Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  “What did you trade for this time?” Mother asked.

  But Father only kissed her forehead, smiled, and assured her that “Everything is in order.”

  Once back in the camp, everyone scurried around. The kitchen truck showed up shortly after we got back to the barrack, and the usual ration of “soup” was brought inside. The tiny stove was lit, sending smoke throughout the room, but nobody seemed to mind, knowing that it would soon get warm. Everybody emptied their soup ration into one large kettle, and the potatoes, carrots, and onions began to appear from everyone’s pockets, along with two half loaves of fresh bread. Everyone tried to pitch in, peeling the potatoes and slicing the onions and carrots.

  Even Mother joined in happily, wanting to help, but when someone suggested she peel some potatoes, she looked lost, unsure of where or how to begin, although she managed. The stove had stopped smoking, and the warm air began to spread as everyone moved closer to it, eagerly watching the pot and anticipating the soup.

  Soon our tin cups were filled with real soup, thick and flavorful. Everyone was silent, chewing the precious vegetables slowly, trying to keep it in their mouths as long as possible. The dark bread, fresh and with at least a little butter, tasted even better than the most delicate Viennese torts.

  “Maria Petrovna, guess who we think we saw in town today,” someone said to Mother. “We were sure it was Max and Olga Zengovitz with their daughter.”

  “But how could that be?” asked Father. “The last time we saw them they were still in Belgrade.”

  The conversation became lively, but I didn’t listen. I was lost in my own thoughts, wondering if it were true. They had pretended not even to see us in Belgrade. Why would they be here?

  “Was he wearing his uniform?” someone asked.

  “No,” another replied. “He was in civilian clothes. Perhaps because he was married to a Russian, he encountered some problems, or maybe when the Germans retreated from Belgrade he had to flee and get his daughter out of the academy. But why would he not wear his uniform? Why would they be here?”

  “Well,” someone speculated, “if they were trying to escape the Soviets, this is the only sensible route to take, north and west.”

  The conversation and speculation went on and on. I kept thinking about the “solid foundation” stories Father had told me so very long ago. Father had always told me that in the end, the very end, my moral foundations would help me to hold steady through all the tremors and devastations that might surround me. I wondered if he was right. But what “end,” “very end” was he talking about? When you die and go to heaven, or must one keep strong for rewards right here on earth? But what rewards? Tomorrow we might all be dead. If so, then maybe he was referring to heaven.

  “Asya, are you still hungry?” Father asked. “There’s a bit of soup left.”

  “No, thank you, Papa. I’m full.”

  The men lit their cigarettes and lay down on the straw beds, and we women began to wash the cups and pot.

  “I wonder how long all of this will last? I haven’t been able to talk to any of the concentration camp prisoners lately to find out troop movements and the general situation,” someone said.

  “Well,” another retorted, “we’ll be much better off if you don’t try to contact those prisoners. The guards might get suspicious, and besides, you’ve heard the Germans. You know Goebbels said new territories have been taken and the German armies are victorious.”

  “Goebbels also said that they were victorious while they were running like rats from Belgrade,” the first responded.

  “Hush,” said a woman from the other end of the room. “I wish you would stop wondering out loud, or we will all be wearing striped pa-jamas.”

  The conversation died away, and someone brought out a book of Chekhov short stories and began to read aloud. God, how many times we had heard these same stories. They were the only reading material we had. Someone had brought them along from Belgrade, and we were happy to have them, but Chekhov’s stories were rather morbid, and I wished I could hear something cheerful.

  “Asya, are you listening?” Father asked.

  “I am, Papa, but I wish we could read something romantic, something cheerful.”

  Father began to recite from Pushkin’s novel in verse, Eugene Onegin.

  Onegin, I was younger then,

  Better, it seems to me,

  And I loved you; and you?

  What did I find in your heart?

  What response? Severity alone.

  Is it not true? The surrender of a young girl’s love

  was nothing new to you?

