Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  Suddenly there was an explosion and then another up toward the front of the convoy. The driver slammed on his brakes, throwing everyone toward the front of the truck.

  “What is it now? I didn’t hear any planes,” I heard someone say.

  “It was a grenade,” I heard a soldier yelling. “They just threw it from the woods. Someone threw a couple of grenades into the convoy.”

  It was our first stop, and I jumped down from the truck to wait for Hans. As I stood beside the truck, I could see activity and apparent confusion toward the front of the convoy.

  “Just push the vehicles off the road. Let’s move on,” came the same harsh, raspy voice that had become so familiar on the train. “Search the vehicles, remove what can be removed, and let’s move on. The border is just ahead.”

  “Do you know what happened?” I asked the driver of our truck as he returned.

  “Partisans, I believe. They threw grenades into the front of the convoy. You better get back in because we’re going to start moving again right away.”

  “All right,” I said, climbing back into the truck.

  I was sad that Hans hadn’t been able to get back to see me, but I knew he had been busy. They were anxious to get across the Austrian border, and there still would be time to thank him and say good-bye. We moved along steadily then, and villages began to appear, and judging from the swastikas and the number of troops, I thought we must be in Austria. Finally the convoy halted in front of a very large building. The driver came around to the rear of the truck to tell us that this was as far as the convoy was going. From here on, everyone was on their own. As I jumped down from the truck, I turned to the driver.

  “Have you seen the Lieutenant?”

  “Lieutenant von Staate?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, he’s probably still up in front reporting to the new command.”

  I thanked him and began walking toward the front of the convoy, carrying my suitcase. I couldn’t see or recognize the car Hans and I had ridden in. They all looked the same.

  “Have you seen Lieutenant von Staate?” I asked a young officer near one of the cars.

  “Yes,” he said, pointing to the first truck. “He’s over there.”

  I thought he must be helping with the activity around the truck. As I began to walk toward the truck, two soldiers came toward me, carrying a stretcher with a body on it.

  “Excuse me. Have you seen Lieutenant von Staate?” I asked.

  “Yes,” one replied, nodding his head toward the truck. “He’s right over there.”

  I looked all around the truck but did not see him. I stood on my tiptoes to peek over the side and into the truck, but could see nothing except two more bodies lying on the truck bed. The two soldiers carrying the stretcher came back to place the stretcher on the street next to the truck. A young soldier handed them a small package.

  “These are von Staate’s. He’s next.”

  “All right” was the indifferent answer. One of the stretcher bearers put the package on the stretcher, as two men placed a body next to it.

  “Oh, no, no! Lieutenant von Staate is dead?” I sobbed. “Please let me see him before you take him away.”

  I knelt next to the stretcher, to gently touch his face, tears now flowing so much that I couldn’t see. I started to wipe my eyes and saw that my hands were bloody from touching his uniform, but there was no mistake. It was Hans. I knelt there, sobbing. You poor, poor soul. You never even made it to Vienna, and you wanted that so much. How could God allow this? He was so full of hope and dreams. His heart was filled with only gentle music. He could have contributed so much once this terrible war is over. I cried uncontrollably, until I felt someone push me gently to the side so that they could remove the stretcher.

  “Tears won’t help now.” Someone took my arm and pulled me to my feet. “It’s very sad. He was very young, but he was a good officer.” I recognized the same harsh, raspy voice that had issued commands throughout the trip. “Where are you going now?”

  “To Vienna.”

  “But that’s much too far to walk, and I don’t think the trains are running.”

  I didn’t answer, just watched the soldiers carrying the stretcher into the building.

  “I have to go to Vienna to report to my headquarters. Would you like to come along?”

  I finally turned to look up into the kind, tired face of an elderly officer. I remembered him from Peĉs. It was he who told Hans we could stay with the staff car. But he looked so much older now, so exhausted.

  “Yes,” I answered, still trying to stop crying. “Thank you.”

