“There, there, we must hope for the best. Now you have to hurry.” She freed herself from my embrace, wiping her nose and tears. She gently pushed me toward the gate in the white picket fence and into the car. I caught a final glimpse of Rosa standing by the gate, waving with one hand while she wiped her eyes with her apron as the car sped away.
SEVENTEEN
Hans von Staate
October 18, 1944: The Soviet Army crossed the border into Czechoslovakia, driving the Wehrmacht back toward Germany.
Normally a quiet rail stop, the area was now chaotic. As in Zemun when we had left Belgrade, a huge urn of coffee was set up at the platform, and a crowd of officers were milling around it. The roar of engines, the shouting of men, and the rapid movement of both troops and equipment being loaded was overwhelming.
“Try to stay close to me. If we get separated, we can meet at the coffee station. I must let the Colonel know we are here,” Hans said as he looked for a familiar insignia among the cars and trucks now lined up for loading.
As we approached the coffee urn, I recognized an elderly officer who had been on the same train when we left Belgrade. I stood by the wall next to the urn as Hans spoke to him.
“This young lady was the translator in Belgrade, and the Colonel promised her father that we would see her safely to Vienna, sir.”
“I know, Lieutenant,” he replied, his raspy, strong voice at odds with his kindly face. “If there is room, fine. Or she can remain in the staff car and be on the freight part of the train. I don’t care. Do whatever you wish.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hans responded. The gallant click of his heels seemed louder to me for some reason. It was the never-ending click of German heels and the sound of the soldiers’ boots on the cobblestone streets of Belgrade that I had grown to despise. The Streife, the German patrol that walked the streets night and day, had made me hate the sight and sound of boots.
“Come on,” Hans said, turning to me. “We can just stay with the car, and they’ll load it on the train.”
Sitting in the back seat of the car when it was finally loaded, I had a perfect view of the poorly lit station. Troops still milled about on the platform, but all vehicles and equipment were finally loaded. The shouting and the roar of engines had died away. Only the murmur of distant conversations alongside the train could be heard.
“We are almost ready to roll now,” Hans said.
“Yes.”
“Are you cold? It will be dark soon, and it’s already chilly.”
“No.”
“You have been very quiet all this time. Why?”
“I guess I have nothing to say. I just feel empty, like this station now, all emptied out.” I had no idea how to explain to him how I felt: my first kiss and the guilty feelings and conflict that I found so confusing—that it seemed so silly now to address him as “Lieutenant,” but that “Hans” felt wrong.
“Well, if all goes well we should reach Vienna in a day or two, and then you will be able to see your parents and friends again,” he said gently.
“Yes, if all goes well.”
“What could go wrong?”
“You must be joking, Hans . . . Lieutenant. Have you forgotten the horrors we went through on the train from Belgrade? The screams, the planes shooting at us, the killing? Or is that all just daily routine for you?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten, and it’s not my daily routine.”
“I’m sorry, Hans. I don’t know why I so often sound like I’m accusing you. I don’t mean to sound that way. I really don’t.”
“I understand, but you shouldn’t worry. It’s pretty safe on the train, and Austria isn’t far away now. Is your coat warm enough, or shall I go and see if I can find a blanket?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
As I looked toward the end of the train, I was again surprised to see civilians, gathered in the fields, waiting to rush for a place on the train. At first, German guards held them back, but now, as the train started moving, people began rushing toward the train, running with bundles and children. I remembered that the Soviet “Hooligans” were closing in and the way I had always heard them described. Perhaps these people were just trying to escape the relentless advance of the Soviets. The train eased from the station, slowly gathering speed.
“You know,” Hans said, “if we were in Vienna now, in peacetime, we would just be going into a theater, and later I would take you to a nice restaurant where we would discuss the symphony we had just heard or the ballet we had just seen. I’d look into your eyes and see if I could count the reflection of the chandeliers, and a violin would be playing in the background. There aren’t any stars tonight, but if there were, I’d like to see them in your eyes.”
“No, the sky is black, the night is black, and there are no soft gypsy melodies, only the sound of the train wheels, and there is nothing in my eyes but blackness.”
“I’ve never seen a girl with such light blonde hair and such dark eyes. They are very pretty.”
“Thank you.”
He was silent for a long time. I knew he understood that I didn’t want to join in conversation. The car wobbled and felt unsteady on top of the flatcar, and I looked out the window, peering into the blackness, the silence broken only by the sound of the wheels, occasionally screeching as the train braked for a curve.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence. “Rosa pushed this bag into my hands as we were leaving. It smells like ham. Are you hungry, Asya?”
“Oh, yes. Dear Rosa. She is the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. So simple, so very kind.”
Hans opened the bag and brought out a large chunk of ham wrapped in a light cloth, some black bread, and two apples. He sliced the ham with his pocket knife and tore the bread apart, handing half of it back to me with a smile.
“It’s not exactly the dinner I was talking about, but since we can’t go the opera or symphony, I guess it will do.”
