“No, Asya, you’re wrong. We were lucky to find Mr. and Mrs. Chuchurovic. They are well educated, kind people. Mother and I are both very happy that we have found them. They will take good care of Aunt ’Lyena.”
“Yes, Papa, but—”
“No, Asya, I have a lot of faith in Mr. Chuchurovic. He’s a good man.” Father interrupted, his jaw set.
The subject was closed. I simply avoided Mr. Chuchurovic on subsequent trips to visit Aunt ’Lyena, although I was able to see her only a few more times. Partisan attacks on German forces were drawing closer to Belgrade. In August, trolley service to Yaintse was discontinued.
I grew increasingly despondent, and Roach Manor just added to my deepening apathy. My fingernails, chewed to nubs, almost disappeared, and I continued to lose weight. I remember one day when, quite out of the ordinary, I felt hungry, really hungry, for the first time. I went to the kitchen and opened the drawer that we used as a breadbox, to find the loaf of bread covered with roaches, and I simply brushed them off, cut a slice of bread, and began to eat it.
The air attack that took place in mid-April had started a continuing wave of smaller attacks. Belgrade was bombed by the Allies in April, May, June, and July, and groups of Partisans were regularly attacking German troops and installations and drawing ever closer to Belgrade. The Avala-Belgrade highway, which passed through Yaintse in front of our house, was the scene of frequent attacks on German vehicles.
As summer advanced, the heat throughout the city, especially in our apartment, grew to be intolerable. Father, noticing how depressed I had become, sat with me one afternoon and told me that he thought I needed something constructive to do. It never occurred to me, but he was again planning ahead.
“You need to keep busy, Asinka. It’s important to keep up your spirits. I spoke to Uncle Max, and he introduced me to the Colonel in charge at German Luftwaffe headquarters. I told the Colonel about your graduation from the Deutsche Wissenschaft Akademie, and he says that he can offer you a small job, a few hours each day. Would you like that?”
The following day Father and I went to German Luftwaffe headquarters where he introduced me to the Colonel. I no longer remember his name, but he was a man in his mid-fifties with graying hair and a gentle face. He had pictures of his family on his desk—his son a captain in a tank corps and married, and his wife, who I thought looked like a lady of great charm and grace. I remained for the day, and he assigned me some routine typing or filing. It was better than staying in Roach Manor.
Over the next few weeks I didn’t do anything except to act as interpreter for the Colonel, who did not understand any Serbian. His contact with native Serbs was limited, but I felt I was at least a little help to the civilians. I also did some light typing when the military assistants in the office were busy. I never received any pay for working at the offices; I didn’t do much, but it does seem curious in remembering that.
August 4, 1944: Nazi police raided a building in Amsterdam and arrested eight people, including Anne Frank.
I continued working at headquarters two or three days a week, and it became obvious that the Germans were preparing for something. I soon began to work almost daily. My duties were to take papers that had been removed from endless filing cabinets, pack them neatly in boxes, and label the boxes with file numbers. It never occurred to me at the time, but they were clearly preparing for retreat.
One day in late August, when I was sitting listlessly in the living room at Roach Manor, I heard very heavy truck traffic. I went outside to watch as an endless convoy of German military vehicles drove past slowly, frequently stopping because of congestion. A smaller truck stopped directly in front of me, and my eyes met those of a very young German soldier sitting alone in the back of the truck. He smiled and motioned for me to approach.
“Do you speak German?” he asked.
“Yes, a little.”
He introduced himself as Hermann Zahn, from Dresden, and I told him my name. I asked if he would like a glass of water, but he declined, saying that they were forbidden to accept food or drink from civilians.
“Can you come a bit closer? I have something I would like to give you.” He looked almost my own age. As I stepped closer, he reached somewhere behind him in the truck bed and stretched his arm to hand me something.
“Oh, I can’t accept this. It’s a very nice camera.”
“Please, Fraulein,” he said sincerely. “I have enjoyed using it. I have taken a great many pictures. But now it would please me very much to give it to you. In the future, I would like to think of you using the camera. I don’t think I will have any further use for it. You see?” he said as he removed a blanket to reveal his trousers neatly folded over two stumps at about mid-thigh.
