When we returned to our table, the doctor said, “I’ve learned that there will be a military supply train to transfer the supplies we have here to Frankfurt the day we close,” he said. “If you want to go to Frankfurt, I think we can arrange for you to travel on that train at no cost. What do you think?”
“Yes, that would be perfect. I was trying to think of how I could travel to Frankfurt.”
The following week the doctor stopped in the office while I was working.
“Good-bye,” he said from the doorway. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, so good luck. I’m very happy you pulled through. Now be sure to take good care of yourself.”
I never saw the doctor again. I hope he had a long and happy life with his family back in Colombia. He was so very good to me, so very concerned, and I know that I probably owe him my life. It’s sad to remember that I don’t think I ever knew his name. I always addressed him simply as “Doctor.”
Two days later, the last of the supplies bound for Frankfurt were loaded, and I went with them to the waiting train.
TWENTY-THREE
Frankfurt
My arrival in the American zone was disappointing; it was not as easy to find a job as I had thought. The problem was me, of course. I had no idea how to go about applying, and I was very unsure of myself. I registered again with UNRRA and checked the bulletin board daily for word from Father.
May 11, 1946: Care packages began to arrive in Europe for the first time, at the port of Le Havre in France.
There was constant tension in the camp. People felt “displaced.” Without fluency in German or English, they couldn’t find work. They longed to go “home” but no longer belonged anyplace. Many of them now regretted not returning to Yugoslavia, but of course it was too late. Tito’s proclamation had closed that possibility. The refugees remaining in the camp were now classified as “stateless,” reflecting the reality of no longer being able to return to their homes, but without legal residency or citizenship in another country. I marveled at Mother’s wisdom in selecting the languages for me to study and how she had known that German and English would be so essential. I knew that my language ability was the key to my leaving the camp, but I didn’t know where to begin. Finally, about six weeks after arriving in the American zone, I decided that “camp life” was just not for me. I simply had to break away.
That day I went to the camp office and told them that I wanted to find a job.
“Well, Miss,” the soldier in the office replied, “just go down the street on the opposite side to the main gate of the U.S. headquarters division and tell the guard at the gate that you are interested in looking for work. He will be able to direct you to the employment office.”
Can it possibly be that easy? I wondered.
The following day the weekly supply of cigarettes was distributed in the camp. I received my allotment and went to my bed to open my suitcase and throw them in with all the rest. I still didn’t smoke, and by now my suitcase was full of them. A young woman watched as I put the new ones in.
“Asya,” she said, “you should either learn to smoke or trade those cigarettes for something you want or need.”
For the first time I realized that every day the front of the camp was crowded with Germans trying to trade for cigarettes. Apparently cigarettes were not easily available to the civilian population, and they would trade almost anything for a pack of cigarettes.
“Have you ever watched German men on the streets?” she continued. “Have you noticed that almost every one of them carries a cane?”
“No,” I answered puzzled, “I don’t think I have.” “Come outside for a walk with me. I want to show you something.”
We walked together out the main gate of the D.P. camp and paused long enough for her to light a cigarette. She took two puffs, threw the cigarette down, and took my arm to begin walking slowly away. Out of nowhere, an elderly man with a cane appeared, his head high, apparently strolling aimlessly. Glancing quickly both ways, he pointed his cane toward the lightly smoldering butt, brought the tip of his cane up, removed the cigarette, hungrily drew the smoke into his lungs, and smoked it quickly down to the very last possible puff. In just a moment, another man appeared with a cane and speared somebody else’s discarded butt. They had driven thin nails at the tip of their canes, and instead of suffering the humiliation of bending down to pick it up, they speared the butts with the nail.
“Oh, how terribly sad,” I said, almost in a whisper.
“What do you mean sad?” she replied, beaming with inner satisfaction. “They’re Germans! Have you forgotten how they treated us? To hell with them! All those mighty, powerful officers are now too proud to bend down and pick up a butt. Typically German, they’ve simply come up with a tricky solution.”
“But the war is over. Why can’t we just think about the future and try to make something of our miserable lives?” I said wistfully, not believing there was much of a future for any of us other than another camp perhaps. “I wish I could move out of the camp and live in a real home again, with real furniture.”
“Well,” she replied, “you have a whole bunch of cigarettes. They are worth more than Marks! Maybe you can use them to rent a room with a German family. You know, they’re terribly eager to rent rooms because they have absolutely nothing.”
“You know, that’s an idea,” I said, already thinking.
Back in the barrack, I wrapped ten packs of cigarettes in a piece of newspaper, tied it with a piece of string, and began walking around the area to see if I could spot a “Room for Rent” sign. Within an hour I found one that seemed to be in a good neighborhood—a two-story stone home standing almost alone. Many of the other homes had been destroyed or heavily damaged. This one stood intact and looked inviting.
My knock was answered by an elderly couple who, like most of the German population, were struggling to get by. They had two sons, the woman explained. The eldest lived on the ground floor with his wife and had lost his right leg on the Russian front. The youngest son had been killed when the Russians took Berlin. The elderly couple occupied the second floor.
