She led me to a bathroom down the hall.
“There are fresh towels and a fresh hospital gown in the bathroom. You go and take a good hot bath. The doctor will come to see you in a little while.”
The warm water was soothing, but everything seemed like a strange dream: the hospital room, the nurse, my father lying dead in the basement with his eyes wide open. I was moving about as though it weren’t me. I felt once again like an observer of myself. I didn’t feel myself walking or taking a bath or returning to my room and lying down on the bed. I didn’t feel anything. I felt like an empty shell.
I wondered if this was how “dead” felt. Mother dead, Aunt ’Lyena dead, Kolya dead, now Father dead. Maybe I was dead, too. A crucifix hung on the wall, and I looked at it and wondered if I should pray. But why? Aunt ’Lyena prayed fervently all her life and her parents were murdered, her sister was killed, and she was hanged. Prayer didn’t help her at all. I looked at the crucifix again. Even Jesus died in vain. The world is just as cruel. Life itself is cold and cruel.
A soft knock on the door brought the doctor in.
“Do you feel any better, Asya?” he asked with concern.
“I don’t feel anything. Not bad, not good, nothing.”
“How about some hot soup? Get something into your stomach.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“No, I know you aren’t, but you should have something in your stomach.”
The nurse brought a steaming bowl of chicken soup, a cup of hot tea, and some Zwieback toast. The doctor began to spoon feed me, then made me sit up on the edge of the bed to finish the soup.
“Asya,” he asked, “have you ever met Father Gregórii?”
“No. Papa spoke of him often. He was a good friend and comrade of Papa’s in the regiment, and then at the end of the Russian Revolution he emigrated to Paris and became an Orthodox priest. I have never met him.”
“Your father spoke of him often to me,” he said, “and once in conversation he said that if he should die he would like Father Gregórii to conduct his funeral. Well, I have contacted him, and he arrives from Paris in the morning to officiate at the services. He will stay in your father’s room.”
“Oh, good, I’m certain Father would like that.”
“Yes, and did you know that Mrs. Nazimov and Yura are here in Munich, as well as the von Der Nonnes, and that they will all be at the funeral?”
“No,” I answered softly, “I did not.”
I didn’t sleep well at all that night, dozing fitfully. Eventually, morning light filled my room, and soon the same nurse knocked and entered with my fresh clothes.
“I found a black armband in the pocket of your suit,” she said. “I attached it to the left arm of the suit. You’ll feel a little better with all fresh clothes. The doctor will come later to take you to breakfast.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very kind.”
I took a bath and dressed. My head ached, and I was so very tired. Doctor Shernadze knocked lightly and entered.
“Good morning, Asya. We have an awfully lot to do. We are going to have a mass in the hospital chapel at 4:00 p.m., but you and I have to go to the cemetery and pick out a grave site. I brought the death certificate with me. Do you have any money?”
“Yes. Well, some, not enough. But I have twenty cartons of American cigarettes here. I understand they are worth a lot of money. Oh, and I also brought three pounds of coffee. I forgot about that. Is there a black market someplace where I can sell it all and get money?”
“Don’t worry about that. What you brought will be plenty to take care of the expenses. I’ll take care of it. Where are the cigarettes and coffee?”
“They are here in my suitcase. Shall I get them?”
“No, just leave everything here. I’ll take care of it after breakfast.”
We left my room and walked down the hall to a small lounge. I could smell the coffee. There were five tables with four chairs at each table. A long table set with a white tablecloth stood along the left wall and held a large coffee urn, cups, and pastries. Most of the dining tables stood along a wall with large windows. The light from outside prevented me from seeing the faces of the people, all seated with their backs to the windows. The conversation stopped as we entered the room, and I could feel all eyes upon me. In a moment, a tall, bearded man dressed all in black stood and came toward me.
“So you are Vasilii’s daughter.” He addressed me in French, without introducing himself, though his dress made it clear that this was Father Gregórii.