  And today—good God—it chills

  One’s blood just to recall that cold glance

  And that preaching. . . . But I did not

  Blame you; in that terrible time

  You acted nobly,

  You were righteous before me;

  I was grateful with my whole soul.

  Now, that was more like it. Soon the entire room was reciting line by line, each picking up as one finished a line. I believe every educated Russian could recite Eugene Onegin, perhaps not in its entirety, but certainly the most romantic and tender parts. It was a nice end to what had been a nice day. Slowly the room grew quiet. The oil lamp was turned way down, and I could hear people shifting in their straw—a sigh, a cough, a light snore from the far end of the room. Everyone said a quiet goodnight, and each retreated into their own world of dreams.

  Days and weeks followed without any changes. Same work, same “soup,” same reading of Chekov and reciting of Russian poetry. Mother grew quieter, often sitting in a corner without speaking much to anyone, often carrying on conversations with herself. More and more often she seemed to be living in a world of her own. When she was herself, however, she insisted on trying to find Max and Olga Zengovitz in Blankenburg.

  I think that Olga was Mother’s last link to her past as a young, carefree girl. Mother was never critical of Olga for seeming to turn against her own kind during the occupation of Belgrade, or if she was, she never showed it. She learned that Max and Olga Zengovitz were living in the town and managed to visit with them.

  January 12, 1945: Soviet armed forces began a major offensive against the German army in Eastern Europe.

  The winter of 1944–45 was terrible, or perhaps it only seemed that way to me because of our living conditions. The final fury of a long winter blasted in with the last week of February. The air was damp, the skies gray and unfriendly, and icy cold winds blew fiercely. One of those winds blew our outhouse down. Father sent me to the Bentin office to ask for nails to repair the outhouse.

  January 27, 1945: The Soviets liberated Auschwitz and Birkenau Concentration Camps.

  February 13, 1945: Allied planes began incendiary bombing over the city of Dresden, creating a firestorm on the ground that destroyed the city and killed many thousands of civilians.

  I entered the office slowly and rather timidly, not knowing what to expect. A very slender, middle-aged man sat behind a desk. He had large, sad eyes and sunken cheeks. He looked up and spoke very mildly as I entered the office.

  “Yes? What can I do for you?”

  “Well, our outhouse fell down, and we need some nails to repair it.”

  “How is it that you speak such perfect German? You’re not German, are you?”

  “No, I’m Russian, but I speak several languages.”

  “What are you doing here? Are you in the labor camp?” He motioned toward our barrack.

  “Yes.”

  “What is your name? I am Herr Mueller.”

  “My name is Asya. It’s really Anastasia, but I’m called Asya.”

  “Now, you want some nails, you said?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Say, since you speak German—Oh, by the way, can you also type in German?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, since you can type, would you like to work here in the office, to help me out with my paperwork? I’m sure I can get perm
ission from the commandant and the chief engineer. It would be much easier than working in the ditch, and it would be a big help to me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think my parents would like me to help in a place like this. I mean, you are in charge of all those poor prisoners and—”

  “I’m afraid I’m not in charge of anything,” he interrupted sadly. “I too am a prisoner of sorts.”

  “But aren’t you German?”

  “Yes. But, you see, my wife is Jewish. I was told to obtain a divorce or else be shipped off to work in some camp. And so here I am.”

  “But where is Frau Mueller?”

  “In a camp somewhere, I guess. I hope she is still . . .” His sad eyes filled with tears, and he rubbed them lightly. “Well, would you like to help me?”

  “Yes, but I must ask Papa first. Oh, and I can’t forget the nails.”

  Herr Mueller went to a cabinet and returned to hand me about a dozen large nails and a hammer.

  “If that’s not enough, I have some more. You let me know. Oh, wait a minute, Anastasia. It’s almost your dinner time, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Herr Mueller went to an adjoining room and returned in a moment, carefully looking out the window, clutching something in his hand.