Just at that moment, the convoy started to move again, and I could do nothing except to say thank you, tears rolling down my cheeks as we waved good-bye. What could that boy possibly have seen in me that prompted his action? His gift was a Leica 35mm camera, and it would help me later. God bless him. I hope he reached his home safely.
The convoys of German vehicles continued almost daily, it seemed, as they retreated back toward Germany. The packing of file cabinets at headquarters continued through the balance of August. As I left for work one day, Mother mentioned that she wanted to visit Aunt Nadia, Kolya’s mother, and might not be at home when I returned. Not long after I arrived at work, the air raid sirens began, and everyone headed for the basement shelters.
Although we did not know it at the time, on September 1, 1944, the Allies launched Operation Rat Week, a coordinated land-air attack that brought Allied air power and an infant Yugoslavian air force together to support a major push by Yugoslavian Partisans, to be joined by Soviet army units as they steadily advanced on Belgrade. I think the intense bombing was the opening salvo of Rat Week. The bombing seemed to continue forever and was much more intense than anything up to that point. When the all-clear sounded, I left work, expecting that the trolley lines would not be running and that I might have a long walk home.
As I passed the street where Kolya and his family lived, I remembered that Mother had said she might visit Aunt Nadia. Worried, I hurried to the Nazimovs’ house, and as I drew near I saw that it had been destroyed. I ran toward what was only a couple of half-walls at the rear and on one side of a smoking pile of debris.
I climbed up on the rubble and began moving boards, furniture, whatever was in front of me, without any idea of what I was doing, when one of the remaining walls tumbled down. Suddenly my eyes filled with dust particles swirling from the collapsing wall. I had to stop, unable to see anything, now realizing that my legs were badly scratched, my fingers bleeding, my dress torn, and my feet sore from stepping on broken glass with shoes that had long since surrendered anything resembling a real sole. I simply sat on the rubble pile crying, when I heard voices and looked up. Several people were running toward me carrying shovels and an axe and a first aid kit—people I recognized from Russkii Dom.
“Is someone beneath the house?” asked a voice.
“I don’t know,” I cried. “This is the way I found it. Have you seen Mama or Papa?”
“No, when the alarm sounded we went into our basement. We knew that one of them hit very close. We would have come sooner, but we haven’t heard the all-clear. I think we are still under a red alert.”
“Oh, please do something. Maybe they’re in the basement. It’s a very strong basement. Maybe you can get in from the back.”
It appeared that the bomb or bombs struck toward the front of the house. There was much less debris in the rear, and a crater in the front yard was filling with water. The newcomers moved to the rear, digging at the debris and removing as much as possible. Someone said, “You shouldn’t do anything. Go and wash your hands in that crater, and my wife will fix your cuts.”
The water looked very dirty, but I had to wash them. As I finished, a woman put iodine on them, and the sting brought tears to my eyes. I sat on the grass, pulled my shoes
off, and began to pull small pieces of glass from my feet, wash them, and wince as more iodine was applied. I stood in my bare feet, watching and saying a prayer. It was growing dark by then, and someone lit a carbide lamp casting a bluish light over everything, making the ruins even more disheartening.
“I hear something,” someone shouted from the rear of the house. “Yes, one window is almost cleared. Pass me a lamp, somebody. Is anybody there? Are you all right?”
“Yes, just some bruises and small cuts. But we’re fine.”
I listened, desperately trying to recognize Mama or Papa’s voice, when I heard Mother call from behind me.
“Asya! Thank God, you’re all right.”
I turned just as she embraced me.
“We have been at the headquarters building looking for you. We were so afraid. Then I remembered that I had told you I would be going to visit Aunt Nadia. But she doesn’t live here anymore, not since she and General Nazimov separated after Kolya was killed. Are you all right?”
“Yes, Mama, I was so afraid you were under the rubble,” I said, now crying. I had never heard that the Nazimovs had separated.