“I’m sorry, Father Gregórii. I’m afraid I have forgotten all my French,” I answered in Russian.
“Oh? I thought you were going to attend the Sorbonne at one time?”
“Yes, but all that changed . . . because of the war and . . .”
“You know, you have caused your father a lot of heartache,” he interrupted, frowning sternly. “He spent two frantic years searching for you. Did you make any effort to find him?”
“No, Father,” I answered, “not really. I registered with UNRRA and listed his name as who I was looking for. I wrote to him twice in Blankenburg but never received an answer. I was in the refugee camps at first, and then tried to find work to get out of the camps.”
“Yes, but you broke his heart. He was so worried about you.” he interrupted sternly.
“I know, and I’m very sorry.”
“Well, Asya, you look all grown up.” Aunt Nadia Nazimov interrupted the priest and extended her hand to shake mine. “But you should have dressed differently,” she said critically. “This is the cold autumn, and after all we are here to attend a funeral. You should have dark clothes.”
“I know, Aunt Nadia, and I do feel very badly about it, but I had to borrow these clothes, everything—from an American friend—she didn’t have any dark clothes.” I felt mortified. I wished that I could fall through the floor, now noticing that everyone in the room was dressed in dark clothes.
“Well, you look like a girl, a very pretty one. The last time I saw you in Belgrade you were skin and bones . . . and dirty, remember? It was the night we found my father in the ruins. But now you look very nice, very pretty.”
I turned toward the voice. “Yes, Yura, I remember. That was not a very pleasant night.”
Yura walked away after a few moments to get some coffee as Mr. von Der Nonne approached with his son and daughter to shake my hand. They all looked so different to me. So much cleaner, I thought, and then realized that the last time we had all seen each other was among the ruins of Belgrade. There were several more Russians whom I did not know who came to shake my hand—Father’s friends he had met in Munich—they were not Belgrade people.
I sat down at an empty table. The doctor sat with me, but left quickly after having a cup of coffee. I took a cup of coffee and one of the small rolls that were on the serving table. I was just finishing a second cup of coffee when Doctor Shernadze returned to say that we had to leave for the cemetery.
Once in the car the doctor handed me a large envelope that contained father’s death certificate and 35,000 Deutsch Marks from the sale of the coffee and cigarettes. How he had managed it so quickly I will never know. It was still raining and cold, and we drove the few blocks to the cemetery. The doctor parked in front of a small building, and we entered the cemetery office where I was shown a plan of available grave sites, each priced on the plan with German efficiency.
“The price shown does not include a head marker,” explained a person behind a large desk, “Here is a list of head markers with the price above each one.”
I looked at the grave site plan; each site had a different set of prices. I looked at the markers, desperately trying to make sense of things. I saw a grave site that I thought I liked and saw that it was priced for ten, twenty or thirty years. If I got it for thirty years, the site would cost 30,000 Marks; the head marker, the cheapest one, a wooden cross with a steel frame and Father’s name, would cost 3,000 Marks, the next mark
er was 7,000 Marks. I could not afford that. I could only point my finger at the site and marker I had chosen. I felt faint and sick to my stomach. Words would not form in my mouth.
“All right, Fraulein, the total will be 33,000 Marks, and we will have some flowers placed on the grave at no extra cost. Do you have the death certificate?”
I handed him the envelope, still unable to speak, and he counted out 33,000 Marks, removed the death certificate, and returned the envelope to me with 2,000 Marks and a receipt neatly placed inside.
“Now,” he continued, “if you will sign right here we will have everything ready for you. Well, not for you,” he chuckled. “Oh, yes, your father . . . well, ready for him. I understand the body will be here by 6:00 p.m. Our grave diggers are here until 8:00.”
I walked out of the office leaning on the doctor’s arm, unable to think or to feel anything. We got back into the car and drove to the hospital in silence. As we entered the hospital, the doctor held the door for me.
“I’m sorry the man at the cemetery seemed so cold and impersonal.”