“We are renting our sitting room,” the woman said as she opened the door to a large, nicely furnished room. The furniture, including a large iron bed, had obviously been handed down through several generations. “Are you Austrian, my dear? Is it only you who want the room? I mean, you don’t have someone you’ll be sharing the room with?”
“No, just me. How much would the rent be?”
“Well, if you are working for the Americans, we don’t need the money. If you are working, maybe you could supply my husband with cigarettes and perhaps some coffee and food. Maybe some coal or wood for fuel. The winter is coming and we have nothing to heat the house with. My husband has arthritis very bad.”
“Well, I brought some cigarettes with me,” I said, opening the package and holding it for the woman to see. “Will this be enough to start with? I’ll see what I can do about some coffee.”
“Franz, Franz, look, my dear. Look here. Have you ever seen so many cigarettes?” she exclaimed. “See, I told you we should rent our sitting room.”
Her husband, limping slightly, his fingers crooked from arthritis, eagerly ripped open a pack. His hands trembled as he lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled the gray smoke, sighing deeply.
“Thank you,” he said simply, as he left the room.
Walking between the DP camp and my new room, I had seen what I learned was the main U.S. Headquarters Division compound, and I noticed a clean, orderly building, which appealed to me for some reason, part of which was the U.S. Military Mortuary Service. The building was part of the main Headquarters Compound, but the entrance to the Mortuary Service was directly on the street where I passed. Death was nothing new to me, and the next morning I walked to the office to inquire about a job. The office was supervised by a U.S. Army chaplain, Captain-Chaplain Goodwin, who interviewed me. This time, however, I introduced myself as Sonya A. Popoff. Everyone, especially
the Americans, mispronounced Asya or Anastasia, and Sonya seemed a name they easily pronounced.
“Have you ever worked in a mortuary before?”
“No, but I’m willing to learn.”
“You speak English very well. Do you know any other languages?”
“Yes, German, French, and Russian. And Serbian, of course.”
“The German, Russian, and French could be very helpful,” he said as he raised his eyebrows. “Do you know how to type?”
I started to work at the mortuary the next day. My responsibilities were to prepare the paperwork that had to accompany each body, to work as a receptionist, and to translate when necessary in dealing with the German authorities. It was pleasant work; the only difficulty was the hours. I finished after sunset, and in the shortening daylight of autumn I had to walk home alone after dark, always walking in the middle of the street to avoid the frightening alleys and the even darker doorways. I immediately registered my new address at Frau Schmidt’s with UNRRA. I still hoped to hear from Father, but remembering his service revolver and what he had said before we parted, I feared he was dead.
One of the GIS, a sergeant who worked in the same office with me, had arranged for his wife to join him. They were both in their very early twenties, and we became good friends. They invited me to their home several times for dinner or to spend the day with them, going for a Sunday drive with a picnic lunch. His wife, Margie, very sweet and about my size, introduced me to Sweetheart Soap. I will never forget my first bath with Sweetheart Soap. She also gave me my first pair of nylon stockings, and I thought I had found heaven. Sweetheart Soap and nylons!
I enjoyed my work at the Mortuary Service very much, even though the “pay” was insignificant, barely enough to manage rent and food. Then one day in autumn 1946, I was swamped with paperwork. A large American troop transport plane had crashed, and many bodies had been burned beyond recognition. They had been sent to our office for processing before being shipped back to the States. The Criminal Investigation Division (CID) at U.S. Main Headquarters was called in. Robert Baker, an agent with the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation, then a civilian employee assigned to the Headquarters Division, was in charge and came to take fingerprints to identify the bodies.
I stood by watching him closely as he went through each step necessary to take reliable fingerprints from the badly burned corpses. I tried to hand him things in order to make myself useful so that he wouldn’t send me away. I couldn’t resist asking questions. Finally, as he finished working on one of the bodies, he looked up at me. “Are you interested in this work?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I think it’s fascinating. Wonderful that you can identify people this way, especially when they are so badly burned.”
“You speak English perfectly. Do you know German as well?”
“Yes. German, Russian, French, and Serbian.”
“Well, “if you are interested, you might come and see me in our office—CID in the main Headquarters Compound. We have a large staff of German clerical workers, and I need someone who can translate for me and supervise their work. We frequently need to coordinate our work with German or Russian authorities. There will be a class in fingerprint classification starting soon, which you need to take.”
The next day, I went to his office to apply for a job with CID. It was still within the same compound, but to get to CID I had to enter the main gate. I received an excellent recommendation from Captain-Chaplain Goodwin at the mortuary, and the following week I started work with Baker and began a short course in fingerprint classification. The course was just sufficient to let me understand the classification and filing system in order to retrieve records from the files and to supervise the German clerical workers, but I was fascinated with the work. I became quite adept at recognizing the whorls and sequences of fingerprint identification. It was a fairly large office, and I worked with Baker and two Army CID agents. My work was both clerical and supervisory, typing correspondence for Baker, filing and retrieving records, and supervising the German clerical staff. At this time CID conducted background checks for displaced persons interested in immigrating to the United States.
I was now eighteen years old, although my papers showed me as twenty. So often I had silently thanked Papa for lying to get that first ID paper with the incorrect birth date. It had helped me to find work. In summer 1947, Bob Baker called me into his office.
