Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  Family finances were never discussed or shared with me, but in 1942 Father took a job at the Hotel Excelsior as night auditor, and he began to change—subjected to pressures I could not imagine. When at home, he also seemed preoccupied, worried about something, and at the time I thought it must be Mother’s well-being that concerned him. Father and I always had a close relationship, and finding him alone and looking worried, I tried to cheer him as I never could with Mother.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?” I often asked, kissing his cheek as I put an arm around his shoulders. “You look so worried.”

  “It’s nothing, Asinka. Life—just life,” he always answered. He would smile as his face softened at least for a little while, but the easy conversation I had become accustomed to didn’t follow anymore. Father was becoming distant. Worry began to deepen the lines on his face. I had to interrupt his distant, often sad expression, and felt that I was intruding, that he preferred or perhaps needed to be left alone with his thoughts.

  One bright, sunny morning in September 1942 I decided to leave the hospital and spend the day in Koshutnjak. I walked the few blocks to the trolley line, boarded a car, and found a seat next to a window. At the Koshutnjak stop I jumped out of the trolley, stopping for a moment to take in all the beauty of the green fields and the autumn colors just beginning to appear on the trees. It was just as I knew it would be. A fast running brook separated the trolley line from the park and wooded areas, and I walked down the bank to the brook to watch the colorful leaves being carried away. I jumped across the brook to walk through the woods, to a meadow that I knew had a perfect view of the valley below.

  One side of the meadow had more flowers, and I found a nice spot to lie down, burying my face and braids in the thick, sweet grass. It was cool and peaceful, the only sounds the singing of birds and the occasional trolley bell. Lying in the grass, home, the city, the occupation, and our family all seemed remote. It was so easy to relax—to watch the clouds move about in the blue sky and let my imagination build dreams from them. Soon it grew chilly, and I returned the way I had come, boarding the trolley car when it arrived and taking the only seat available, next to an old man. The sun was getting low in the sky, and I shivered a little.

  “Are you cold? Would you like to have my jacket?” The old man next to me smiled sadly as he held his jacket to offer it. “It’s an old jacket, but it’s the only one I have. I’m afraid it smells of onions and garlic. I’m a cook up at the German canteen.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you very much. I am very cold,” I answered, smiling gratefully.

  “Here, let me put it around your shoulders.”

  “Thank you” I said, moving my braids out of the way. “It feels so good, and it smells good, too. I didn’t realize I was hungry until I smelled your jacket.”

  “Here,” he said, carefully opening a red kerchief he had tied into a bundle. “I have some dark bread, and I also . . .” he looked around, continuing in a whisper, “I also have a couple of sausages that I snatched from the kitchen. Here, let’s share it, and I’ll have my supper right here instead of in my hole in the ground.”

  The dark bread and the sausages lying on the red kerchief looked and smelled so good . . .

  “Come on,” he said, “have some. I’ll break the bread. It’s a little tough, but it’s good bread.”

  I held out both hands waiting for him to break the bread and eyed the sausage with anticipation.

  “Here we go—half for you and half for me—and take a sausage. I rubbed the skin with garlic to make it taste richer.”

  I bit into the bread and the sausage, and a warm feeling spread inside me. “Oh, that is so-o-o good. Thank you.”

  “The bread is good, and the sausage is mild. The Germans have good bread. They claim they have good sausages, but I like the smell and flavor of garlic on mine. Do you like garlic?”

  “Yes, it’s delicious.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Oh, we live close to the center of town. We used to live in Dedinye, but that area was taken over long ago. Where do you live?”

  “I live close to the center of town as well. And by the way, my name is Jovan.”

  “My name is Asya, Jovan. You are lucky that your house survived the bombing.”

  “Well, I really live in the basement of my house. I managed to salvage a stove from the house, and an old couch and two chairs. I even have barrels of marinated cucumbers and cabbage and green tomatoes. Funny, you know they weren’t damaged at all, but the house is gone.”

