June 10, 1940: Italy declared war on France and Britain; Canada declared war on Italy.
June 14, 1940: German troops entered Paris. Germany opened Auschwitz Concentration Camp in occupied Poland.
June 17, 1940: France asked Germany for terms of surrender.
As summer began, I spent most of my time at Gypsy Island, swimming and exploring. I saw Kolya and Yura and many of their schoolmates almost daily. As the summer progressed, Russkii Dom began offering classes in first aid, which I attended with Mother. We all cut and rolled what seemed like miles of bandages and transferred iodine from large bottles into two-ounce bottles. We made up first aid kits of bandages, cotton, gauze, aspirin, iodine, and razor blades.
There was something obviously in the air—not necessarily alarm, but a strong sense of urgency that I could feel but not comprehend. The discussions I heard during first aid classes focused my attention on the concerns for the war that everybody was feeling. Each day there were new broadcasts from the OKW (Oberkommando der Wehrmacht), the official Nazi source for radio news broadcasts. It was the news broadcasts of the OKW and the BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) that held everyone’s attention.
It was impossible to avoid the war concerns that were becoming so widespread. Oddly enough, I had not encountered much discussion of the war in school, but now, during the summer months, it seemed all around me. Of course, the classes and activities at Russkii Dom put me in the company of adults, but even at Gypsy Island, Kolya and Yura and their classmates were more subdued.
July 10, 1940: The Battle of Britain began, as the Royal Air Force mounted a determined, continuing, and successful defense of Britain against systematic German bombing of southern England.
Mother never completely recovered from the loss of Abdul, and she rode Silva much less frequently. She disliked the hot weather, had always suffered from it—perhaps even more since her operation—and she had frequently sought relief from the summer heat by riding Abdul. Father spent most evenings at Russkii Dom, involved in meetings that always seemed to leave him in a somber mood. Mother and I continued to attend first aid classes, and in late summer each family received a first aid kit to be kept in their home. Later that winter Russkii Dom offered gas masks to families.OKW and BBC reports gradually replaced the tranquility and piano music in our home.
One day in late summer, my parents called me in from where I sat reading on the terrace to tell me that I should get all of my English gramophone records together, including my favorite, “Cocktails for Two” by the American band leader Spike Jones. We broke them all into small pieces, and Father burned them. My Russian, French, German, and Italian records I was allowed to keep.
“Why am I studying so hard to learn English, but cannot keep my English language records?” I asked Father.
“It’s very hard to explain. We don’t know exactly what lies ahead, but for the moment, we think it’s the wisest thing to do. I’m sorry, Asinka. But one day you’ll understand.”
August 20, 1940: Prime Minister Winston Churchill spoke to his nation paying tribute to the British Royal Air Force in their success defending Britain from constant German bombing raids to famously say, “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
September 16, 1940: President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the Selective Training and Service Act, which established the first peacetime military draft in U.S. history.
SEVEN
Adolescence Ends
September 27, 1940: The Tripartite Act, also called the Axis Pact, was signed in Berlin, formalizing an agreement between Germany, Italy, and Japan, committing them to cooperate in efforts to establish a “new order” of things and to assist one another with all political, economic, and military means.
The days were still August hot, and while the evenings were becoming cooler, it was the resumption of classes at Trécha Zhénska in September that heralded the official end of summer vacation for me. I very proudly displayed the ii on my beret. What a difference. The previous year I had taken great pains to fold the beret “just so” in order to hide the Roman i. This year I took great pains to be certain there was no fold that might in any way obscure the ii. It was good to see all the girls in school again. They all seemed quieter, more grown-up—or was it me? I would be forced to recognize, a few weeks hence during a second brief burst of youthful exuberance, that it was not me.
On a lovely, warm day in late October, similar to what I learned many years later would be called Indian Summer in New England, my friends Ljubica and Jovanka and I left school to walk together to a more distant trolley stop rather than taking the trolley right away on such a beautiful day. We were all so proud that we now had the Roman ii on our berets, despite the fact that there were girls who had iii or iv on their berets. We decided that they looked much older than we did, anyway.
They did look pretty sophisticated. The oldest girls wore lipstick, and their skirts were longer. I didn’t understand why, but the skirts in classes i, ii, and iii were very short—perhaps two inches above the knee. The skirts for class iv were two inches below the knee. So, we reasoned, even if the girls in the lower classes continued to try to hide their roman numerals, the skirt length would give them away.
We seemed to be in a silly mood. Perhaps the warm weather, similar to a spring day, affected us, but as we walked past the Winter Palace, I stopped, looked at the other two girls, and said very seriously.
“Remember your uniforms, girls. We are to behave like Young Ladies both in and out of school at all times.”
As if on command, the three of us tossed our briefcases on the sidewalk and snatched off our berets. I tossed mine into the air, jumping high to catch it, as the others tossed their berets as well, the three of us laughing hysterically. As we caught our berets, we put them on backwards, and sat, or rather collapsed, on the foundation wall of the gilded, wrought iron fence in front of the Palace. We parted at a trolley stop, still laughing, feeling pretty good about not being “perfect young ladies.”
