“An outhouse, Papa. Oh, how primitive. Why don’t we just continue with the well until we reach water, and then build the house?”
“Because, Asinka, it’s very important that we have the house ready as soon as possible. Wouldn’t you like to come out here on weekends and explore the woods and the countryside?”
“I guess so.” The thought did have lots of appeal. I had already discovered that it was great fun to lie down and roll down the hill on the shorter grass beside the cornfield. Mostly, though, I simply found quiet places in the tall grass of adjoining meadows to lie, watching clouds and inventing stories to explain their changing shapes. Why Father wanted the house “ready as soon as possible” failed to raise my curiosity.
Hmm, an outhouse. I’d never used an outhouse, but it might be interesting. I liked being outside. But poor Mother. I just could not picture her in an outhouse.
In late February Miss Spencer asked to meet with Mother and me together after my regular lesson. She said that my knowledge of English was quite sufficient, and that since Mother spoke English with no trace of accent and would be speaking English with me daily, there was no need to continue with her tutoring. More important, she explained, political developments were such that she felt she would be needed at home in England.
I was delighted. That meant I would have more free time, a luxury I hadn’t enjoyed for a very long time. Miss Spencer turned to me with a warm smile to add, “Now, Miss Asya, if you just remember to put your tongue between your teeth for your th sounds, and don’t roll your Rs, you will do just fine. Oh, yes, and don’t call English ladies ‘Madame.’”
“Yes, Miss Spencer. I’ll remember.”
We wished her a safe journey. War between Britain and Germany was raging.
One day that spring, Father found me in my room and joined me to explain that we were to have a house guest. Close friends of his and Mother’s had been killed in an accident, and they had left an orphaned daughter. Her name was Aljona, and Father was to bring her home the following day. I don’t remember much about Aljona, except that she was a very sweet little girl, about eight. Her father had served with Father during the Russian Revolution. My parents wanted to take her in, but I think that their concern for the international situation and the fact that their own plans were changing caused them to change their minds.
She shared my room with me, but was with us for only about a week. As the possibility of war breaking out became more ominous, the people in charge of the orphanage at Russkii Dom decided to send all the children to the Russian émigré community in Paris, where they would be safely out of the way of possible hostilities. Aljona went with them, and we sadly kissed each other good-bye as she returned to Russkii Dom. Poor, sad little Aljona was to have a far greater impact on my life than either of us could possibly have guessed at the time.
Although I was unaware of the changes already under way, the world and I had reached the end of our adolescence. By the beginning of March 1941, Belgrade was beset with protests, general unrest, and demonstrations. Germany had requested “free passage” through Yugoslavian territory to reach Greece and North Africa and for better access to the oil fields in Romania. The regent, Prince Paul, who ruled in young Prince Peter’s stead, felt he had little choice given the strength of Germany and its determination to reach its objectives. The Serbs, however, were bitterly opposed to allowing German troops to pass through Yugoslavia, and a charged atmosphere of unrest hung over the city.
There was widespread nervous anticipation that something was about to happen, but no one seemed to know exactly what—or when. Classes continued at Trécha Zhénska at their usual pace. Although all the girls clearly felt the electric charge that seemed to pervade everything in our city, politics were still never discussed in class.
Our “Free Day” was scheduled for the first week in March, and I was looking forward to wearing my new dress. By now I had modeled it at least half a dozen times for Kristina, and she had convinced me (as if I needed convincing) that it was really beautiful. When the big day arrived, I didn’t even want to sit down to eat breakfast, afraid to ruin the pleats.
“You had better sit down and have your breakfast correctly,” Kristina scolded lightly. “Those pleats will not wrinkle, but you might spill your cocoa standing up.”
“Oh, Kristina, must I have cocoa? I have a bit of a stomachache.”
“Drink your cocoa. It will be good for your stomachache.”
There was no use arguing. I finished breakfast, drank my cocoa, and off I went.
It was always nice to see the other girls in their different dresses. We all seemed “different” on our Free Day, probably because we all felt more relaxed, uninhibited without our uniforms. My stomach was bothering me, cramping, but I was sure it was due to the cocoa and to my excitement over my gorgeous new outfit. All the girls thought it looked very smart, and I had received many compliments on it.
That afternoon our religion class started as usual with a prayer. Since it was getting close to Easter, we were covering the time of the Crucifixion. The priest called on me to go to the board and point out the location of Golgotha on a map of ancient Jerusalem. Of course, I knew its location, and I boldly marched to the front of the room where the map hung and took the pointer the priest handed me. As I walked to the board I heard tiny snickering behind me, but thought nothing of it. I pointed out the location of Golgotha and turned to return to my seat, when I suddenly felt the priest’s hand on my shoulder.
“We are going to have a two-minute recess. Please remain in your seats.”
His hand never left my shoulder as he gently pointed me toward the exit, walking behind me and steering me ahead.
“Father, did I do something wrong? Where are we going?”
“No, Asya, nothing is wrong,” he said calmly.
We walked to the nurse’s office, and he opened the door and whispered something to the nurse.
“Father, how did you know that my stomach hurts?”
