Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  “What is it now?”

  “I’ll go and find out, Colonel,” the Lieutenant said as he rose and walked toward the end of the car.

  The Colonel leaned toward the window to look out. The moon had almost set, and the sky looked especially dark. He raised the window, and the sudden rush of cold fresh air felt good entering the smoky railcar. I looked out at the tracks to see that a lot of the soldiers were outside and that many of the civilians from the freight cars were also out looking around, wondering what was happening.

  The Lieutenant, accompanied by a sergeant, returned to report that a bridge just ahead had suffered minor damage that would require a short delay. The Colonel rose and moved toward the exit. I was afraid to get too far from the Colonel, and I followed the three men as we exited to stand next to the tracks.

  “Damn,” the Colonel swore again. “How long are we going to be stuck here?”

  “The bridge should be repaired shortly, sir.”

  “Do you know exactly where we are, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know anything?”

  “No, sir!” The sergeant stood rigidly at attention.

  Suddenly a plane appeared, diving toward the stalled train. Someone yelled, “Everyone down,” and the Lieutenant grabbed my arm and threw me to the ground.”Quickly,” he said, “under the train,” as the sound of bullets striking the train and the ground was heard, and the German guns mounted on the flat cars began to return fire. I could hear cries. Apparently someone had been hit. The plane made two more runs at the train, firing each time, and on the third run I heard a penetrating whistle followed immediately by a loud explosion. My eyes were closed. I was afraid to move or even to breathe.

  “Are you all right?” The question startled me, and I opened my eyes to see the Lieutenant next to me, both of us lying between the tracks beneath the train.

  “Yes, I am. What was that?”

  “I think they just shot the plane down.”

  “What if the train starts to move? We’re right on the tracks.”

  “Just look around you. Remember all the people lined up alongside the train? Well, they’re all under the train now. Even the General is under the train. You don’t think we would run over the General, do you?” he asked, smiling.

  I shifted my weight, wriggling to place my chest and hips on the cross ties to avoid the sharp stones between them.

  “How long are we going to be here? The tracks are hard, and the ground is so cold and wet.”

  “It’s almost daylight, and we won’t be attacked during the day. At least I don’t think so.”

  The stones between the cross ties were cutting my chest, and I wriggled more to get the cross ties beneath my ribcage.

  “You are very pretty, even with those smudges all over your face,” the Lieutenant said in a whisper.

  “How can you see? It’s still dark.”

  “The smudges are darker.”

  I thought how strange it was that as a group these people were so ferocious, heartless, and brutal, but individually many were very pleasant. I closed my eyes, longing for Belgrade, fighting tears, and wishing that when I opened my eyes I would find that this was all a nightmare and that I would be back on that hill building castles out of fluffy white clouds.

  “I can see those smudges better now. It’s almost daylight.” The Lieutenant’s voice broke the silence.

  “Oh, yes, it is much brighter,” I answered, lifting my head to look around. “The sun should be up very soon. Are you married, Lieutenant?”

  “No, I was attending the music conservatory when I was drafted. Somebody decided it was more important to listen to the whistles of bombs and bullets than to study Mozart and Bach.”

  “I suppose that if one is a real musical genius, he could compose a symphony out of the sounds of war: bullets, bombs, and the cries of people.”

  “Perhaps, but why not compose something beautiful, something full of light, color, and laughter?”

  “If you can find such things,” I sighed, “but I haven’t heard or seen such pretty things lately. For a long time now it seems all I’ve heard are moans and explosions.”

  “Someday there will be laughter and gaiety again.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. The beauty is not gone. Flowers, birds, the sounds of water, the wind . . . it’s all still around us. But the cries and explosions overpower the whisper of pines and bird songs. I suppose that’s life. When you combine the beauty and the ugliness and mix them all up, somehow it becomes life. I wonder why people must have ugliness around them in order to live?”

  “Perhaps the ugliness makes one appreciate the beauty.”

  “And the beauty makes one despise the ugliness,” I concluded with a sigh. “I guess it does make some sense.”

  “This is the first time I have ever carried on a philosophical discussion with a pretty young lady while lying under a train with the cross ties cutting me in two,” the Lieutenant said as he inched himself out from under the train. “I think you can come out now. It seems to be all clear, and almost everybody else is out.”

  I crawled over the rail, still feeling the cross ties and rocks under my ribcage, and stood stretching, every inch of me hurting. “I think the train did run over me. I’m just too tired to know the difference.”

  “No, young lady, I can assure you that you are still in one piece.”

  I blushed and quickly looked around, noticing for the first time the wooded areas, fields, and tiny farmhouses with red roofs and white fences. Everything looked so peaceful that for a moment one could forget that a war was going on. Somewhere a rooster crowed as the first rays of the sun began to light the fields. The air smelled so fresh and clean that it helped dispel thoughts of the war. I think this was our second day of travel, and I wished I could find some water to wash my face. Even drinking water was a restricted luxury on this trip. I looked around again, hoping for a little brook or stream someplace and walked down from the rail bed into a field. I could see a young woman, obviously from the train, bent low as if washing, and ran toward her.