  “Do you live by yourself?”

  “Yes . . . well, physically I’m alone, but each night I try to pretend that the upstairs is still standing and that Dusha has just sent me to the basement to fetch some marinated tomatoes. Dusha is my wife . . . she was killed . . . and a neighbor that was visiting was killed at the same time. It was during a lull in the German bombing when we thought it was over. And you won’t believe it, but Dusha had just sent me to the basement for something when the bomb struck. It was as if God had sent all the thunder in the heavens down at once. The basement shook, and piles of stuff began to come down, shelves and boxes . . . and the barrels just stood there, didn’t even move . . . and then complete darkness. I had something very heavy lying on my left side and my arm . . . it was badly broken and never healed right.” He picked up his left arm and let it fall motionless again.

  “I crawled through a window and then saw the ruins that had been our house. I could hear sirens, and there were people all around me. Someone asked where Dusha was, but I couldn’t speak. I just pointed toward the house. I laid there while they were digging. I saw our chairs flying down, broken furniture, pots . . . I tried to get up but fell down again feeling a terrible pain through my body. I just focused my eyes on the men who were digging. They found Dusha . . . she was all broken up, one leg so badly torn . . .” He broke into sobs, unable to continue.

  “Please,” I said, my own eyes now filling. “You shouldn’t tell me anymore. I’m sorry I asked.”

  Jovan took the red kerchief that had held the bread and sausage and wiped his tears with it, leaving bread crumbs on his brows and cheeks. He blew his nose.

  “I’m sorry I broke down. This kerchief comes in handy. First I carry food in it, and then I blow my nose in it,” he said with a chuckle. “I must remember to wash it tonight. It is my food basket, and I’ll be lost without it tomorrow.”

  Jovan smiled sadly, showing uneven teeth partially covered by his long gray mustache. He straightened in his seat, rolling the mustache between his thumb and forefinger as he continued.

  “Dusha and I had a good life. We have two children who left us seven years ago. Both of them are married and now live with their own families in Argentina. My son has a farm, a small one, but it’s his own. There’s nothing like having a piece of ground of your own. A piece of land is almost indestructible, even if bombs fall on it. Those holes could be patched up, and in a couple of springs, with lots of love and care, it will bear again.

  “My daughter is married, too, and lives only a few kilometers from her brother. I might go there someday, once we’re allowed to move freely. I won’t be in their way. I’ll just put all my love for Dusha and the children into the ground and watch things grow.” He faded off a bit, deep in his memories. “We always wanted to go to Argentina after the children left, but each year I said to Dusha that we should wait until we had enough money so that we wouldn’t be a burden to our children. With each spring her heart sang with new hope that maybe this year we would go. And each spring her hopes were dampened by my foolish decision to wait. Poor Dusha. Do you think she forgave me?”

  “I’m sure she had nothing to forgive. You must have loved each other very much.”

  “But do you think it would be fair for me to go to Argentina without her?”

  “I know that Dusha would want you to go just as soon as it is possible.”

  “But she will never have the chance . . .”

  “Our priest tol
d us that when our loved ones die, they go to heaven, and from there they can always see you, and in turn, you can always feel them in your heart.”

  “I wish I could have so much faith in what my priest tells me. He told me practically the same thing.” He smiled and added jokingly, “They all must have the same speeches ready for everybody. Oh, this is almost my stop. Say, you said there were five of you at home. Why don’t you get off with me. I live only a few steps from the trolley stop, and I’ll give you some marinated tomatoes and cucumbers. What do you say? Do you think your people will like that? I’ll never be able to eat it all.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’d like that.”

  We got off the streetcar together, almost in front of the ruin that was now a home to lonely old Jovan. Concrete steps led down to the entry to the basement.

  “We have no electricity anymore, of course, but I keep a candle here by the door.” he said, standing before the bomb-wracked door that led to the basement that was now his home.