“Never look for me in that,” Mother answered, shuddering and pointing at the rubble pile. “I would never go into a basement. I hate the feeling. If I have to die, it will be out in the open or in my own home, but never in a basement. Let me look at you. You are all scratched and cut. Oh, Anochka, I’ve been praying we would have another chance to let you know how much we love you. Papa and I have been looking everywhere.”
“Please don’t cry,” I said, pressing my head against her. Even here in the midst of all this ruin, she smelled so good. Maybe the scent was my imagination, but for just an instant, I was back on Dr. Kester Street, sitting next to her and looking at the family album. As I looked around, I saw Aunt Nadia and Yura standing close to the rubble. Apparently they had come with Mother, to look for me.
“Is everybody out?” someone asked.
“Yes, thank God, everyone seems to be okay,” another answered.
“The General? Where is General Nazimov?” asked one of the people from the basement. “Has anyone seen the General?”
“No,” someone answered. “He was sitting in the parlor drinking when the alarm sounded. I told him to take his bottle if he wished but to get to the basement. I don’t remember seeing him downstairs, but it was so dark I could have missed him.”
“Good God,” someone added. “If he was upstairs, he’s done for.”
“Let’s remove some of the rubble above. Maybe he didn’t go to the basement. Maybe he’s trapped upstairs.”
It was an empty statement. The men returned to start removing rubble, but unhurriedly. If he was there, there was no need to hurry. What seemed like hours later they found him. General Nazimov sat crumpled in a corner with a bottle in his hand, wearing his uniform tunic, white cloth protruding from the place on his chest where his medals had been ripped off, the medals now held tightly in his dead hand, a terrible gash in the back of his head. I looked at that old, tormented face and thought that he looked childish—a big smudge on his nose and his hair all mussed up. This once proud general had finished his life. However glamorous once, or however pathetic toward the end, it was finished. I hoped he was with Kolya.
I couldn’t cry anymore. I had cried so much that my eyes simply dried up. I looked around at Mama and Papa and the others. Life meant so very much . . . and yet so very little. All of them tried hard to preserve memories. How they cherished the past, yet how helpless they seemed in the present, and how quickly everything could be destroyed.
“Your daughter is half frozen,” said one of the women who had been helping. “Why don’t you all come to my house. It’s a mess, but we can make some hot tea.”
“What are we going to do with the General?” someone asked.
“Cover his body. There’s nothing to do until morning. Then we can try to give him a proper burial,” someone responded.
I glanced once more at the ruin, saying a silent good-bye to General Nazimov, then turned and walked away with the others, holding Mama’s arm and limping slightly from the cuts on my feet. We walked about a block to the woman’s home, and I remember how good the warmth of the house felt as we waited for tea to brew. Once again I was reminded of Serbian hospitality as bread and hot tea was offered. No matter how little a Serbian family might have, inside their homes, they offered warm hospitality and shared whatever they had. I noticed the woman looking at me, and she left for a moment, returning with a dress and a pair of shoes.
“Here,” she said to me, “try these on. Your dress is all torn, and those shoes won’t even get you home. I have no need of these things. They belonged to my daughter.”
“Where is your daughter?”
“She is dead. My mother and my daughter shared the same birthday, and I always tried to give them a nice party together. The day before the party, in order to prepare everything, I sent her to spend the night with her grandmother. The next morning the German bombing began. It took forever to dig them out. The terrible thing was that if we had been able to get to them sooner, they might be alive. Mother’s house was very small and was behind a very high apartment building that received a direct hit and collapsed directly on top of her house. They weren’t even hurt. When we found them, they were just sitting together.”
The woman had a face of stone. She showed not a trace of emotion when she talked about it. I didn’t know how to behave. If she had been in tears, I could have embraced her, tried to comfort her. But she showed no emotion at all.
