Ancient Furies

by Anastasia V. Saporito

  “I’m all right, Papa,” I called. “I’m not hurt, just terribly tired. Has Mama come back yet?” But I knew the answer before he had a chance to speak. I looked toward the town to see the glow from fires burning there as well. She was someplace in a burning hell like I had just left.

  Someone put a blanket over me and then changed their mind as it became clear what a mess I was. The women formed a ring around me and took my dress off. Then someone suggested that they take everything off since the tunnel factory had cold running water. They stripped me of all my clothes, helped me with a sponge bath, and rewrapped me in a blanket. Someone washed all my clothing and hung it to dry on a tree branch just outside the tunnel entrance.

  My dress looked funny hanging there, swaying in the breeze and outlined against the red sky. I was completely exhausted, and suddenly I thought of myself as Joan of Arc: It’s me hanging there against the crimson sky. I’ll soon burn, and the gentle voices of all the slave laborers will come out of the tunnel to mourn me. Or will they? What’s one more dead among so many? I think that was my final thought that night, as I fell asleep leaning against Father’s arm, tightly wrapped in a scratchy blanket.

  I awoke to the sound of strange voices coming from the road leading into town. Everyone else stood at the entrance to the tunnel, staring in amazement. I ran to join them, clutching the blanket tightly, and could not believe my eyes when I saw foreign troops marching along the road and driving foreign-looking vehicles. Who were they? Everyone hoped and prayed they were not Russian.

  I listened carefully to the voices and shouts of the soldiers and thought, Oh, thank God they are not Russians. I heard some English words, but they were not British, even though the language sounded familiar. Of course, it must be the American troops.

  “I think it will be safe for us to go into town now, Asya” Father said softly. “We need to look for Mama.”

  Father retrieved my clothes from the tree where they had been hung to dry and brought them to me. Two women held the blanket for me so that I could dress. The freshly laundered clothes smelled so fresh. The blood stains hadn’t come out completely, but the clothes were all fresh. I felt clean again.

  TWENTY

  The Price of Liberation

  Father took my hand, and together we left the tunnel. Father looked grim, worry creating deep lines in his forehead. His grip on my hand grew noticeably firmer as we began the long walk into the village, walking alongside American troops and their vehicles.

  The jeeps, speeding along and weaving in and out to avoid obstructions, were something I had never seen. It was exciting to walk next to the Americans—the strange sounding language, the smudged faces of tired soldiers. Strangest of all was seeing almost all of them chewing something but never swallowing.

  Father struck up a conversation with one soldier, and it seemed that Papa felt young again, back in uniform himself, as he quickened his pace, matching the soldier’s and pulling me along by the hand. The soldier offered Father a cigarette, and they paused for a second to light it. He asked Father what the yellow armbands that we wore meant. Father explained that we were from Yugoslavia and had been held as forced laborers, that the yellow armbands were required by the Germans as identification, that we had all been “branded in a way.”

  “You should have shot the goddamned Kraut that put it on you,” the soldier said, and turned his head to spit out a big wad of something. I turned to see what it was, but couldn’t figure it out. The soldier gave Father several more cigarettes and sped his pace, leaving us behind. As we walked, Father now tore off the yellow armbands we had been forced to wear.

  “Papa,” I asked, what was that ugly mess the soldier spat out?”

  “Oh, that was chewing gum. Remember it was being sold in Belgrade and we would never let you have it?”

  I remembered. I had always wondered what it tasted like.” Oh, well, I thought, if it were tasty, he surely wouldn’t have spat it out.

  I was almost skipping, trying to keep up with Father’s brisk walk as he kept pace with the soldiers. I listened to the conversations of the soldiers as we walked alongside, but couldn’t understand much of it. It was so different from the British English I knew and had spoken at home.

  We had to cross the street to get to the Zengovitzes’ house, but we waited, unable to cross because of vehicles, tanks, and an endless double line of German soldiers marching after the vehicles, their hands clasped on top of their heads, some clad only in shirt and trousers, some in full uniform. They were prisoners of the Americans now.

  It was a strange experience to watch this once invincible, mighty army looking so pathetic. Some of their faces clearly showed great relief, others displayed anger, and some held their heads high, defiant. There were many wounded from both armies, bandages revealing blood spots, some limping.

  American soldiers marched on each side of the prisoners, guns held in front of them, but there were no shiny boots and no rubber hoses. Finally there was a space between units, and Father and I quickly crossed the road. It was just a few steps then, until Father stopped in front of what had been a two-story building.

  “Well,” he said, “here we are. But dear God . . .”

  Half of the building was collapsed on the ground. Father asked someone where the occupants of the building were.

  “If they survived, they will all be in the village square reading the new ordinances and rules posted by the American Occupation Forces.”

  Father turned to me, worry and concern showing on his face.

  “Asya, will you please stay here just in case you should see Mama or Max and Olga. I’ll go to the village square to look for them.”

  I sat on the curb, in front of the building, fascinated to watch as heavy tanks passed on the narrow village street, raising clouds of dust. Once a tank moved back and forth several times to crush debris in order to allow other vehicles to get through. As one unit of American troops passed, they were singing or chanting something that made no sense to me. I would later learn that they were “counting cadence,” a marching chant meant to keep everyone in step.