October 29, 1940: Number 158 was drawn in the lottery for the United States’ first peacetime military draft.
Our teachers still did not discuss political events in class. Our religion class was the only exception. The Orthodox priest who conducted the class placed much greater emphasis on the need to “strengthen our faith” during these “troubled times” and to stress that it was our “faith in God” that would carry us through the “rough waters” that lay ahead. I really enjoyed our religion classes. Those classes, Aunt ’Lyena’s deep faith, and our regular attendance at Saturday evening vespers and weekly Sunday Mass all combined to give me a greater sense of security. The other girls, however, did seem worried about events taking place all over Europe and about political movements in Belgrade. We gathered under the huge oak in the enclosed courtyard during recesses and talked about what we had heard on the radio and from the discussions of our parents.
November 14, 1940: German bombers, flying across the English Channel, destroyed most of Coventry, England.
November 15, 1940: In the United States, 75,000 men were called to serve in the armed forces under the first peacetime draft in U.S. history.
Father stayed extremely busy throughout the autumn trying to get all the materials ready to start construction of the house in Yaintse. Although the well had now been dug very deep, they still had not reached water, and that weighed on his mind and added to his worries as work started on the foundations. There was a sense of urgency as Father, several friends, and some local workers from Yaintse worked every day on the house. I think I knew instinctively that Father’s sense of urgency stemmed from his concern about the war and political events, but I didn’t make a conscious connection.
Mother had started to make wonderful progress when she first returned from the sanitarium, but she had changed since her loss of Abdul. I knew how very much she loved Abdul, but I had no idea how to help her. She had become withdrawn, and the warmth and affection I had cheris
hed was gone. She didn’t even seem to find the same pleasure she always had in playing the piano.
I know now that she too was concerned about the war and political events, but that was the kind of thing I always ascribed to Father, not to Mother. She was, however, very pleased with my accomplishments, particularly my language skills. I found it much easier now to speak English and German, at times forgetting myself in school and answering in German or English instead of Serbian.
November 26, 1940: The Jews of Warsaw were ordered from their homes and forced to live in a walled ghetto.
One exceptionally warm evening in December, Father and Mother were sitting on the terrace conversing. I sat next to an open window in the living room studying, and their voices drifted through the window clearly as I heard my name in their conversation.
“Aren’t you proud of Asinka?” Mother asked. “She is doing so very well in school and with her languages. Her English and German have absolutely no trace of accent.”
“Yes, dear, she is doing exceptionally well, but . . .”
“But what? Is there anything wrong?”
I saw Father take her hand and kiss it. “I’m just so afraid that somewhere along the way she could lose her identity. You know . . . you know I want her always to remember that she is our daughter . . . that she is Russian. That is so important.”
“Important to you?”
“Yes.” His yes sounded as though there were more that he wanted to say, and after kissing Mother’s hand again, with great tenderness in his voice, he continued:
“You see, our future, once more, is so uncertain. The plans we had for her may never come true. I just wonder if, instead of concentrating on language skills, social graces, and all of that, if we should have given her some practical guide. You know, something down to earth, like cooking, peeling potatoes. Wouldn’t that have been better for her?”
There was an apologetic tone in his voice, as though he didn’t want to say it but felt he had to.
“That’s absurd,” Mother replied. “You well know that languages and social graces are very important. Besides, if we do have war, it’s not going to last. Things will get back to normal, and we may even get back to Russia. Wherever we are, she’ll be totally prepared for an intellectual and social life.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Father sighed. “She can always pick up the practical side of life later on.”
The night air was getting chilly, and they rose to come into the house. I quickly closed the window so they wouldn’t suspect I had overheard their conversation. When I had returned to my room, I thought about what I had heard.
Why or how could I “lose my identity”? All my life Father had reminded me that I was Russian. Whenever he praised me, he always said, “Well, you are my daughter and you are a Russian,” which was always why I was “so smart” or “so brave” or “so pretty.” Whatever the occasion, success was always attributed to the fact that I was a Russian. As for cooking and peeling potatoes, well, I’d never thought of that. Besides, we had Kristina. They mentioned that the war wouldn’t last forever. So they, too, were expecting war. They had talked about going back to Russia, and I wondered what Russia would be like. Father had always said that the Soviets were Bolshevik “Hooligans.” Well, maybe they were talking about after the “Hooligans” were gone. But where would they go? They too were Russian.
Suddenly I wondered why my mind was always clogged with unanswered questions. I wished that it was summer again and that I could find a nice secluded meadow to just lie down in and watch fluffy white clouds form castles and imaginary creatures in the hot, summer sky. Perhaps while looking at them I would be able to figure out this confusing world.
One morning just after the Christmas holidays in January 1941, I awoke to find the house unusually quiet and went to find Kristina in the kitchen.
“Here little one—your cocoa and toast.”
“Must I, Kristina? I really don’t like cocoa anymore. Besides, it’s for little children.”