  “Good morning. You have found some water,” I said.

  “Yes, look how clear it is. It’s good enough to drink.”

  I tied my braids together on top of my head and knelt down, scooping the ice cold water into my palms and splashing it over my face.” Oh, it felt so good. Almost as good as a bath, I thought, trying to remember how long it had been since I had a hot bath. I realized I couldn’t even remember how long it had been. Hot water and soap had become luxuries. Good soap had long been a thing of the past, and we had been very happy to get strong, brown soap from Yaintse.

  “Why are we stopping here, do you know?” asked the woman, cradling a small, sleeping child in her arms.

  “I think a bridge is out or something. We should be moving again soon.”

  “I wonder if I would have enough time to run to that farmhouse and try to get some milk for the baby and a little food or fruit.”

  “I’ll go and ask someone.”

  I ran back to the train and almost bumped into the Lieutenant.

  “Do you know how long we will be here?” I asked.

  “It looks like still a half-day’s work. I’m not an engineer, but the bridge looks badly damaged.”

  I ran back to the brook and told the woman what I had learned. She immediately got up and began to walk toward a small farmhouse at the other edge of the field.

  “Has the lady had her morning bath yet?” The Lieutenant’s voice surprised me. He had followed me back to the brook.

  “Oh, sure, fancy oils and everything.”

  “Too bad,” he said, smiling and looking at a bar of soap in his hand. “I was going to offer you this soap that I brought from Salonika. But, of course, it could never compete with fancy oils.” He paused, looked at me, and asked, “What is your name?”

  “‘Wandering stranger.’ And yours?”

  “‘Protector of wandering strangers,’ of course.�
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  “Such unusual names we both have,” I said, dipping my hands back into the brook to splash my face.

  “Please, take the soap. It’s too perfumed for me. I hope you will like it.”

  I took the soap from his hand and thanked him as he returned to the train. I wondered if I would dare to wash my hair with the soap, too. My hair was so dirty, covered with soot and dust from the train. I undid my braids, and lowered my whole head into the clear stream as the icy water sent chills down my spine. I soaped my hair vigorously, repeating it three times until the hair was squeaky and even smelled pleasant.

  Suddenly I remembered that I didn’t have a towel or comb with me, and I wondered if Father had put a comb in the small package he had brought of things I had “forgotten.” I didn’t have any idea where the Colonel was, and my pillowcase was with his briefcase. I got up, putting the soap in the pocket of my dress, and holding my hair with both hands, my head bent to try to keep the icy cold water from dripping down my back, I scrambled back up to the tracks to try to find the Colonel.

  “Well, it’s moments like this that one should have a camera, moments that should be kept forever.” The Lieutenant’s voice sounded teasingly in front of me.

  “Oh, please. Can’t you find me a rag or a towel?”

  “If you would just lift your head a bit, you would see that your ‘protector’ is way ahead of you.” He laughed, throwing a towel over my head.

  “Oh, that’s better. It’s so cold.”

  “Why, you have blonde hair. I thought you were a gray-haired, middle-aged lady. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Well, could you find the Colonel for the old lady?”

  “What do you want the old crank for?”

  “He has my pillowcase.”

  “Your pillowcase? I thought you knew him only slightly, as his interpreter. How does he happen to have your pillowcase?”

  “Oh, please. I didn’t have a suitcase when we left, and I packed my things in a pillowcase.”

  The Lieutenant laughed and turned to run toward the train and jump up onto the flat car. I could see the Colonel trying to tune his car radio to get some news—without much luck, judging from the expression on his face. When the Lieutenant handed me the pillowcase, I rummaged through it to get Father’s package and found my comb. Thank you, Papa, I thought, turning to walk back to the stream. I sat on a rock and combed and dried my hair. The Lieutenant sat opposite me on the bank, dipping a stick in the water.

  “Yes,” he said suddenly, “now I can see why all those sailors wrecked their ships.”

  “Where? What ships?”

  “See that one?” he said, pointing to a stick in the water. “That’s all that’s left of a once beautiful ship.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “The Lorelei on the Rhine. That’s what she used to do. Sit on a rock and comb her hair.”

  “Well, she must have been very stupid,” I interrupted, “because it’s uncomfortable to sit on a hard rock and try to comb your hair.”

  We both burst out laughing happily.

  “I haven’t smiled or laughed in a very long time,” he said quietly.

  “Neither have I,” I said, sadly remembering the day Kolya and I had said the same thing.

  “Well, now that you have properly washed your hands, how would you like a superb breakfast?”

  “Consisting of what? Leaves?”

  The Lieutenant reached into his jacket and brought out a loaf of black bread and some chocolate.

  “Where did you find chocolate?”

  “It is rations. All the Afrika Corp men had this as a standard ration. It’s supposed to give you strength. Here, I have lots more back in my duffel bag.”

  We ate the dry black bread and chocolate, and drank the water from the stream. I braided my hair and felt 100 percent better. Despite the fact that I didn’t know where I was going or when I would get there, I felt pretty good. I closed my eyes, dreaming that there was no war and that this was a young man who was madly in love with me and was courting me. I imagined that he could sing superbly and that he was indeed Italian.

