Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  Oh, did any one of us even for a second confuse this whole experience with a vacation trip? We all dug, no conversation. The ground was hard, the drizzle cold, and nobody had gloves. Our noses were dripping, our hands so cold that they quickly became part of the steel shovel, ice cold and with no feeling. In midmorning the drone of aircraft engines overhead was heard, and everyone looked for planes, fearful that the camp might be a target.

  “Los, los arbeiten, oder erwartet ihr vielleicht ein packet from Amerikaner?” (Get, get to work, or are you perhaps expecting a package from the Americans?). The guard who said this roared with laughter as he slapped his hands on his sides in order to keep warm. Everyone bent their heads again to continue digging into the frozen ground. I remember thinking that if they were American planes, then clearly Goebbels was a liar.

  The days passed slowly, one after another, everyone too exhausted at the end of each work day to do more than gather a few branches, light a fire in the stove, and just sit, each lost in their own little world of broken dreams. In truth, although I didn’t know it then, we were quite fortunate to have landed in a backwater of the war and out of the line of fire, at least for the time being. I could not imagine the difficulties faced by young girls in other camps all over German-occupied Europe.

  November 1944, Auschwitz: Anne Frank and her sister, Margot, were selected to “survive” as slave laborers and transferred to Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp.

  We had worked for about two weeks on the ditch when the ss officer came at the end of one day to inspect the work. He walked the length of the ditch, turned toward us, and barked that the ditch was too close to the road. It would have to be filled in the following morning and moved about two meters closer to the barracks! Each day passed slowly in the same way. The boredom of the occupation back in Belgrade was nothing compared to this—except, of course, that we all now had the advantage of being too exhausted at the end of each day to dwell on our boredom.

  Each day as we worked, a detachment of men dressed in what looked like striped pajamas were marched past our ditch, and I was able to clearly see tattooed numbers on their arms. The weather was often extremely cold, but there was no change in the way they were dressed, and they were obviously very cold. We were forbidden to talk to them, but the men in our group found a way to exchange bits of news, especially if they were halted next to the ditch for a few moments.

  We learned that they were Jews, consigned to slave labor, and that they were building an extensive tunnel system that was being used to produce munitions and parts for Nazi war machinery. Each morning these men passed our barrack and ditch on the way to the tunnel, thin, hollow-cheeked, often with long heavy steel pipes carried on the shoulders of groups of six or seven men in the line. Each evening they trudged back past us toward the fenced slave labor compound. They were obviously more restricted and more controlled than we were, yet they always seemed to have new bits of information about the war. Whenever they passed our group, and particularly if they were halted by the ditch for a few minutes, they whispered the latest news to us, and we whispered to them whatever we had heard.

  One morning, an ss guard called me out of the ditch and showed me several pairs of boots that he had in his motorcycle side-car. He asked if I knew how to polish boots, and I looked dumbly at him, pretending, as always, that I didn’t understand German. He struggled to make me understand with gestures that he wanted me to polish the boots. Finally, when I was afraid I couldn’t hold my laughter any longer, I opened my eyes wide and exclaimed, “Oh, ja, ja.”

  He visibly relaxed, sighed, and tried to make me understand that he would bring the boots each morning. “Oh, ja, ja,” I nodded, as he brought several pairs of boots and polish and put them on the steps to our barrack. From then on, my job was to polish the boots of the ss guards, sitting on the steps to our barrack where I could watch the others as they continued to work on the ditch.

  Our barrack continued the same dull labor, day after day with little change. Every now and then, someone came up with a stick of butter, a piece of dried meat, smoked fish, even, on a couple of occasions, some of the same chocolate that I had shared with Hans on the train from Belgrade to Vienna. The men must have been dealing with the German guards, trading whatever they had hidden—rings, crosses, bracelets, etc.

  December 16, 1944: German troops launched a surprise counterattack against the Allies in Belgium, beginning the Battle of the Bulge.

  Father asked me one day if I still had the watch and rings Mother had given to me the day we left Belgrade.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have them sewn into a little cloth. I keep them around my neck, and the watch is in my shoe.”

  “Good,” he said. “Keep them hidden. Don’t let go of them. You may need them.”

  December 22, 1944, Bastogne, France: Brigadier General Anthony C. McAuliffe, commanding the U.S. 101st Airborne defending a major crossroads at the village, replied, “NUTS,” in a written response to a German demand for surrender during the Battle of the Bulge.

  One afternoon, the German guard announced that it was Christmas Eve and that we would not have to work the following day. Christmas. I had forgotten the holidays. It had been so long since we had celebrated Christmas. I closed my eyes that evening to try to remember. Old Father Frost and his loud, jolly laugh, the gifts, the warmth and beauty of our home on Dr. Kester St., then Dedinye. I began to question whether it had all really existed. Perhaps I had only imagined it all.

  I remembered how very beautiful Mother always looked on festive holidays, how happy and gay she seemed. I glanced over to look at her, realizing how pathetic, small, and sad she had become since we were ordered into the camp. There were days now when she didn’t seem to understand what was going on. She rarely spoke to anyone. She sat quietly after working on the ditches each day, often weeping, staring at her once carefully manicured hands, now rough with open blisters, nails uneven and broken.