  Father returned in a short time to tell me that he had found the Zengovitz family. Max, Olga, and their daughter, Tanya, were in the village center, alive although their apartment was gone. Mother, they believed, might be in the basement of the building.

  “Didn’t Mama stay with them?” I asked, alarmed. “That’s why she came into town, to see them and to listen to the latest news on the radio.”

  “Well,” Father answered, “at noon the air-raid sirens warned people of the approaching bombers, and the villagers all rushed to the shelters. The Zengovitz family went, too, and Mama went with them, but when they reached the shelter she was stopped because of her armband. The shelter was for Germans only. Mama was turned away.

  “Mama ran back to the apartment building to take shelter in the basement, and when Olga returned she saw that the building had received a direct hit and half of it had collapsed. She hasn’t seen Mama since.”

  “But why aren’t they here? Why aren’t they here looking for her? What are they doing?” I demanded.

  Father shrugged, a faint smile on his face, a smile that people have when the situation is all too tragic, all too sad, and there is nothing left but to smile helplessly.

  “It’s hard to believe, but they’re standing in line to receive special food rations for foreigners. Apparently the Americans have issued an order to provide extra food rations to all former occupants of the camps . . . because the camp prisoners have been deprived for so long.”

  “But,” I stammered, “but . . . I thought they had decided to become ‘German.’ They weren’t in the forced labor camp. Don’t you remember how they ignored us in Belgrade? How Tanya was sent to school in Germany and joined the Hitler Jugend? How Max paraded in his brown shirt with the swastika armband?”

  “There are opportunists in every war, Anochka. The Zengovitzes have become Russian once again. People look out for themselves the
best way they know how.” Father’s shoulders slumped as his voice trailed off.

  “Aren’t you angry, Papa? How about all those principles and the strong, sound foundation . . . the ship in stormy waters . . . remember all those things you told me?” I was in tears, unable to understand how Father, who so solemnly believed in human decency, pride, and high principles, could treat this incident with such ease. These were “friends,” after all, once close friends.

  “I am glad to hear that you remember all those things,” Father answered slowly. “Never allow a single incident or disappointment to change your own convictions. Never! As I said before many times, people look out for themselves the best way they know how. But not you! Remember that.”

  Father had a habit of setting his jaw and compressing his lips in a certain way when he had said all he had to say about a subject, when he would not discuss it further. I had grown to know that facial expression well. It was there now, and I knew the conversation had ended.

  We stood together in front of the bombed-out structure where Mother had been seen. Father put both hands on the back of his neck, moving his head back and forth slowly, eyes closed, his face revealing pain and fatigue.

  “Let us begin now,” he said, “we shall first try to determine where the bomb originally hit. It must have been almost in the exact middle,” he was talking to himself as he looked carefully up and around the remaining structure. “Then we shall very carefully try to remove the largest beams. But we must be very cautious, because the whole thing might collapse.”

  Father kept steadily talking while frantically digging around a large beam that lay across what looked like an opening of some sort. Fine dust rose to form a cloud around him.

  “Here, Papa,” I said, wanting to help. “Let me hold up this end of the beam so that you can dig underneath to see if there is an opening going down.” Just then, a rumble was heard behind us, and a piece of wall toppled down.

  “Asya, please,” Father said wearily. “Please, let me do it. I couldn’t stand it if I had to dig for both of you in the rubble. Please . . . go and sit on the curb and watch the remaining part of the building for me. If it should begin to shift, call out to warn me. Really, please go and let me do it.” And he gently pushed me aside.

  I walked away, carefully stepping over the rubble, and sat on the curb in front of the ruins. The half of the building that remained standing revealed the partial remains of once homey apartments. The building was still settling, and dust billowed up following slight rumbles. The house, or building, next door was completely gone, just a pile of rubble, a dog whining and digging furiously at the debris.

  On the street in front of me, the military formation continued seemingly without end. Roaring tanks continued to crush any rubble in the street, clearing the way for trucks, jeeps, ambulances, and marching soldiers. The American troops were jubilant, high spirited in spite of deep lines showing on their faces, reflecting the horrors of the battle the night before.

  Most of the Americans looked grim but determined. I watched them and wondered how many battles they had been through and how many of them had been left in a shallow grave along the way. Every now and then one of them would smile, teeth appearing exceptionally white because of the dark smudges on their faces. I noticed that almost every one of them was chewing a big wad of chewing gum.

  The inner columns were German soldiers—now POWs—looking pathetic as they marched between columns of armed American troops. They marched with their hands on top of their heads, uniforms in disarray, staring straight ahead. So different from the brutal, overpowering arrogance of the guards at the labor and concentration camps. Although certainly deserved, it must have been a crushing humiliation to have suffered defeat and capture in their homeland.

  One of the passing Americans tossed something in my lap without a word. A Hershey bar. I had never seen a Hershey bar before, and I held it tightly in my dirty hand, afraid to lose it or have it taken from me. I wanted to share the bar with Father, and I looked back at the ruin wondering what was taking him so long. The roar of the tanks, screeching of brakes, singing and shouting of troops, and now the hysterical cries of a woman next to a neighboring ruin, all blended into continuous noise. A nightmare.