  “Do you like Italians?” I asked.

  “What a question, out of the blue and in the middle of nowhere. I should, and I do. My mother is half Italian, her father was Italian, and my grandmother was Austrian. Why?”

  “Because I’m going to marry an Italian.”

  “Oh, where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, how are you going to marry him if you don’t even know where he is?”

  “Oh, I’ll find him.”

  “Well, if he really loves you, he should try to find you.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t even know that I’m alive.”

  “Why don’t you let him know?”

  “Well, I haven’t found him yet. You don’t understand. I don’t know who he is or where he is. All I know is that someday I will marry an Italian.”

  “Why an Italian?”

  “Because they make such beautiful music. They have such tender, touching operas, and they seem to be so terribly friendly and happy. They’re so different from my own people or the Germans. Even during the occupation there was such a difference between the two. I like them, and I’ll find mine someday.” I stopped to listen. “What is that?”

  “What?” the Lieutenant asked. “Oh, yes, I hear it now. It’s a plane again.”

  In seconds the plane was flying at treetop level above the train, strafing, the stillness shattered by the sound of the screaming plane and its guns. It disappeared almost as fast as it had appeared. The Lieutenant and I jumped to run toward the train, afraid it might start moving.

  The bridge repairs had been completed, and the train sounded one shrill whistle and gave a big jolt just as we reached it. The Lieutenant, holding my pillowcase, ran to the flat car where the Colonel had been, and I jumped into the first freight car. I looked back to see people who had been left behind again, running to try to catch the train, but just falling farther and farther behind.

  “My wife! My wife is still by the stream. I can’t leave her behind,” cried a man behind me.

  As I watched, he jumped from the car and began rolling down toward the field. Someone inside threw out a sack that apparently belonged to them. I couldn’t see whether or not the man got up after jumping. All I could see was the sack lying there at the side of the tracks. I looked around, and my heart felt as if it were being crushed.

  There were at least fifty people of all ages in the freight car. Children with dirty faces and flimsy clothing were crying, their mothers trying to comfort them; other children were lying on the cold floor with only a bit of straw beneath them; old people stood all about me, their tired faces indicating that they didn’t really understand why they were on the train or where they were going.

  “Do you know where we’re headed?” someone asked. I was the newcomer in the car, and they hoped I had information.

  “We are going through Hungary and then on to Vienna.” My answer started a chain of questions and statements throughout the group as they moved about and began to sit on the floor.

  “I hope we stop in Hungary. I have relatives there,” one said hopefully.

  “Why bother with Hungary? The Germans are there, and the Soviets and Partisans will be there soon.”

  “Where else? To Germany?”

  “Well, Vienna isn’t Germany. It’s Austria.”

  “You mean it used to be Austria. The dragon has lashed its fiery tongue across that country, too. It’s Germany, all right. Do you know what will await us in Germany? Camps! Dirt, filth, and certain death. The Germans are confiscating food from every country they’ve entered in order to keep their troops fed. I heard there isn’t much standing in Germany now either. But, of course, they deserve it.”

  “You should be quiet, or we could wind up in a camp before we ever get to Vienna. You never know who’s sitting next to you,” said a woman clutching a small child to her b
reast and looking all around, her dark eyes searching everyone’s face, as though trying to catch an enemy.

  “I hope King Peter is well and will be back when we are able to go home,” someone said.

  “Hah! King Peter. He sure got cold feet and ran when the Germans came. The Partisans are the ones who are fighting for our Yugoslavia,” another responded.

  Soon the whole car was shouting and arguing—some for the king, others against the king and for the Partisans. I looked at the angry faces all around me, growing angrier with each statement, and became frightened. I didn’t understand or care about this king vs. Partisan argument. The real enemy was the Germans. Surely these people knew that.

  Suddenly a fist fight broke out between two men. More joined in as the children and some of the women began to cry and scream. The doors to the car were open. I was afraid that I might get pushed out, and I crawled to a corner as far away from the fighting as I could get. A man grabbed a large cast-iron pan and swung it to strike another’s head. Blood ran down the face of the man hit, and he struggled to keep his balance as a woman screamed, “Watch out, watch out!” I saw the cast-iron pan start to swing again, when a piercing scream froze everyone in position. A woman on the other side of the car bent, sobbing over a small, bloody bundle on the floor.

  “Oh, God! My baby, my baby! What have you done? My baby is dead!”

  The man who had been hit with the pan stood over the woman, his arms outstretched to her, blood from his head now covering one eye, his voice cracking.

  “Forgive me, forgive me. I didn’t see the baby. I just felt a crunch and . . . oh God, what have I done?” He looked down at the baby, realizing that he had stepped on its skull. Then he said to the man who had hit him, still holding the pan, “Kill me! Just kill me! I can’t live with this. Just kill me.”

  The drama unfolding inside that freight car held everyone spellbound, and no one noticed the sound of another plane diving low to begin a strafing run. I huddled in my corner, covering my ears, trying to block the penetrating whistles accompanying the bullets slamming into the train. The attack seemed to be over in an instant, as the train screeched and jolted to a stop.