  Her black hair had no shine and hung unevenly, revealing strands of gray. She looked old, although she had turned forty-four only a couple of weeks earlier. Often, not always, if someone wanted to speak with her, she would nod and smile faintly, but reply that she wasn’t able to receive guests just now. Father’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “Thinking about Christmas, Anochka?”

  “Yes, I guess I was. Papa, what’s wrong with Mama?”

  “I’m afraid she isn’t feeling well at all. I don’t mean physically. I think her mind sometimes refuses to accept the humiliation. She was always such a proud person. The degradation, all of this, I’m afraid is sometimes just too much for her.”

  “But why do the rest of us try our best to cope with it?”

  “You remember my story about the boat being storm-tossed against a rocky shore? Well, I’m afraid this time the boat may have been broken up too severely to be easily mended. It may take time. I hope she . . .” His voice drifted off, and he went to join Mother. He put his arm around her. She sprang back, startled, desperately tucking away the strands of hair from her face, then straightened her skirt, sat down, and motioned for Papa to sit next to her as her eyes wandered into space. I turned away, as my own eyes began to mist.

  The following day, Christmas, was glorious. It was, of course, December 25, not the Orthodox date for Christmas. The soup truck showed up as usual, before sunrise so nobody could sleep late, but nobody had to dig ditches. This time everybody brought their tin cups of soup inside to place them in a pot on the stove. We had hot soup for a change. We were told that there would be a “special” food distribution around 4 p.m.

  The men went out into the wooded area to bring in some more firewood, while the women stayed behind to tidy up the barrack. Mother seemed almost back to normal, joining in with a pleasant smile. We had no broom, but the floors were swept with an old shirt, the straw was fluffed up, and the blankets were thrown neatly on top. Someone brought a bucket of water, and when it was warmed on the stove the women began to wash. A shirt was torn in
to pieces to use as washcloths, and all began to dip their piece of cloth into the warm water and to wash as thoroughly as possible in such crowded conditions.

  Someone in the group suggested that since we had no toothbrushes or tooth powder or paste, that the next best thing was to dip a finger into the wood ashes from the stove and rub the teeth with it. It worked. The taste was terrible, but after a few rinses with cold water my mouth and teeth did feel cleaner. The wash-up proved to be the ultimate in luxury. Although there was little soap and no towels, all the women felt refreshed, and I think they even felt pretty.

  Soon the men returned with armloads of wood and sticks, and a few fresh pine tree branches. The wash water was emptied from the bucket and replaced with fresh water, and the fresh, fragrant pine branches were put into the water. One of the women had a nice lace handkerchief that she placed on top of the branches. With a little imagination it looked like a delicate star at the top of a Christmas tree.

  A long wooden table that stood against the wall, unused except to stack some personal items, was cleared and moved to the middle of the room, close to the stove. The fire was roaring inside the stove; an inner warmth began to radiate from each of us, and everyone brought out different items of food from various dealings with the guards.

  A few pine branches were strewn on the table, and the food items were arranged among the branches. The table looked almost festive, and everybody decided to wait for the 4 p.m. food truck so that we could combine it all and celebrate the holiday.

  Everyone sat on their blanket-covered straw bed and just relaxed, reminiscing about past Christmases. There was a lot of conversation about the war and current rumors that Allied troops were advancing swiftly and that German defeat was inevitable. It is strange how people in confined conditions such as the labor and concentration camps seemed always to have a way to follow the exact movement of troops and the latest news on all fronts.

  The slave laborers in the neighboring camp, in spite of being far more strictly controlled and confined than we were, always had the latest information and whispered the news as they marched past our group working on the ditch. Apparently, they had secured or built a secret radio that they were able to tune to the bbc or American Armed Forces Radio broadcasts and follow the movement of Allied forces. These poor men were our link to the outside world. The news was often conflicting, though, and we were never sure of who was advancing toward our location. Bulletins mentioned only “Allied forces,” not identifying units, so we were never sure whether it was British, American, or Soviet troops heading toward us.

  The conversation that Christmas Day in Blankenburg had a faint flicker of hope that we might all make it through the war alive. But those were just hopes. Because it was Christmas, everyone wanted to feel cheerful. Even Mother seemed more alert that day and came to sit next to me.

  “Poor Asinka, you have lost so much weight,” she said, stroking my cheek. “You look much too thin. You have aged so much that you would easily pass for nineteen or older.”

  She said it sadly, but I remember that it pleased me because I could hardly wait to grow up—in actual years, not just in experience. She placed her hand gently on my head and said with tears in her eyes, “You know, Asinka, I was only seventeen when the revolution broke out and they threw me in prison. I was all alone then, just ’Lyena and me rotting in that prison. Both parents murdered, and then,” she looked tenderly at Father on the other side of the room, “and then my prince came and rescued me. Yes, just seventeen . . .” Her voice drifted off as she plunged again into her own long-forgotten world.