“It’s the German way,” I replied simply.
“Have you noticed that the Germans seem to be even more hostile toward us now than when we were ‘under their thumb,’ so to speak?”
“Yes.” I answered, fighting tears and remembering Papa’s warning before we parted in Blankenburg. “The resentment is obvious, especially if you work for the Americans,” I said, trying to regain some composure.
“Are you going to continue working for the Americans, Asya?”
“Yes, thank God I speak English fluently. I don’t know what would have become of me if I didn’t speak several languages.”
“Well,” the doctor said, “I have patients to see. You should go to your room and try to rest a little. We have to be in the chapel at 4:00 p.m. I hope I’ll be able to make it on time.”
“Thank you, doctor, for taking me to the cemetery and for selling the cigarettes.”
I returned to my room and lay down on the bed, turning my head to look out the window. It had started to rain again. I thought of Papa, lying in the cold basement. I thought of Father Gregórii’s words, “You have broken his heart.” But it’s not my fault that Papa died. Or is it? After all, it was he who sent me to Hamburg alone. Of course, I know that he was afraid of the advancing Soviets and that he thought me safer in the well-established British zone. Oh, God, could it have been my fault? Papa was only fifty-two years old.
I walked to the chapel at close to 4:00 p.m., a small chapel, softly lit by candles. The casket stood on a bier in the middle of the chapel. The candles at the head of the casket flickered, casting moving shadows over Papa’s face. His eyes were closed. A large gold Orthodox cross lay across his chest. His face was peaceful; the ever-present wrinkle between his brows was gone.
“Papa, all your worries are over now. You no longer have to be on the run, seeking a safe place for us, no longer wondering what’s to become of us,” I said to him silently.
The small chapel began to fill. The priest filled the censor and began to slowly distribute incense around the casket, reciting prayers as he walked. I stood by Papa’s left side with my left hand on the casket. The priest began to sing “Nadgróbnoe Ridánie” (Funeral Sobbing), the melody of which is extremely melancholy. I began to cry, softly at first. But soon I became overwhelmed and could no longer control my sobs. I held onto the rim of the casket and reached for Papa’s hands. Their damp coldness no longer bothered me. My tears fell on Father’s face, and I reached to touch it. I did not want to let go of him.
Pictures of my past flashed through my mind. Hundreds of dead on the streets of Belgrade, ruins all around me; parting from my parents as they sent me alone to Vienna with the retreating Nazis; searching for Mother in the ruins and carrying her body out to the sidewalk; the chapel floor with Mother’s body laid out with so many others; her funeral; waving good-bye to Papa when he sent me on alone to Hamburg . . .
I had managed to take it all as a part of living, managed to remain at least a little detached from it all, never really let myself feel the hurt inside, never really allowed myself to cry. And now the tears could no longer be held back, and all the pent-up emotions flooded out. I believe that on some level I realized for the first time that I was truly all alone in the world.
Although I hadn’t heard from Father in two years and had come to believe that he was dead, somehow there was always the hope, the conviction that he was out there somewhere and that we would one day find each other. Now that hope, that conviction was gone. Now as I stood there holding on to the casket, I felt that the “foundation” he had so often spoken of was collapsing. The Mass ended, and I felt someone pulling my hands from the casket and someone else leading me away as the casket was closed.
I rode to the cemetery in the hearse, along with Papa’s casket. The casket was carried to a gaping hole at the cemetery. By then it was pouring rain. I threw a muddy clump of earth on the lowered casket. The ground that was hurriedly shoveled onto the casket sounded like distant thunder. The grave diggers formed a mound of earth that kept collapsing, sliding off, as the rain formed puddles. Flowers had been placed on top of the mound of wet earth, the petals sinking into the mud. I took a bouquet, trying to shake the mud off, but the petals were too wet and muddy. I put the bouquet back on top of the mound, closer to the head. Another deep puddle had formed where they had lain before. I felt someone slip something over my shoulders.