He patted me on the head, saying that the nurse would take care of me, as he turned and walked back to our classroom.
The nurse smiled as she said, “I’ll go to your classroom to get your briefcase and books. Why don’t you go and use the bathroom.”
“But, Nurse, I still have one more class to go. I don’t want my books, and I don’t need the bathroom.”
“Do you know why Father brought you here?”
“No, I hadn’t told him about my stomachache. And besides, it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Without a word, she took my hand and led me to a full-length mirror in a dressing room, lifting the back of my skirt so that I could see it in the mirror.
“Oh, no, I hate her. I told her I didn’t want that awful cocoa anymore. Oh, look at my beautiful white skirt.”
Tears streamed down my face. I was furious. I went to the bathroom and found the same stains on my slip and panties.
“I want to go home,” I told the nurse. “Now maybe she’ll believe that the cocoa makes me sick.”
The nurse brought my books to me. She found one of her nurse’s smocks, put it on me, and found a belt somewhere.
“There, this will cover your skirt, and we’ll make it shorter with the belt.”
She adjusted the smock, fluffing up the upper part, tightened the belt, handed me my books, and sent me home. On the trolley I wondered why the girls had snickered. They could have said something. And why didn’t the priest say something when he took me to the nurse’s office? Is it a sin to drink so much cocoa that it just comes out of you? Well, if it’s a sin, I’m certainly guilty, and he will certainly preach about it and tell me so at confession. Now I was missing my gym class. Oh, well, I couldn’t jump the horses anyway. My stomach was cramping again.
I jumped off the trolley at my stop and rushed home, not even stopping to look for new buds on the shrubs as I usually did. I almost ran, undoing the nurse’s smock as I rushed up the steps to the front door.
“My little on
e, you’re home so early. Why?” Kristina said as I entered the kitchen.
I dropped my books on the table and the nurse’s smock on the floor, turning my back toward her and holding up my skirt.
“Do you see this, Kristina? And this is my brand-new dress. Do you believe me now? Do you understand why I don’t ever, ever want to see another cup of cocoa as long as I live?”
“Oh, my God. You poor child, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you. Let’s go into the bathroom. You can wash and give me the dress.”
I had to change everything, of course, feeling frustrated because I was sure it wouldn’t have happened if she had only listened to me about her “daily cocoa.” I washed, but as I put on fresh underwear, it happened again. There seemed to be no end to the cocoa.
“May I come in?” Kristina knocked lightly at the door.
“Yes, Kristina.”
“Why don’t you come to my room. It’s quite private so we can talk, and there is still plenty of time for me to fix dinner.”
We went to Kristina’s room to sit on her bed where she looked deep into my eyes, stroking my hair, wondering where to begin.
“First of all, I promise that I will never make you drink cocoa again. All right?”
I nodded my head, now feeling guilty because I had been so cross. After all, she was always wonderful to me.
“Now, the stain on your dress isn’t cocoa. It’s blood.”
“Blood?” I asked in a panic. What had I done? I hadn’t cut myself or anything. It must be serious, I thought, looking desperately at Kristina.
“Yes, blood. It’s very normal. You are a normal, healthy girl. When we reach a certain age, our system, our body, tells us that we are ready for a change—a change from girlhood to womanhood.”
“And will I always have this now every day of my life?”
“No, it comes only once each month for a few days, and it only stops when a woman is blessed with a child. It is God’s way of telling us that we can have a child.”
“So I’m not sick or anything because I’m bleeding?”
“No, it’s all very normal, and it’s called menstruation.”
“Did you ever have a child, Kristina?”
“No, I never married.”
“Oh, so you have to be married to have a baby?”
“Yes. Well, no . . . well, yes, you have to be married so that the baby will have a mother and a father. That’s what makes a family.”
Kristina shifted, uncomfortably I thought, then began to explain proper hygiene to me: how to be prepared for the next period and what to do. That night in bed, I had so many new questions on top of worrying about probable war, worrying that Mother would get sick again, that Father wouldn’t find water in Yaintse. And now this.
I got up and went to the wardrobe where our first aid kits were, the ugly gas mask staring at me from the floor. We each had one. Father had said he would show me how to put it on—what for, I wondered—something else to worry about. I didn’t sleep well that night and was very tired the next morning, almost falling asleep on the trolley ride to school. All day, the other girls asked why I had left school early. They had all guessed, but wanted to hear it from me. Now, I found, we all had something in common, and I began to feel quite grown-up as a result—almost all the other girls were three or four years older than I, and it felt good to know that we had something in common.
My classroom experience returned to normal immediately after my latest bout with growing up. Now, however, although the subjects of war and political developments still were not raised in classes, they began to dominate the conversations during recess in the courtyard. By the second week in March it was difficult not to be aware of something happening all around us. The city was extremely restless. Everywhere I walked, I saw groups of men huddled together in what were obviously serious conversations.
Mother and Father both became very nervous about me going to and from school, and I was given strict instructions to come directly home immediately after school. Passengers on the trolley who normally greeted me did so no longer. Everyone seemed preoccupied.