  The arrival of the food truck broke off everyone’s conversation, and we all rushed outside to receive the last meal of the day, which was a nice surprise. Not only was the soup hot, but it actually had real potatoes and carrots in it, the first vegetables we had seen since arriving in the camp. In addition, everyone received a double portion of bread and three pats of butter. It was truly a Christmas treat. Everyone was so happy that each of us wished the guards who had brought it a Merry Christmas.

  The cups of soup were placed in a pot on the stove to be heated, and everyone went down on their knees to offer prayers thanking God for having spared us so far, asking his help through the shaky days still ahead, and special prayers for all our dead. Everyone wished each other a Merry Christmas, and the food began to be divided very precisely. As everyone began to relax, the men opened their handkerchiefs and emptied all the tobacco they had into a single pile and began rolling cigarettes. They looked as though they thought it the perfect end to the day.

  The following morning it was back to the ditch. By this time, the ditch had been deemed acceptable to the ss, and the group continued to dig around the compound. I could no longer see them as they worked, but I was able to watch the slave laborers as they marched past each day. I wondered how they found the strength to go on, to even survive, the way they were driven by the ss guards.

  December 26, 1944, Bastogne: As the tide turned in the Battle of the Bulge, the 101st Airborne was relieved by the U.S. 4th Army, commanded by General George Patton. No man of the 101st has ever agreed that their unit needed to be relieved!

  The first week in January, we offered special prayers on Orthodox Christmas. In the middle of January, one of the ss guards appeared to inform us that we would now be granted permission to go into the village of Blankenburg once a week from noon to 4 p.m., and we were cautioned that we were under a curfew. No foreign laborers were allowed outside the camp after 4 p.m. This was exciting news because none of us had been allowed outside the compound since we had arrived. The same privilege was extended to the entire forced labor compound. Each barrack had a half-day off on different days. I think this had been true all along and that the privilege was extended to us after some period of probation. At any rate, it was very exciting, something to look forward to and break the monotony.

  The following morning dawned to the same soup and the same ditch, but just at noon a German soldier came to the barrack and stamped our ID cards with the date and the hour. Even the weather cooperated. The sky was clear and blue, and we didn’t notice the cold, anticipating a few hours of freedom.

  We passed the entrance to the tunnel complex that housed the under-ground munitions factory, and I was astonished to see the size of it and the activity. Groups of slave laborers and their ss guards were all around it. The prisoners resembled ghosts, slowly marching in double lines carrying long iron pipes on their shoulders and not paying any attention to the passing group of “privileged” forced laborers on their way into the town.

  Seeing those poor men made me—all of us—realize that things could indeed be far, far worse. We walked briskly past the compound gates and onto the streets where “free” people walked.

  Mother held Father’s arm, and I walked behind them, all of us silent. I had no idea why we were going into town. I stole an occasional glance at the passing soldiers in their cars and motorcycles and noticed that some of them were rather good-looking and very young. What a pity they all seemed so brutal and unfeeling. I wondered what sort of people they would have been if Hitler and his war had not become a gruesome reality. Oh well, it’s all part of life. I dismissed those thoughts, but I did wish that I could be dressed differently, my hair groomed, following a warm bath. What absurd wishes.

  A squadron of planes passed overhead as we drew close to the center of the town. At least there was no danger of being bombed in Blanken-burg. The bombing in Belgrade and all along the trip from Belgrade to Vienna flashed through my mind, sending cold shivers down my back. I wondered if the war would ever end and if people would ever be able to live normally again . . . if the whole world was at war with everybody existing from day to day as we did. Oh well, I thought. Spring isn’t far away. Maybe things will be better in the spring.

  What a quaint little town it was, nestled against the Harz Mountains, with crooked cobblestone streets lined with pretty houses and small gardens, untouched by war. As we entered the cente
r of town, we passed small shops. Their display windows were rather bare, but nonetheless they were shops with people going in and out of them, obviously buying things.

  I watched my parents as we walked slowly along, remembering how attractive they had been before the war. Mother now had a kerchief covering her once beautiful hair. She wore a heavy jacket that hung on her shoulders revealing cotton stuffing where the seams were split. A rope held the jacket snuggly together at her slender waist providing at least some protection against the cold. A flowered print dress showed below the jacket, and she wore white low-heeled shoes that had one heel crudely attached with a nail.

  Father wore a felt hat and a long black coat. The velvet around the collar of his coat was nothing but a shiny, dirty spot, and each time he took a step, a wad of newspaper protruded from one of the shoes. But his shoulders were straight, his head high—the bearing of a military officer. I thought how pathetic they looked, and not for the first time. I remembered Father telling me how they had suffered through the Russian Revolution, and I wondered if we would make it through this war.

  “Look,” Father said as we walked on a bit, “there’s a large nursery. I’m sure they aren’t cultivating flowers but vegetables and potatoes. Shall we give it a try? See if we can talk some business to the owner?” Father was addressing both Mother and me, but we didn’t respond, just followed him.

  He asked us to remain outside while he went into the hothouse. There was an old man inside, and we watched as Father began talking to him and reaching inside his coat. A handshake followed, a smile, and Father came to the door to call me inside. The old man stuffed potatoes and onions into our pockets, carrots into my jacket, and a half loaf of fresh bread into Father’s coat. We shook hands and walked out to the sidewalk.