  “Here, it’s butter. Put it inside your shirt and don’t let anyone know about it.”

  I ran out, whispering thank you and clutching the hammer and nails. As I left the office, I remembered several papers that had been on Herr Mueller’s desk when he was asking me about working in the office and about my typing. They were shipping papers addressed “Klosterwerk—Blankenburg” (“Cloister Works—Blankenburg”). It seemed such an odd name, “Cloister Works.” Years later, I would learn that the Nazis had given the name to the camp compound as a cover. A monastery, or cloister, stood in the mountains just above the town, and by calling the slave and forced labor camps the “Cloister Works,” they implied that the camps and laborers were there to work on rebuilding and restoring the monastery. The underground tunnel complex and munitions factory were hidden from aerial view.

  With the butter cold against my body, I ran back to our barrack. Everybody was already gathered awaiting the daily “soup” delivery.

  “Papa, here are the nails and a hammer and—” I stopped in midsentence, confused for a moment, remembering that Herr Mueller had asked me not to tell about the butter, and I was afraid to say anything in front of the others.

  “Good. After we have eaten, we will go and nail the outhouse back together.”

  We all ate our regular soup and bread allotment, the butter still cold against my waist inside my shirt. Father and one other man started toward the outhouse, and I dragged behind, unsure of what to do with the butter and beginning to be a bit uneasy about it. Finally, as the other man walked a bit ahead, I whispered, “Papa, I have a stick of butter in my shirt. What am I to do with it?”

  “Butter?” Father whispered back. “From where? Who gave it to you?”

  “Herr Mueller gave it to me.”

  “And who is Herr Mueller?”

  “He is married to a Jewish woman.”

  “What Jewish woman?”

  “She’s in a camp someplace, and he too is in a camp.”

  The conversation obviously made no sense at all to Father, so he took me aside and asked in detail about the butter. I described my conversation with Herr Mueller, and we decided to share the butter later on with everyone. When we returned to the barrack we all had a small piece of bread with the butter. Nobody cared where it came from, of course. We all just enjoyed the unexpected treat. I told Father about the conversation with Herr Mueller and the chance to work in the office and asked if he thought it would be all right.

  “I think so, Asya. I think so, but let me think about it for a while.”

  Over the next week or ten days, I went back to visit with Herr Mueller when I had finished polishing each day’s allotment of boots. Each time I visited, I left with a stick of butter, some bread, or some chocolate for the barrack. Everyone in the barrack knew about it and was grateful for the extra food.

  As the first two weeks of March passed, the terrible wind and cold that had started the month began to weaken. The snow began to thaw, the skies became noticeably bluer, and the days grew longer. The ground around the camp slowly turned from a hard frozen surface into deep mud. March in our forced labor camp was miserable, but it was far worse than I could know in other camps. At about the same time, another girl who the whole world would one day hear about, who was just about my age, struggled under far worse conditions.

  In early March 1945, a typhus epidemic swept through the Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, killing many camp prisoners. Margot Frank soon died; her younger sister Anne Frank, died two days later.

  One morning, the usual line of slave laborers halted in front of our barrack and began to dig a narrow ditch right next to the road and to lay pipe into it. The ground was so muddy that their feet sank deeply as they worked. The wind was icy and the air damp. While I sat on the step, polishing the endless line of boots, I noticed a boy in the line. He was clad in the usual striped pajamas, and he stopped for a moment to rub his hands together, trying to warm them. Our eyes met and held for an instant.

  He was about my age, not much older certainly. He was so very thin and shivering violently with the cold. His large brown eyes were sunken deeply into his thin cheeks, and I watched him shivering almost uncontrollably. I looked quickly and saw that the ss guard was walking toward the other end of the line, his back toward us, and on an impulse I ran toward the boy in the line, tore away the soft, bright red angora scarf I was wearing, and while it was still warm put it quickly around his thin neck, stuffing the red ends inside his shirt so that it wouldn’t show.