The grave diggers left, and I turned to see that everyone had left. It was nearly dark, and I was alone in the rain. I walked to a nearby bench beneath a tree, but it was bare of leaves. It did not provide any shelter from the rain. I scraped the mud from my shoes on the gravel by the bench and began the long walk to the street. The hospital was not far from the cemetery, but, now soaked and starting to shiver, I took the trolley. As soon as I reached the hospital, I went to my room, and the same nurse who had been so kind came in almost as soon as I entered.
“Well, this is the easiest nursing duty I’ve had in a very long time,” she said with a smile. “Give me your wet clothes and put this robe on. That’s mine. It’s prettier than the hospital robe.”
“Thank you again,” I said gratefully.
I washed my face and looked at my image in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, swollen, but I had no more tears. I felt that I would never have tears again.
Outside the wind was howling, a mixture of rain and snow beating against the window. I thought of Mother’s funeral and how different it had been. The skies then were blue, the trees full of tender green buds, and the most beautiful wild flowers I had ever seen were blooming everywhere. Birdsong filled the air, and the whole world had seemed to be awakening with new life, new hope. It was, I thought, the most beautiful spring I had ever experienced. Germany had been defeated, and there would be no more death, no more bombs. It had seemed to me then that a new life was beginning. Today it seemed that my world had ended. There was no hope, no promise of new life. I was alone. One person with no ties, no roots—my last link to identity and purpose now lying beneath the cold, muddy earth of Munich.
There was a knock on the door, and Father Gregórii entered.
“Well, what are your plans now, Asya?” he asked.
“I’m going back to my job in the morning. Father Gregórii, I would like to go to Father’s room and see if I can find some pictures and personal mementoes from Papa.”
“Why the sudden interest?” he interrupted, frowning. “You made no effort to find him in two years. No, no, Asya. I am the executor of your father’s things, and I don’t think you should seek any mementoes.”
“But I know that he had some of Mother’s things. He had a very old icon and family pictures. I know he would have wanted me to have those things.”
“No, you see, you have already built your life. You’ve made choices without your father and, therefore, I feel that Aljona should have all those things, should she ever come out of the USSR. In the
meantime I’ll be in charge of them.”
“But she is not my sister,” I protested, “not any relation to us at all.”
“That’s true, but your parents cared for her and sent her with the Red Cross,” he answered firmly. “Unfortunately, they were intercepted by Soviet troops.”
“But I’m the only one left truly related to Mother and Father.”
“You must let me be the judge. I know that your father would have wanted it this way.”
“How can you possibly know this, Father Gregórii? You have lived in Paris all these years. I’ve never even met you before.” I could feel tears welling up, but these were tears of anger, and I did not want him to see them.
His hand went up, and he blessed me and held his hand for the traditional Orthodox kissing of his hand to acknowledge the blessing. I refused to do this, and he turned and left the room. Meddlesome Priest! I thought. You know nothing of me at all. You know nothing at all of what has happened to me, to Papa and Mama and Aunt ’Lyena. Nothing at all of what we went through over the past six years. Whatever Father wrote to you, you can never know the trauma, horror, and hurt that we have all gone through.
I was furious, and perhaps I felt a little guilty for not acknowledging his blessing. I was furious, but I was so young, so emotionally devastated by the loss of Papa, that I could not stand up to him and insist on my right to Father’s last effects. “They are only things, Asinka.”
I know now that Father Gregórii knew only that Papa, his friend and comrade, had written to him about the destruction of our family and his search for me, about his worry and deep sadness that I seemed estranged from him at our last parting. It was clear that Papa had written about the distance that had grown up between us when we had been reunited in late August, but he had never indicated the reasons for that distance. But this man was a priest. He, above everyone, should have realized that there is always another side to any story. He made no attempt to discover another side. Poor sad, little Aljona had a far greater effect on my life than she ever knew.
Ancient Furies Page 44