  “You know, I have a daughter, perhaps a bit older than you. They should be still in Stuttgart, but it’s been a long time since I have heard from my family. My son was on the Russian front.”

  “Yes.” I answered simply, not caring where his family was. After all, he too was responsible for this terrible bloody war.

  “I can’t take you into the headquarters building, but you can wait in the car, and I’ll have my sergeant bring you something to eat.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The officer took my arm again and led me toward a staff car parked in front of the building. Someone opened the door and helped me in. I leaned back against the seat and began to sob, tears now rolling down my cheeks—bitter, hot tears. I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t know what I was crying about—the violent, sudden loss of a new friend, self-pity, the exhaustion, Belgrade—my Belgrade, now so far away—perhaps the combination. I cried so hard that my eyes became tiny slits that I could no longer see out of. Somebody brought me a glass of water and a pill, and I cried myself to sleep in the back of the car.

  When I awoke, it was to the familiar sound of an air raid siren and someone gently shaking my shoulder.

  “Quickly, we just made it. A refugee center is right here, but you had better get into the shelter first.”

  I looked toward the voice and recognized the kind-faced officer pulling at my arm and reaching for my suitcase with the other hand. He handed it to his driver as the three of us began to run.

  “Where are we?” I shouted.

  “Vienna,” the officer answered. “We are at the outskirts of Vienna.”

  The three of us ran toward the shelter, but I was confused. I must have slept ever since someone gave me that pill. I couldn’t understand why we were being bombed if we were in Austria. Who could be bombing the Germans? All this time I must have thought that Germany and Austria were relatively untouched by the war. I found a spot in the shelter and sat down with my suitcase, but didn’t see the elderly officer or his sergeant anywhere.

  When the all-clear sounded, I walked straight to the refugee center the officer had pointed out. It was a charming old home, and a typically polite Viennese lady greeted me. I told her that I would like to spend the night at the center, and I asked for directions to the Countess’s address. She smiled pleasantly and said that the address was just on the outskirts of Vienna, not too far from the shelter, and wouldn’t be difficult to find at all. She brought me a cup of tea, a bowl of hot soup, a piece of bread and butter, and a little hand-drawn map with directions to the Countess’s address for the morning.

  I couldn’t get the picture of Hans lying dead on that stretcher out of my mind. My refuge for the night was a cot in the hallway since the house was already filled. Sleep was slow in coming that evening, as I lay there remembering Hans von Staate.

  The next morning, after a quick cup of coffee, I started off early to find the Countess’s home, a very large estate with well-tended gardens surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence. I pushed open the gate and walked up the drive to the front entry. A member of the staff answered my knock and informed me that the Countess was residing in Zurich for the duration of the war and that “the estate is now closed.”

  “Has anyone else inquired for Countess von Holzen or left a message perhaps?”

  “No, not that I am aware of,” he answered, “but I am not
here all the time, so I may have missed someone. Will there be any message? You look tired, Fraulein. Are you hungry?”

  “No, thank you,” I said sadly, turning to leave.

  I walked slowly back to the gate, trying to think what I should do. My parents were not here to meet me. They were God only knows where. I had no money and knew nobody in Vienna. I would have to find a job quickly, and I wondered if I could find work as a translator. But where?

  As I went through the gate and closed it, a horse-drawn cart came through what must have been the service gate for the estate. As the old man who was driving the cart got down to close his gate, I walked over to ask directions to Vienna.

  “I have just made my last delivery for this morning, Fraulein, and I’m returning to the city center,” he said. “If you wish, you can ride on the back of the wagon, and I can take you right to the Ringstrasse.”

  “Thank you very much,” I answered, putting my suitcase on the wagon and hopping up to sit beside it.