“Oh ho, so the big Gymnasia student is all grown-up, eh?”
“No, Kristina, but I’m not a child any longer.”
“Well, drink it anyway. It’s good for you and will help your bones to develop and grow strong.”
“Kristina, is it hard to cook and peel potatoes and such?”
“No. Once you learn how to do things in the kitchen, it’s very easy. Why?”
“Well, I heard Papa . . . Oh, please don’t tell him I overheard him. I heard him saying that I might be better off if I had learned how to cook and peel potatoes instead of languages and curtsying. Do you think I would be better off?”
“Everything in life has its time and place, my little one. When the time comes, you’ll have plenty of time to learn these things. For now, you shouldn’t worry your little head about it. And finish your cocoa.”
“That’s what everybody tells me. ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.’ And yet my head is full of things that I ‘shouldn’t worry about.’”
Kristina came and hugged me. She mussed my hair, and I could feel tears starting, but I held them back.
“Life is full of puzzles and questions, my little one. I wish I could make it easier, but you are still a child, and I hope and pray that you’ll still have a few years to remain a child. I wish I could help you to ‘unclog’ your mind. But you know, even I am still looking for the answers to many questions.”
She gave me another big hug and said that she had to get on with her work, but as she walked away I saw tears in her eyes.
My classes at Trécha Zhénska and Miss Spencer’s tutoring kept me busier than ever, and the school year was passing quickly. When I returned from school one day at the end of winter, I found a beautiful new dress lying on my bed. It was very thin white wool. The top had a sailor suit collar with a navy blue striped border and a navy blue tie held together by a golden ring with small pearls, and the skirt was white with tiny pleats. I ran breathlessly into the living room where Mother and Father sat drinking tea.
“This is beautiful. Thank you so much. When did you get it?”
“It was supposed to be ready a long time ago,” Mother said, “but Mrs. Ivanovich has been ill, and it took her much longer than usual. Did you try it on?”
“No. May I now?”
“Of course. Isn’t your ‘Free Day’ coming up soon? You can wear it then.”
“Yes, Mama. That would be perfect.”
All the girls looked forward to our Free Day when once a month we could wear a dress of our choice instead of our uniform. As I turned to run back to my room, Father stopped me.
“Asya, before you go, we want you to look at something. Perhaps we should talk a bit.”
As he spoke, he handed me something. I could see that it was a photograph, and as I looked at it, I realized that it was of me—both feet off the ground, one arm stretched high over my head, tossing my beret in the air in front of the fence at the Palace. Ljubica and Jovanka were watching me and laughing. I was mortified! A family friend had seen me walking along the street with my two schoolmates, decided that a snapshot would be a perfect present for my parents, and, as luck would have it, snapped the picture at the very moment my beret was tossed.
“Do you remember, Asya, when you were starting Gymnasia and we talked—when I told you that the girls at Trécha Zhénska were older and already behaving like young ladies, and that you must also begin to act as a young lady?” Mother asked.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Well,” Father added, “perhaps you need to think a bit about that and what you might do to ensure your proper behavior.”
“Yes, Papa.”
The subject was never mentioned again, but how I’ve wished over the years that I still had that photograph.
The following Sunday, after Mass, we went to Yaintse, and I was surprised to see that the frame of the house was already up. Its location was very pretty. Standing in the front, one could see the entire village of Yaintse, with its
farms and meadows. Directly below our lot was a farmhouse, and a wide pathway led up the hill from the farmhouse yard to our house. A dirt road led from the highway up the small hill and passed the rear edge of our property as it led to the village cemetery and a wooded area. Our house overlooked the highway, which continued from Belgrade to Mt. Avala, about ten miles away.
Our land sloped up behind the house. Part of the slope to one side was a rock and clay ledge that rose to about the level of the windowsills of the house. Between the house and the ledge a shallow cellar—like space had been excavated which was to be roofed over to hold garden tools and to serve as storage for vegetables. At the top of the slope behind the house, the gravel road leading to the cemetery separated our land from a gentle slope down the other side. A large cornfield began at the edge of the road and extended down the slope, bordered on one side by thick woods, a meadow on another side. Beyond the cornfield one could see the road that led from Mt. Avala, winding through fields and woods toward the rooftops of Belgrade.
“It’s very pretty here, Papa. Are we going to have water?
“I don’t know. We first have to finish the house and then start on the well again. I just don’t know how deep we have to dig.”
“But where will we get water for drinking, for cooking, for bathing?”
“I’ve spoken with Mirko, the farmer below us. He has said that we’re welcome to all the water we need from his well.”
“That means that we won’t have a bathroom either,” said Mother, looking alarmed and dismayed.
“We’ll have a bathroom in the house, of course, but we won’t be able to use it until we strike water in the well,” Father replied quickly, taking Mother’s hand to kiss it.
“How will we go to the bathroom, Papa?”
“We’re going to build an outhouse. I’m going to put a window in it so we’ll have a pretty view, too.” Father smiled broadly, trying to sound upbeat and amusing. But it brought only a deep frown to Mother’s face.
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