One evening, after I had finished my homework, I returned to join my parents. As I approached the living room, I heard Mother say, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Asinka is no longer a child. Our little Asinka is now a young woman. My God, it makes me feel so old.”
“Oh, when did that happen? Did she tell you? How did you find out? Isn’t it a bit early? She is only twelve years old.”
“It happened a few days ago. She didn’t tell me. Kristina did. Apparently it started in school, and Asya came home early. I suppose it is a bit early for her. I was trying to remember, and I may have been a year older when I started. But I don’t think it’s unusual.”
“Well, who explained things to her? It must have been quite a shock.”
“Kristina explained everything to her. I suppose it was a bit of a shock, but I’m sure she was able to cope with it very well.”
Mother never mentioned the subject to me, and when I told her a few days later that my new sailor suit had been “mussed up” and that Kristina was trying to clean it, she never asked how it had gotten soiled. She simply replied that she was sure that Kristina would do her best to clean it. I could never bring myself to raise the subject with her. I found it embarrassing, and I’m sure Mother felt the same. Still, it saddened me deeply that she hadn’t been the one to explain things to me—that we did not seem to be close enough to discuss “personal” things—and I think it added to future problems between us. I remember telling myself that if I ever had a daughter, I would be sure to tell her in advance.
Father organized a group of friends to work on the house at Yaintse, and the next time I saw it, the roof was up and closed in and ready for the roof tiles, and the doors and windows had been installed. The windows looked a little odd—they were framed to place them about eighteen inches out from the wall. They would eventually be at the outside of the wide mud-brick exterior wall, which was still to be built. The floors were still bare earth. Father explained that he was having difficulty obtaining the lumber required to frame and install the new floors. A lot had been accomplished, and it now looked like a house, at least from the outside.
At home in Dedinye, a radio was turned on every hour, and at Yaintse Mother constantly checked the radio at the police chief’s office to listen to the latest news. Each German OKW announcement gave an account of their daily victories in several countries. Local news broadcasts from Radio Belgrade provided news of Prince Paul and his efforts to negotiate with Germany.
It was rumored throughout Belgrade that Germany had given assurances that they would not go through Yugoslavia to reach Greece, but would respect the sovereignty and integrity of Yugoslavia at all times. Father did not believe this. Militarily, he said, Germany would benefit from free transit across our country, and he and our friends continued to worry.
Father constantly checked our first aid supplies, making sure that we all remembered where the gas masks were and that we all knew how to put them on and use them. He not only worked continuously on the house at Yaintse, but attended organizational meetings each night at Russkii Dom. The émigré community drew up plans on where to meet and how to keep everyone informed of developments, changing plans, and the whereabouts of everyone in the event of hostilities.
The next time we went to Yaintse, I found that all interior walls had been built and painted. There was a large living room, a large kitchen, and two bedrooms. Aunt ’Lyena and I would share one of the bedrooms. Furniture—beds, chairs, tables—all had been brought by friends and placed on the dirt floors. Pots, pans, linens, and dishes had been brought as well and were piled on top of the tables. It seemed so strange that all this furniture would be brought and placed in the house when the floors still had not been installed.
EIGHT
War Comes to Belgrade
News flashes were heard constantly, growing worse and more worrisome by the hour. The population of Belgrade
divided into political factions. Some favored at least limited cooperation with Nazi Germany to avoid being drawn into the larger conflict, some favored joining the Axis Pact as the best way to mollify German belligerence, while others violently opposed any cooperation with the Nazis. The Regent, Prince Paul, was out of the country trying to come to some agreement with Germany as Adolf Hitler raged.
Father insisted that I was to wait at school until either he or one of our friends arrived to accompany me home. I had, in fact, begun to feel uneasy going to and from school. Groups of men were seen demonstrating against the possibility of cooperating with Germany. Most of the serious demonstrations took place in the government sector of the city, around Skupshtina, near our old neighborhood on Dr. Kester Street. The demonstrations in the area of Trécha Zhénska tended to be small and short-lived, but I was nervous seeing any group of men gathered and talking among themselves.
On March 25 everything began to change rapidly and in frightening ways. Yielding to pressure, Yugoslavia became the next nation to join the Tripartite Act, or Axis Pact, when Prince Paul signed for Yugoslavia at a ceremony in Berlin on March 25, 1941. The agreement was specifically designed to allow free passage for German troops moving through Yugoslavia to attack Greece.
It had not been easy for Hitler to gain the cooperation of Yugoslavia. Prince Paul was sharply aware of the strong anti-German feelings held by his subjects, particularly the majority Serb population. Whatever pressure induced him to sign, the next day he was overthrown in a military coup d’état. On March 27, 1941, the eighteen-year-old heir to the throne, Prince Peter 11, was declared king. The city of Belgrade was placed under a blackout order, and everyone was issued lapel buttons that glowed in the dark.
Father went to Yaintse almost every day, but had been unable to find the materials or the help needed to install and finish the floors. Everyone was preoccupied with recent political shifts and developments and their own preparations. In school, for the first time, many of the teachers were short-tempered.
Ancient Furies Page 10