  He smiled a bit and managed only a “Merci” and a few words. I know that I answered in French, but only one or two words when the ss guard shouted at me. The guard was there in an instant, tore the scarf from the boy’s neck, and began to rip it up, cursing. I turned quickly, and as I ran back to my boots, the guard was directly behind me, his rubber hose raised high and swinging in the air.

  “Damned ‘Untermenschen.’ Can’t you stay where you are supposed to stay? What was the conversation between the two of you? Would you like to join him? We have plenty of stripes to put you in.”

  “You are a beast.” I turned to face him, yelling at him. “You call me ‘Untermenschen,’ but you are a monster, a killer, a torturer. I wish you would all die . . . someday.”

  I stood there screaming at the guard, tears running down my face, when I saw the rubber hose being raised and aimed at me. I turned as quickly as possible and began to run up the steps when suddenly I felt a sharp, hot sting on the back of my calf.

  I ran inside, relieved that the guard didn’t follow, and felt something warm running down the back of my leg. I looked down at my leg, amazed that it didn’t hurt when I saw blood flowing freely, and a piece of flesh hanging from a deep wound. Quickly I found a piece of cloth, something we were using as a dish rag, and wrapped the calf tightly, but bright red blood soaked through almost immediately. I found another rag and tied it tightly over the first one and lay down on the straw, elevating the leg until the bleeding slowly subsided.

  I laid there on the straw crying bitter tears, not because my leg hurt—I didn’t feel any pain from it—but because of the frustration and humiliation. I cried for the boy who had worn the scarf for only a moment before the guard ripped it to shreds. He had managed only a word or two before the guard was there, enough though for me to think his accent was Belgian. I hoped he understood that I just wanted to show him kindness and compassion. I didn’t understand why the guard wouldn’t let him wear it or why he had ripped it to shreds. Now the scarf was of no use to anyone.

  Soon the group from our barrack returned from their daily work on the ditch. Father was very upset when I explained what had happened, and someone in the group began to complain loudly that
we would all wind up in the concentration camp because of “Asya’s mouth” and wishing aloud that I didn’t speak German. Everyone began to speak in whispers.

  New rumors were circulating that the German army was in real trouble, that it was retreating, and that Allied troops were steadily advancing. Still, nobody knew who the “Allies” were—American, British, or Soviet. There was some speculation about whether the Americans or the British would be better, but everyone prayed that the Russians were not headed for us.

  I still did not understand. We were all Russians, yet so afraid of our own people. We were afraid of the Germans, afraid of the Russians, yet knew nothing about the Americans or the British. So how could we know which would be best?

  What difference does it make? I thought. Why are they all so anxious to live anyway? They fret constantly about all that they’ve lost, nothing to look forward to. Why are they so afraid to die? Everyone here has lost everything except the rags on their backs and a few trinkets jealously kept in their ragged suitcases with ugly ropes holding them together. I looked around at all our companions. They all looked so haggard and worn, and I imagined them all jealously clinging to those ugly suitcases.

  I looked over at Mother, seated alone in a corner, polishing her fingernails with a rag and smiling that mysterious smile that she displayed lately, not speaking to anyone, but mumbling to herself almost constantly. I wondered if she wanted to go on. I wondered what thoughts she had, what hopes or dreams. She spoke so many languages that it wouldn’t matter who defeated the Germans. She would get along, just as I would. But how much longer could she survive? I remembered how helpless she had looked when we brought some vegetables back from our first trip into town. She readily pitched in to help, but when someone suggested that she peel the potatoes, she looked lost. My leg began to throb and hurt, but I didn’t complain. I didn’t want anything to eat that night. I simply lay down on my straw and tried to lose myself in sleep.

  The following morning my leg was badly swollen and very painful. Father suggested that I go to the office and ask Herr Mueller for an aspirin or something to help fight the infection that was obviously starting. I limped across the muddy ground to enter Herr Mueller’s office.