“You know,” she continued, “it’s better that they are both dead. God only knows what awaits us. What kind of future could I promise her now? Mother was old. She had lived her life. But my daughter was so pretty, such a good girl, so many plans for the future. Maybe some of them will come true for her in the next world. You know, I strongly believe that this is hell. This is hell, and God did not want her to go through hell, so he simply took her.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper as emotion began to overcome her, and a faint smile appeared on her face. “Now,” she continued, recovering, “you go and change into some dry clothes . . . and try on those shoes.”
We spent the rest of the night there. It was almost dawn anyway, and we simply dozed in a chair or on the floor. The distant boom of artillery could be heard now, a long way off, according to Father, but still worrisome. In the morning Mother and Father, relieved to learn that the trolleys were running, returned to Roach Manor, and I went to Luftwaffe headquarters to work, with shoes that almost fit, soles with only tiny holes, and a dress that was miraculously without tears or patches.
When I reached the headquarters building, it was clear that there was more activity, and entering the office I found everyone much busier than usual. I was assigned the task of carrying papers from the office to the courtyard, where soldiers burned them in huge oil drums, continuously feeding the flames. The boom of artillery grew louder and more frequent each day.
A week later, Father sat down to speak to me.
“Asya,” he began very seriously, “I have learned that the Germans will leave Belgrade in the very near future. If that information is correct, and I believe that it is, they will be the first to leave the city, and they will no doubt have adequate transportation and food. I’m certain they will have to head for Germany through Vienna.
“I want you to memorize an address in Vienna—almost in Wiener Neustadt—just outside the city. If we should be separated for any reason, this address will be our meeting place. This is Countess von Holzen, a very old friend of Mother’s. When you were a very little girl, we visited her twice. You probably don’t remember her, but she knows you, and she knows that we would use her home as a meeting place in the event of any emergency.” Father told me the address, and I began to repeat it, to be certain I memorized it.
“Also, Mama and I have given Uncle Max and Aunt Olga a box to keep for you. If anything happens to us, you should find Max and Olg
a. The box contains a few things like Mama’s family album with your baby pictures, mementoes, and a few pieces of Mama’s jewelry that you have always liked.”
“But, Papa,” I interrupted, “I thought you were no longer friends with them. That they had become ‘German.’”
“Yes,” Father sighed, “but Mama and Olga have been close for many, many years, and Olga offered to help us leave Belgrade. Since they have become ‘German’ now, the box will be much safer with them. War is a funny thing, Asya. You often can’t tell friends from enemies during war. Max is probably doing only what he feels is best for his family. Well, enough of that. Remember, you must find Max, and you must always remember how much Mama and I love you. We always have, but I think we tried too hard to give you material things and advantages instead of the closeness we all need.”
Father sighed again before continuing. “Mama’s idea was that manners and education were the most important things we could give you, and it’s too late now to do anything about it. After the Sorbonne we hoped you would find the right young man. Kolya was supposed to have been him, but we were never too serious about that. He just always seemed such a nice boy with such high hopes and plans.”
Father paused, sadly remembering Kolya. I could not understand the differences I saw in him—so thoughtful and wise and reliable, and those expressionless eyes that day in the garage.
“But life is unpredictable,” he began anew, “like a small sail boat on a sunny summer day. The weather is moody and can quickly turn the ocean into a fury, tossing the boat every which way and driving it toward a rocky shore. Sometimes the boat will sink, but usually it will make it, a bit battered but repairable. Always remember to keep your foundation, your faith and principles strong. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Asinka?”
“Yes, Papa. I think so,” I answered, then, out of nowhere, I asked, “Papa, when you and Mama were married, did you love her?”
I have no idea what prompted me to ask such a question at that time, and Father was silent. Finally, with a frown wrinkling his forehead and his eyebrows looking even bushier than usual, he said, “I love her very much now. Whether or not I loved her then, when we married, is hard to say. The situation was very similar to the present one. Everything was in chaos with the revolution raging toward completion. You know about her parents, your grandparents, and how she was thrown into jail . . . and what a terrible jail. She was very young—both of us were—but she was so pretty. Pretty and spoiled and defenseless! She really clung to me for protection. And you know about our flight to Constantinople and China and then to Belgrade.
Ancient Furies Page 22