We ate the ham and bread in silence, deciding to save the apples for later, and he turned to say, “Why don’t you lie down on the seat and try to get some sleep. I’ll keep watch to be sure the car doesn’t fall off the train. I’m just joking,” he added quickly. “The car is chained to the train.”
I took my coat off, laid down on the seat, and covered myself with the coat, silently thanking Rosa again. The night was very cold and damp, but Hans got out of the car, stretched, and stood there silently. The steady clickety-clack of the wheels was the only sound to break the stillness, except for an occasional harsh German command barely heard from somewhere toward the front of the train. I dozed off, but whether for only a few minutes or an hour or more I don’t know. I was awakened by the sound of the car door closing as Hans got back into his seat.
“What in the world am I doing here?” he said, his voice very soft and low. “This is so different from my plans. Music is my whole life, not this horror. How long have guns, bombs, and screams replaced the soft notes of Vienna? What in the name of heaven am I doing here, on top of this broken-down train going God-knows-where? How can I continue wearing this uniform and screaming, ‘Heil Hitler’ when I hate everything Germany stands for? Dear God, let me never fire a gun at another man, never contribute to the misery sweeping the world. Grant me the opportunity to return to the mountains and music of Austria, to my beloved Graz and Vienna. We’re so close to Vienna now. Maybe, dear God, with your help I can stay in Vienna.”
The brakes screeched as the train suddenly slowed, jolting him sharply, and he sat up.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I think we are approaching Budapest. I’ll go and make sure. I’ll be right back.”
I looked around as he left. We were passing an intersection of some kind, and a few buildings began to appear next to the tracks as we moved along very slowly. Hans returned in just a few minutes.
“This is Budapest,” he said as he took his place in front again. “We will be in the station in about twenty
minutes. We’re going to stop to refuel both the train and the vehicles we are carrying, so we will probably be here for one to two hours. Asya, before . . . when the train started to slow suddenly . . . was I talking?”
“Yes. At first I thought you were talking to me, but then I realized you seemed to be just thinking.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I was thinking out loud. I don’t normally do that.”
We traveled then in silence. He was troubled about something. I knew that he was, but I didn’t know what to say to help. I was lost in my own thoughts: first remembering Belgrade, then wondering what I would do when we reached Vienna, how I would find Countess von Holzen’s address and my parents—then remembering Belgrade again.
We soon slowed to a stop in front of a small building and rail platform. Hans helped me down from the train, and I saw a large bridge right next to the platform.
“Asya, the refueling should go quickly. We should be here for one hour, not more than two at the most. I have to report to the Colonel, and I may have some duties while we are here. If you walk around, please don’t go far. The train will leave as soon as the refueling is complete, and it won’t wait. I’ll come back to stay with you for the rest of the trip. But remember, please be here and ready to reboard right away.”
“All right, Hans, I’ll be here. I’ll be fine. Go ahead.”
I watched him walk toward a group of officers as equipment began moving into place next to the engine. I looked toward the bridge, certain that it crossed the Danube, and I was so homesick. I walked out on the bridge to look at the river.
I leaned over the rail looking down at the water, now black with the eastern sky just beginning to lighten, and thought of everything I had lost over the past three years: Dedinye, Yaintse, Dr. Kester Street, Trécha Zhénska, all the friends and family now scattered, and I began to cry.
Watching my tears fall into the Danube below, I realized that they would soon be passing Kalamegdon, and I began to cry even harder. I have no idea of the date as I stood on that bridge—sometime in the second or third week of October 1944. I stood there, flooding the Danube with tears, when I remembered that I should get back to the train. I wiped my eyes and hurried back to the platform just as Hans returned.
The battle to drive the Nazi occupation forces from Belgrade began with Operation Rat Week on September 1, 1944. It continued through the month of September, as Partisan forces continually harassed German units, benefiting from Allied supplies and limited support, progressing steadily toward the city. Units of the Soviet army, approaching from the south, from the direction of Avala, supplied the strength needed to finally push into Belgrade itself. The Soviet army, primarily Ukrainian units, would have passed our house in Yaintse very early in October, as they moved into Belgrade to battle street by street to drive the Germans from the city. I don’t know the precise date that the Soviets entered the city, but the battle was terrible until Belgrade fell on October 20. The German army, fighting doggedly, retreated to their last defensive position in Zemun, going north across the last bridge remaining that crossed the Sava. It was the same bridge the truck had to cross as I rode the train to Zemun, a frightened and confused fifteen-year-old, fleeing Belgrade with the Colonel from Luftwaffe headquarters perhaps two weeks earlier.
Fitzroy Maclean’s 1949 book Eastern Approaches recounts the almost unbelievable twist of fate that enabled the pursuing Soviet units to cross the bridge and to bring the battle to a successful conclusion: German engineers had mined the bridge in order to blow it up as soon as the last of the German units had escaped across it. Across the street from the bridge, a retired schoolteacher watched closely. Thirty-two years earlier, as a soldier in the Balkan war of 1912, he had been decorated for disconnecting the demolition charges from a bridge across which the enemy was retreating, allowing the Serbs to pursue and defeat them. Watching German activities closely, he understood what to do. When the guards were distracted, he crossed the street and calmly disconnected the explosive charges. When the Germans tried to detonate the bridge, the charges failed, and before they could correct the damage the old man had done, the Soviets were across the bridge. The old school teacher was decorated a second time.