  I sat at the rear of the open wagon, my back leaning against the rail side, my legs drawn up, my arms folded across my knees, my head resting on my arms, trying to figure out what I would do, how to begin looking for my parents. The cart ride into Vienna took over an hour, giving me time to think things through. It had never occurred to me that I would not find Mama and Papa waiting at the Countess’s home. I had never thought about what I would do if I didn’t find them. I reviewed the events of the last several weeks, especially my trip from Belgrade to Vienna and everything that had happened along the way—all the danger, death, and tragedy—my first kiss—Hans’s death so close to his home and the city of his dreams—Maria and Rosa in Hungary—the dead baby on that freight car—the planes diving and strafing.

  I had come through all of that, I realized, and had not only survived but had gotten along very well. Mother and I had grown apart during the last three years of the occupation, and the thought of living with the morose Russian émigré group helped me to decide. No, I would not make any effort to find Mother and Father. That would probably be fruitless anyway. I would find a shelter in Vienna, and they would help me to find a job. After all, I spoke five languages fluently, didn’t I? Ironically, it was Mother’s words, “You will never go hungry if you know foreign languages,” that were ringing in my ears as the cart drew to a stop.

  “Here we are, Fraulein,” the old driver said. “This is as far as I go, but this is the Ringstrasse. You see the trolley right there? Well, you can get on the trolley, and it will go around the Ringstrasse again and again. You can just keep going around the city center until you decide where you want to get off.”

  “Thank you very much. Do you perhaps know where a refugee center is located?”

  “No, Fraulein, but the trolley conductor should be able to help.”

  “Thank you again and good-bye,” I said, crossing the Ringstrasse to the waiting trolley.

  I suddenly remembered that I didn’t have any money. Quickly opening my suitcase, I rifled through it to find my student identification card from Belgrade. It had always been good on the trolleys at home. I climbed up on the trolley and showed my card as I approached the conductor, who just waved me past without even glancing at the card. I found a seat next to a window and began to look around at the beautiful city. On the right side of the trolley tracks was a park, on the left, the broad Ringstrasse. Immense homes lined part of the avenue, and other parts were lined with shops, offices, and theaters. Tiny crooked streets and wide boulevards led off the Ringstrasse.

  It was just beautiful, with trees, gardens, parks, and theaters. But this city, too, I realized, had suffered and now revealed the gaping wounds of war: ugly ruins, huge holes in the streets and in the parks. But who was doing it here? Belgrade had been destroyed by the Germans, but this? Of course! I realized that the Americans, British, or Russians were bombing here, and their bombs were just as ghastly as those that had fallen on us from German planes, just as cruel and devastating. As the trolley continued its circle around the parks, I kept thinking of my decision not to look for my parents, but to look for a job and begin to make my own way. “After all, I do know several languages.” Just as that thought became firmly entrenched in my mind, the air raid sirens began to scream and the trolley braked quickly.

  Everyone rose and rushed to exit the trolley, and I followed, carrying my suitcase, bewildered and unsure of where to go. As I stepped down from the trolley, I saw that everyone was running toward what looked like the entrance to the park, toward what I would later learn was a statue of Mozart. For some reason that I have never understood and never will, I turned to the left, away from everyone else, and ran across the Ringstrasse toward the shops and office buildings. I ran quickly, hearing the drone of approaching planes, and just as I placed my foot on the sidewalk, a voice to my left called out, “Asya!” I turned to see one of Mother’s friends from Belgrade. “Asya, when did you arrive? Have you seen your parents yet?”

  “No.”

  “They are well. We have been waiting for you. Everyone is staying with old friends right here on Mariahilferstrasse. Come on. Everyone will be so glad to see you.”

  We hurried into an air raid shelter, as the woman kept up a steady stream of depressing talk, telling me all about the difficulties they faced on the way to Vienna and how happy they had all been to get here. I listened, nodding politely now and then, but feeling trapped, unhappy at being back in the midst of this morose group. I didn’t know if I could stand it again, being cooped up with the émigré group, with their depressing atmosphere and what I knew would be endless questions.