“Some changes are coming up, Sonya My assignment with CID European Headquarters is ending soon, and General Eisenhower is moving the U.S. Headquarters Group to Heidelberg.
“CID is moving as well, but the Fingerprint Division is going to be reduced, and there won’t be a need for your position. I have a very good friend who is an officer with the Quartermaster Corps, Headquarters Division. He needs someone with your language ability and office skills, and I can give you an excellent recommendation. It would be a good job. If I leave before the move takes place, you could return to the Mortuary Office. I’ve already spoken to Captain Goodwin, and he would be pleased to have you back for that last few weeks. Think it over, and if you are interested in moving to Heidelberg, I’ll arrange an interview for you.”
It didn’t take much thinking. Even as a child I had heard of Heidelberg as a university city, and I knew it would be much more pleasant than Frankfurt. I had no ties to anyone in Frankfurt, and I had wanted to move, depressed by the ailing Schmidt family. Bob Baker arranged for my interview with the commanding officer of the Quartermaster Corps, Headquarters Division and gave me the highest possible recommendation.
Then one day in late August 1947 Frau Schmidt met me at the door as I returned from work.
“There was an older gentleman here inquiring for you, Fraulein Asya. I told him where you worked, but he didn’t want to bother you at work. He said he had to get an early train. But he left a letter,” she said, handing it to me.
Papa! The letter said that he had been searching everywhere for me, beginning in Hamburg, and that he had finally obtained my address from UNRRA. He wrote that he was fine, doing well, living in Munich, and that he had found a position as an administrative assistant in a large hospital. I was overjoyed to hear from him, to know that he was alive and well, and I made immediate arrangements to go to Munich and see him. I could only arrange a day trip, but I found that I could get an early morning train to Munich on Sunday, spend the day with Father, and be back in my room by late evening.
Father had aged terribly. I was shocked when I saw him. He was very thin, with a lot more gray in his moustache, his bushy eyebrows almost white, the wonderful spark gone from his blue eyes. Mother’s death had taken a terrible toll. We went together to the hospital where he worked and where he introduced me to his close friend, Doctor Shernadze, before we went to Father’s office where we could talk privately.
“Thank God, I have found you,” he exclaimed as we embraced again. He would not let go of me. “I have looked everyplace. I turned the earth upside down to find you. I never thought I would live long enough to see you again, but here you are. You are older, a young woman now. There is a new expression in your eyes. Are you doing well?”
“I’m fine, Papa. I have a very good job, and I live in a very nice, clean room.”
“Are you happy?”
“Happy? Yes, I guess I am. I’m happy that I’m alive, happy that I’m not sick. How about you, Papa? How did you escape from the Russian zone? What are you doing here in Munich?”
“I traveled mostly by night, “he said. “Some of my friends got caught, but I decided that there was still life in me, and I wanted to make sure that you were all right. I guess I just didn’t want to die until I made sure. Mama is probably angry with me for leaving her, for not wanting to join her there, but I made one last run . . . and I think I’m pretty safe here in the American zone.”
“Are any of our Russian friends still around? I mean the Belgrade group from Dr. Kester Street?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, a few of them are h
ere in Munich. I haven’t heard anything about Lyalya or Borya. General Skorodumov married Nina. You remember her, I’m sure. But I don’t know where they are now. General Nazimov’s widow, Nadia, is here in Munich with Yura. You remember that the General died in a bombing raid in Belgrade. And poor Sasha . . . oh, well, I don’t think you remember him. Anyway, he died, too. Fell from the train trying to flee Belgrade. Right under the wheels, poor soul. But enough of that.”
“Do you know anything about Aunt ’Lyena?” I asked.
“Yes, not good news, I’m afraid.” Suddenly his face twisted in pain, and he began to choke up. “Aunt ’Lyena is dead,” he sobbed, shaking with emotion. “She was hanged! I don’t know if it was Soviet troops or Partisans. How could anyone do such a horrible thing to helpless, frail Elyena?” He stopped then, choking back sobs.
“Chuchurovic,” I cried, remembering dear sweet Aunt ’Lyena. “Oh, Papa. You should have brought her along. I will never understand how Mama could have left her behind. Never.”
Father crossed himself and paused, getting control of his sobbing and wiping his tears.
“Well, remember the camp in Blankenburg,” he continued. “Poor Aunt ’Lyena never would have survived that. Perhaps it’s for the better. Her whole life was spent in devotion to God, and she is with Him at long last.”
“Do you really believe there is a God, Papa?” I asked, drying my tears, “a God who could allow something like that to happen to someone as devoted as Aunt ’Lyena?”
“Oh, hush, Asinka, of course. Don’t ever doubt that. I have found you with God’s help.”
He looked at me as he spoke, the same way he had done so often years before, when he had made me believe that there was goodness all around us . . . that we only had to look for it . . . when he would point to a bird, a flower, a bee with its nose buried deep in a flower, and say, “See what beauty God has created for us to share. And we are his creation, just like the birds, the trees, the sky.”
Ancient Furies Page 42
