeating Bolshevism and had been wounded in combat were now occasionally sent to the hospital, and Mother felt a special compassion for them. She never discussed it, but perhaps they all reminded her of Kolya.
One day in April 1944 we returned from Yaintse early in the morning and went directly to the hospital without stopping at our rooms in the garage. A major Allied air attack had taken place while we were away, and Mother was concerned that we might be particularly needed. New civilian casualties were indeed being brought into the hospital. We had worked for a few hours when Mother, tired, came to find me and to suggest that we go home. As we approached the garage, it was obvious that something was wrong.
April 16 and 17, 1944: American bombers from the 15th Air Force based in Foggia, Italy, flying at high altitude, carried out carpet-bombing raids on Belgrade. German military casualties were placed at 18, civilian casualties at 1,160.
Both big wooden doors had been knocked down down. As we stepped across the doors, Mother looked to the left and stifled a scream as she raised her hand to her mouth. The entire section of the garage that had housed the customer restrooms and storage rooms was gone. Where it had stood, there was now a large crater, filled with water that poured from a broken pipe. A body was floating in the water, bobbing slowly in the turbulence.
Father appeared, and I watched as he scrambled down the side of the crater, suddenly stopping to cross himself.
“My God, it’s Makharov. He’s dead! Poor Makharov.”
Makharov was a friend of Father’s from Russkii Dom. I never learned the cause of the explosion or why Mr. Makharov had the misfortune to be there. The water supply and sewage connections for the section of the garage that we lived in were now in question. The water was still running in our rooms, but Father began to look for another apartment the following day, and we boiled all water before using it. We moved within two weeks of the explosion, and the move would mark the beginning of what would become the darkest period of the occupation for me—for all of us.
The new “apartment” that Father found was on a major thoroughfare of Belgrade. Even in my deepening depression I hated it so much that I no longer remember the name of the street. It was a “garden-level” apartment, entered by walking down about six steps to the front door—really a basement. When we opened the door the first time to walk in, the walls and floors seemed to move as roaches, thousands, tens of thousands scurried hurriedly in every direction. I would not have believed that many roaches could have existed in all of Belgrade.
Father obtained a container of disinfectant someplace and something to act as an insecticide, and he and I began to wash down the walls and floors in an effort to control the infestation. I started to sit on the bed and saw something move—bedbugs hiding in the seams at the edge of the mattress! Father also obtained some kerosene, and we dragged the iron bed frames and springs out and into a pit that he dug in the back of the building, poured kerosene all over them, and set them afire. We used old toothbrushes soaked in kerosene to scrub all the seams in the mattresses.
If any of us had escaped depression until then, our new living quarters were enough to ensure its debilitating effect. We all hated the apartment. I named it Roach Manor the moment we walked in, and so it has remained in my mind all these years. There was just one small bedroom. I had a cot in the living room. The windowsills were just above eye level for me and offered a view of the ankles and lower calves of passers-by.
The only good thing was that it was early spring; the worst summer heat was still months off. Poor Mother would truly suffer through our time in Roach Manor—Father as well—and his old “Everything is in order” was no longer heard.
I thanked God for the house at Yaintse then. We were able to stay there while we tried to clean Roach Manor. Within another week or two, Father announced that he had found someone responsible enough to move in and ensure that Aunt ’Lyena would have companionship and be cared for. In May 1944 Father introduced Mr. Chuchurovic, who was to move into the house at Yaintse with his wife.
Mr. Chuchurovic was the teacher at the elementary school in Yaintse. I think classes had been suspended during the war. The Chuchurovics had lost their home and had time on their hands. They seemed the ideal solution to Father, being well educated, native Serbs who wanted to remain in the village permanently. Mr. Chuchurovic was of average height, slim, and dark and perhaps in his late thirties.
I don’t remember his wife at all, but they moved in with Aunt ’Lyena within days of the time I was introduced to them. When they moved in, of course, it ended our ability to stay there overnight, and I was sorry that I lost that time with Aunt ’Lyena. I would continue to visit on daytrips, most often alone, but it was sometimes difficult to speak with her. She spent most of her time in the local church, and I would usually just wait for her to return.
During that spring, Aunt ’Lyena began to be very sad. Her faith had always helped her to maintain a positive outlook, but that seemed to be fading—not her faith, but her ability to remain hopeful. One visit late that spring is an indelible memory. Aunt ’Lyena was in the chapel when I arrived, and I waited until she returned, and we sat together on the bench in front of the house.
“Aunt ’Lyena, you seem a little sad. Do you need anything? Do you have enough to eat? Is the new couple nice to you?”
“Iiiii’m fine, Aaaaasinka. I stiiiill have myyy bed, aaand I spend moooost of the day in the chaaaapel in the village, aaasking God to care for aaall of us. You know, I’m juuuust no use to aaanyooone anymore.”
I could not bear to see Aunt ’Lyena, of all people, depressed. It was she who had taken me to church and confession each week and taught me all that was “good” in the world. It was she who tucked me in each night and read me bedtime stories. I remembered when, in Gymnasia, I had made excuses to avoid going to church with her because I wanted to read or to do something unimportant. I couldn�
��t stop tears from forming, and I did not want her to see them. I kissed her good-bye and promised to return in a day or two.
June 6, 1944: D-Day/Operation Overlord. Allied forces, crossing the English Channel, landed in force at Normandy, France, to begin the invasion of Nazi-occupied Europe. By evening Allied casualties had passed 10,000, but 150,000 men were ashore and moving inland.
A few days later, on another visit to Yaintse, no one was at home, and I sat on the bench to wait for Aunt ’Lyena. Mr. Chuchurovic returned to the house and joined me on the bench with a friendly hello.
“How is Aunt ’Lyena doing, Mr. Chuchurovic? Is she eating enough? Does she need anything?”
Something in my question or manner—something—upset him, and his eyes seemed to burn as he responded.
“You know, people of your class should have everything taken from them and given to the less fortunate.”
“Mr. Chuchurovic, this house belongs to my parents,” I replied, wide-eyed, “and you know that we now live much more poorly than you do here in Yaintse. You have much more comfort than we.”
“Nevertheless, someday, someday the time will come when you will not even be allowed that much. This house belongs to your parents now, but the day is coming when everything will belong to the poor and needy, you will see, and your kind will adorn the trees in the city with your heads hanging down in the gutters.”
He frightened me badly, of course. His diatribe was, I think, typical of the Communist fervor that swept much of Europe in the 1930s, but I had never heard anything like it before. In a moment, Aunt ’Lyena returned and we embraced as she joined us on the bench. Mr. Chuchurovic again seemed normal and remained to chat as Aunt ’Lyena and I talked briefly until I rose to return to the city. At home I tried to talk to Father.
“Papa, I went to Yaintse again today to visit Aunt ’Lyena. She seems fine, but I don’t think Mr. Chuchurovic is taking very good care of her. I’m not sure he’s very trustworthy.”
Ancient Furies Page 21