  Finally, I heard Father calling to me and I saw him standing at the opening in the ruins. His hands and face were scratched. He was completely covered with plaster dust. His usually erect, proud figure was now bent, his bright blue eyes revealing deep pain and sorrow. Suddenly he looked like a very old man.

  “Asya,” he said, “I’ve found her. She is somewhat dusty but just as beautiful as ever. Come and help me remove the beam from her legs. I think both of her legs are broken.”

  I ran toward him, thinking as I ran, “Thank God she is alive. Her legs will heal in time. I clutched the Hershey bar tightly in my hand, hoping it was big enough to split three ways now that we had found Mother, and I placed it in my pocket. I quickly glanced down at my dress. He had said that she looked as beautiful as ever, and I wondered what she would say about my appearance. My hair hadn’t been combed or brushed in a couple of days. It will be dark in the basement, I thought. Maybe she won’t notice.

  I followed Father, stepping carefully on the remains of people’s possessions. We made our way into the cellar, and the smell of dust, smoldering wires, and pickling juice filled my senses. The only light in the cellar streamed through the opening into which we had slowly descended. There, among tangled wires, plumbing pipes, and broken jars, I saw my mother.

  She was lying on her back, her head turned slightly to the side, facing away from me. A tiny trickle of dried blood traced a thin line from her temple down her pale cheek and down her neck. Her black hair was covered with fine dust, giving the appearance of heavy graying. Her hand rested on a large beam that lay across her legs, and a large pipe and steel wires were lying on top of her stomach. Her dress beneath the pipe and wires was torn and heavily caked with dried blood. I thought her hand moved, but then realized that a light from outside fell on her diamond ring, reflecting brilliant colors of green, red, and blue.

  “Papa, is Mama . . . alive?” I asked, not daring to say “dead.”

  “For me, she will always be alive,” he answered, as a tender smile crossed his lips.

  We slowly began to move the heavy beam that had fallen across her legs, Father carefully calculating each movement because of the danger of causing additional collapse. I don’t know how long it took us to free Mother from the ugly tangle of wires, pipes, and beams. Her legs had been shattered. We found what looked like a torn sheet, and Father gently wrapped her legs and stomach. I picked her up under her arms, Father took her legs, and slowly, almost dragging her body, we brought her out into the light.

  Outside, the sun was shining and a gentle breeze felt good against my dusty cheeks. We laid Mother on the sidewalk. I sat next to her on the curb, placing her head in my lap, while Father walked to a nursery, a few houses away, to try to borrow a cart of some kind. I sat there stunned. Suddenly I had become a part of the nightmare.

  I was trying to fully comprehend what was taking place. I sharply remembered what she had told me that day in Belgrade, standing atop the ruin of General Nazimov’s house. “Never look for me in that,” she had said, shuddering, pointing at the ruin. “I would never go into a basement. If I have to die, it will be out in the open or in my own home, but never in the basement. I hate the feeling.”

  How terrible that the thing she dreaded so much was where she had met her end—alone! This woman, my mother, who was so beautiful, so very talented, so very accomplished, was lying covered with blood, her head cradled in my lap, legs crushed, covered in plaster dust, and wearing an old and torn dress—the exact opposite of everything she had striven for all her life, killed before her forty-fifth birthday.

  I looked up just then to see an American soldier taking a picture of me holding Mother on the curb. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs at the soldiers. What was wrong with them. C
ouldn’t they see that my mother was dead? How dare they continue marching and singing. Isn’t everything supposed to die with her? I had seen so many people die a tragic, violent death, and I had been so certain that if Mother were to die, everything would cease to exist for me. I was angry and bewildered by everyone’s indifference. Why do I feel this way? I never felt the same deep love for her that I have always felt for Father, I thought.

  I tried to remember when Mother had ever bent to kiss me. I suddenly had an urge to kiss her, to embrace her as I had never been allowed to as a child. As I bent closer to her, my tears fell on her face, dissolving and smearing the dried blood on her temple, and the coldness of her cheek brought back the memory of the cold, dead body Aunt ’Lyena had pushed my head to kiss when I was still a toddler. My lips felt that same “death” coldness once more and I could not kiss her again.

  With my tears continuing to fall on her cheek, I gently stroked her hair and then tightly pressed her head between my hands. Somehow I was again holding the chocolate bar, and it was now melted in my hand and smeared on her hair. I threw away the melted bar and sticky wrapper, and wiped my hands on my dress.

  I was angry; I no longer cared if my dress was messy. She can’t see it anyway. Why, why couldn’t I do this, hold her like this, when she was warm and beautiful? I bent close to see if I could smell the familiar fragrance of her perfume that always excited me when she walked by. But all I was able to smell was dust, pickling juice, and singed hair. I began to shake with sobs. I had always longed to embrace her, to bury my face in her neck or her breast, to smell her fragrance, to feel her softness and her warmth, only to be held at arm’s length. Now she was cold and clammy and had a smell of death about her, and I knew I would never again have a chance to embrace her.