“Asya,” Hans said, “I’m glad you’re right here. The refueling went faster than expected. We can get back on board. We will leave immediately.”
We returned to the staff car, and I sat again in the back seat, shivering now from the cold and pulling my coat tighter around me. The train moved slowly along the river toward a rail bridge, and I had another look at my Danube as we crossed in the predawn light.
“Soon,” Hans said softly, “we will be in Vienna.”
We traveled in silence again. My thoughts, saddened by my look at the Danube, were back in Belgrade, now so far away; his, almost certainly, were lost in Vienna and Austria, now so close.
We were very soon out of Budapest and moving again through fields, with a main road paralleling the tracks. I heard the screech of the wheels as the train suddenly braked, almost throwing me from the seat. The sound, by now familiar, of a plane diving on the train and beginning a strafing run brought both of us sharply alert.
“Quickly,” Hans shouted, pulling me from the rear seat and pressing me down on the wet floor of the flatcar. “Just crawl on your stomach, and don’t even pick up your head until we get under that large truck in front of us.”
We crawled and wriggled like snakes, heading for safety under the truck. Bullets seemed to strike everywhere.
“Pull your feet under the truck, too,” he shouted. I pressed against a huge tire, trying to spit out the dirt that had found its way into my mouth. There was an explosion from somewhere in the front of the train. The plane made one more run, but its fire was directed forward, toward the engine, and then it was gone. Rifle fire could be heard in the wooded area adjacent to the track, but died away quickly. The attack had lasted only a few minutes, and now there was an eerie silence.
“What now?”
“Stay here, under the truck, Asya. I’ll find out what we are going to do.”
Hans crawled out and ran toward the passenger cars. I could see guards running alongside the train, looking for something, perhaps checking for damage. He soon returned.
“Come on out, Asya,” he called. “There was minimal damage, but we are close to the Austrian border and the train is going to try to make it. Apparently there were a few Partisans in the woods, but they have been driven away. We can just wait in the car again until we get there. We don’t expect any more attacks. That last plane was quite a surprise. They are just going to check the tracks ahead, and that won’t take long.”
I crawled out and climbed back into the car, cold now because I had left my coat in the car in our rush to get under cover. I shivered in the chill morning air, shrugged into my coat, and leaned back against the seat, pulling the coat tightly around me. Hans sat in the front seat, the door open and his feet on the flatcar as he lit a cigarette. We were both silent, waiting for the train to move, when I heard harsh German commands coming from the section just ahead.
“Off. Everybody off the train,” a guard shouted as he walked along the track.
Hans spoke to the guard as he reached the car we were on.
“The tracks ahead have been damaged, Asya,” he said when he returned. “We are going to unload all vehicles and form a convoy to proceed. They expect further damage to the tracks between here and the border. We will be delayed a bit, but Austria is only a few kilometers ahead. The convoy should get there in about two hours.”
The stillness of the early morning was now replaced by running motors, shouting, and an occasional rifle shot. The guard came past us again, shouting, “Everybody off. No civilians allowed on the trucks. This is a military convoy. No civilians. Positively no refugees.”
Hans helped me down off the flatcar and told me to wait while he checked with the Colonel for his orders.
I stood on the grass bank, between the tracks and the road, look
ing at the chaos all around me. There were soldiers and people everywhere. I watched the utter confusion, growing more frightened and confused myself, as Hans returned.
“I tried to place our car last in the convoy so you could ride with us, but it’s a staff car,” he said, taking my arm to walk toward the rear of the convoy, “and it has to be in front. The trucks are to follow. I’ve already talked to the driver of the last truck in the convoy. He’s going to load as many refugees as possible, and no one will know they’re in it. Come on. I’ll come back to check on you at the first stop.”
As we approached the rear of the last truck, I could see that it was already filled with women, children, and the very old.
“Remember, Asya, it isn’t far to the border. Soon you’ll be able to find your family and friends. Who knows, perhaps by then everything will be over and we can make a date for our first opera together. I have to run, but I’ll be back at the first stop.”
“All right, Hans,” I said, as he squeezed my hand and turned to run to the front of the convoy.
I climbed into the open truck with my suitcase, barely finding room to stand at the rear and hold onto a rope at the side. The other people in the truck were expressionless, numb with exhaustion. Some stood, whispering among themselves; others sat with heads resting on drawn-up knees, lulled to sleep by the hum of the motor and the warmth of the bodies around them.
We were traveling through a wooded area. A light fog lay between the trees. The sky looked clear, but it was hard to tell with the light fog. The sun had not fully risen, but its first rays cast a golden orange tint to the fog between the trees—the promise of a lovely day.
“We should be close to Austria by now,” someone said.
Ancient Furies Page 29