  How would I even begin to tell them? Did I even want to try? How could I tell them that I had seen a baby crushed to death while its mother screamed in despair, that I had watched soldiers and civilians die before my eyes, that I had received my first kiss from a young German officer and cried bitter, bitter tears over his death? I could already hear the responses. “Well, ladies do not behave that way. Be quiet. You’re too young to understand. Speak only when spoken to.” No, I didn’t think I could face all of that. The woman beside me kept rattling on until the all-clear sounded.

  “Well, come on, Asya,” she said. “I’ll take you to your Mama. All this time she has been wondering where you were.”

  “Yes,” I answered dejectedly.

  “Aren’t you the lucky one to run into me just like that. You might have spent days looking for your parents. Everything is in such confusion these days. You’re thin and pale, and your dress is rather dirty.”

  “Yes.”

  We walked less than half a block from where I had stepped off the trolley, to the first large building on Mariahilferstrasse. A single door led into the building, but we entered through a wide arched entry, built to admit automobiles, into a large, paved courtyard. She led me to the first door on the left of the courtyard and into a large room. It had very high ceilings, and very old but still elegant furniture was now occupied by all too familiar faces. Even the smell of the room reminded me of Yaintse when we had been packed in like sardines.

  “Everybody, look what I found,” the woman exclaimed.

  “Asya, my dear. God, you are so thin and pale . . . and you need a bath,” someone said.

  “Yes.”

  “Where have you been? When did you arrive? How was the trip? Did you encounter many Partisans on the way? Did the Germans treat you well?” The questions seemed to come from every direction at once. “Oh, but you do need to wash your hair, and that dress, it doesn’t even fit well. It can’t be yours. Did you go to the Countess’s house? You know she’s living in Switzerland now? That’s what we should have done. Well, it’s too late now. Well, we can discuss that later. Well . . . eaten . . . dirty . . . pale . . . dirty . . .”

  The room began to spin, and I suddenly cried out, “Stop. Stop it. Just stop it!”

  I looked around and saw Mother standing there asking questions with all the rest of them. Good God, I realized, she hadn’t even made a move
to embrace me.

  “Where is Papa?” I asked, looking at her.

  “He should be back shortly, dear. He is trying to arrange for us to leave soon. Did you know that the Soviet army is heading for Vienna? That means, of course, that we can’t stay here. It would be unthinkable. Papa is trying to arrange for transit into Germany because . . .” and she rattled on.

  “How are you, Mother?” I asked, interrupting.

  “I’m fine, dear, and you? When was the last time you washed your hair? And look, you have some dried blood on your skirt. Why is your hair such a mess?”

  I couldn’t stand it. I turned without another word and walked from the room out to the courtyard and closed the door behind me. I sat on a step in the courtyard, with no particular thoughts in my mind. I couldn’t cry. I had cried myself dry when Hans had been killed . . . and he was so close to home. Oh, God, I thought, why did I cross the Ringstrasse? Why didn’t I follow everyone else into the park?” I would never have run into the “old friend,” I realized, and now I felt chained by the gloom that always pervaded the émigré group.

  I felt guilty about having let Hans kiss me, about kissing him back, and I didn’t want to feel that way. I wished that I had let him kiss me more, instead of sounding so accusatory during the trip from Peĉs to Vienna. And I think I blamed the émigré group for that and for the guilt I felt. I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong, anything to be ashamed of, and I wanted desperately to be free of this group of “friends,” free to go where I wanted to go, to do what I wanted to do, and to think what I wanted to think. I could not understand what was happening to me, why I felt the way I did, why I should feel any guilt at all about Hans and my first kiss, why it had made me feel as it did. Why? Why? But there were no answers.

  “Asinka, my dear, beautiful Asinka.”

  I looked up to see Papa rushing toward me, and jumped up from the step to embrace him.

  “Papa, dear, dear Papa. I missed you. Please, Papa, let’s just go away. I don’t want to go back into this house,” I said through my tears.