  I stood behind him, waiting for him to light the candle, and then followed him down more broken stairs.

  “Here, my child, give me your hand,” he said, moving carefully down the steps. “One must know these stairs. There, here we are.”

  Jovan set the candle down on a chair that stood next to four huge barrels. Tall, uneven shadows fell across the floor as the old man lit a second candle. A sofa stood in one corner neatly made into a bed. A kerosene stove stood between the bed and the barrels. A rope strung above the stove and fastened to the beams with huge rusty nails was hung with socks and a red kerchief, a mate to the one that had held the bread and sausages. Boxes had been stacked along the walls. The floor was earthen and very damp. A tiny table and two small wooden chairs stood next to the bed. A crucifix and a framed photograph stood on one of the chairs, propped against a large piece of lace that hung over the back of the chair, and I bent to look at the photograph.

  “Oh, I found this after the bombing. The glass was broken, but the picture wasn’t damaged, and the crucifix still hung on one of the walls that had not collapsed. This lace is part of the curtains Dusha made for our bedroom. It’s so beautiful. See, this is my Dusha,” he said tenderly.

  I looked at the pleasant, full face of a woman with dark hair pulled back in a bun and a smile that lit up large, dark eyes—a warm, pleasant face.

  “She must have been a very good wife and mother.”

  “Oh yes, my Dusha lived just for the children and me. You know, we never had any disagreements—any serious ones. I married her when she was only sixteen, and to me she never changed. She will always be my beloved of sixteen.”

  He placed the photograph gently back on the chair next to his bed before continuing.

  “Here now, I have plenty of pots, so I’ll give you this one. And I’ll just fill it up with some cucumbers and tomatoes. You know, my Dusha was a very good cook. She always prepared food for winter, and our basement was always full of food. I had some smoked meat and fish here, too, but when I came back from Dusha’s grave one day all my meat and fish were gone. There are many hungry people, you know. So . . . whoever took it I hope it helped to ease their hunger. That’s why I’m a cook now. At least this way I won’t go hungry.” He busied himself filling the pot with the vegetables. “Well, there we are. Now I had better take you back to the trolley and make sure you get on all right. Do you live far from your stop?”

  “No, less than two blocks. It’s a very short walk.”

  “All right, my child, let me get my candle, and I’ll take you now.”

  The basement fell silent in complete darkness as I looked back from the door at the top of the stairs. Here, I thought, was a man’s life, past and future, in this one damp, lonely hole. This terrible war—these poor innocent people—what had this man or his wife ever done to Germany?

  “Oh, I hate Germans. I hate wars,” I exclaimed.

  “That’s something almost every generation has to go through, my child. Oh, some are lucky enough to escape the gruesome details. But let us hope and pray that this will bring an end to all wars and that at least you young people will have a chance to build a normal life. Look, I see your streetcar coming. God be with you. May you have a better future, and may all your dreams come true someday.”

  I stepped up on the trolley car and turned as he handed me the pot he carried. The car was nearly empty, and I found a seat near the front next to a window. As I looked out, the old man was waving, and I felt tears streaming down my face. Jovan brought home to me more than anything that had happened up to that point, the tragedy that had overtaken Belgrade. I was so preoccupied with thoughts of Jovan and his wife and children that I almost missed my stop, and I stepped from the streetcar leaving a trail of marinated air behind me.

  I walked a bit more slowly than usual. The sun had set, and the streets were beginning to darken as I approached our apartment. Many of the windows flickered with candlelight. It looked very warm and cozy—romantic, I thought, remembering the candle-lit family dinners and our friends of just a few years before. But the warmth I knew was gone, and I no longer rushed to enter.

  I went through the entry hall to the kitchen, gave the vegetables to Kristina, who was delighted, and entered the small sitting room to find Uncle Borya, Aunt ’Lyena, my parents, and the Poltoratskys, who had dropped in for a visit. As I entered the sitting room, Uncle Borya jokingly said, “My, my, don’t we smell like a princess this evening, straight from the Arabian Nights.”

  “You do smell like garlic, Asya,” Mother added. “Where have you been all day?”

  “Oh, I took the trolley to Koshutnjak and walked in the park and woods for a while. And I did eat some sausage and bread with an old man in the trolley on the way home.”

  “What old man?”

  “I don’t know his name. Just Jovan. He lives in a basement on M Street.”

  “So you know where he lives, but you don’t even know his name.”

  “Oh, Mama, he’s just a poor old man. He lives like a dog in a hole underneath what used to be his house.”

  “Well, don’t you think we live like dogs now, too?”

  “No, I think we are all still pretty lucky.”

  “Lucky? Look at you. You have two dresses left to your name. I have practically nothing. Everything is gone—all of our things. The clothes we are wearing are going to rot away from our bodies, and there isn’t any place to buy anything either . . . even if we could afford it.”

  “Mama, you have always told me that family and friends are the real treasures of life, not things.”

  I looked around to find Uncle Borya, who could always add a touch of cheer, but he looked embarrassed and averted his eyes. Father too seemed not to know what to say. It was the first time I had openly disagreed with Mother, and I think it shocked everyone present, me included. I regretted it instantly, as a look came over Mother’s face showing that she remembered saying that to me several years before.

  I excused myself and went to my room to read and to get ready for bed. Years later, reliving the Nazi occupation of Belgrade, I would begin to understand—to understand that when she was seventeen, Mother’s world of great wealth and privilege had suddenly collapsed into the chaos and desperate privation of a different war, to understand that after twenty years of struggle, the world she and Father had built together had collapsed again and that this time the collapse affected her own daughter, to understand the enormous financial insecurity she must have felt on top of everything else. But at that time I did not understand; I simply resolved to spend as much time as possible away from the depressing atmosphere of home.

  My behavior, of course, made the situation at home even worse. I knew that my wandering alone throughout the city worried Mother and added to her depression, but she had shut me out completely. I could not bear to be alone with her or to accompany her to what by then seemed daily funerals. I longed to rush and embrace her, to be embraced, but could not bear the rejection I had come to expect. A
s if to emphasize the growing division between us, Mother came to my room one day when I returned from Gypsy Island.

  “When was the last time you had your period, Asya?”

  “Oh, Mama,” I answered wearily. “I don’t know. Maybe two months ago. Why? What difference does that make?”

  “Tomorrow you are to stay home. You need to see the doctor,” was her sharp response.

  The following morning, both parents accompanied me to our regular doctor’s office for my first gynecological examination. No one, not even the doctor, made an attempt to explain what was to take place, and it was, of course, a particularly humiliating experience. When the exam was finished, the doctor left me with the nurse and went to speak with my parents. I could hear the conversation through the open door.

  “I don’t understand why you are concerned, Maria Petrovna. Your daughter is ‘intact.’ Why did you insist on this exam?”

  “Well, she told me that she has not menstruated for several months.”

  “That isn’t unusual. Many young women have the same experience during these times, probably due to the stress of the occupation, bombing, complete disruption of their lives. And for children of Asya’s age, the problems are compounded. Her normal cycle will probably return once this terrible war is over. You should explain to her why she had to go through this exam.”

  I did not hear a response from either Mother or Father, and as I finished dressing, the doctor returned.

  “Asya, I want to see you again tomorrow. I think I should explain some things to you about today. Do you think you could come back to see me about 11:00 a.m.?”

  Already wondering what “intact” meant, I readily agreed. The following morning I returned to the doctor’s office, this time alone, and received a complete biology lesson, enhanced by charts and illustrations. I finally understood what poor Kristina had tried to tell me and why she had been embarrassed. The experience left me better informed, but it drove yet another wedge between Mother and me. Why, I wondered sadly, had she not explained this to me?