I hung my wet clothes on the line and hurried back into my barrack. It was getting chilly. I think this was late May, but the weather was quite cold this far north. After the evening meal, I took another hot shower, went to bed, and pretended to sleep as most of the other women sat and chatted, the sound of their voices and the familiarity of the Serbian language helping me to relax.
I thought of Father and prayed that he was all right. I knew that he was happy as long as he was close to Mother’s grave, but I could not understand how he could have sent me to Hamburg with those two men. He had let me down again when I had relied on him. Of course, he had no way of knowing they could not be trusted. They had given him their word of honor. “A word of honor is a sacred thing.”
It took several days in the camp before I began talking to the others. I learned that there were separate barracks for married people, for married people with children, for single men, and for single women. During evening hours most gathered in the mess building for singing, guitar playing, and just friendly conversation.
I was called on several times over the following weeks to act as translator, but not often enough to relieve the boredom. Camp life was incredibly boring. There was nothing to do other than take turns cleaning the barracks, helping in the kitchen, and tidying up the camp grounds. It was a very clean place, and the people were particular about their own appearance as well.
July 16, 1945: The United States exploded the world’s first experimental atomic bomb in Alamogordo, New Mexico.
There was no word from Father. I had written to him twice, but didn’t know if my letters had gotten through or if he could have sent me an answer. I learned that UNRRA (United Nations Refugee Relief Agency) was working with the International Red Cross and had established a system for refugees to register their name and current address in a central bureau, helping people to locate friends and family members who had been separated by the war. I registered right away, listing Father as the person I was seeking, hoping Father would do the same. But I couldn’t help remembering his service revolver and what he had told me.
July 30, 1945: The uss Indianapolis was torpedoed and sunk by a Japanese submarine in the Pacific Ocean on the return trip after delivering the first atomic bomb to an island airbase. Only 316 out of a crew of 1,196 men survived days of relentless shark attacks.
August 6, 1945: The United States dropped the first atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. An estimated 140,000 people died.
August 9, 1945: The United States dropped the second atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Nagasaki. An estimated 80,000 people died.
August 15, 1945: The Empire of Japan surrendered unconditionally, bringing an end to World War II.
By the end of the war, 50 million people worldwide had been killed. Germany had organized and conducted genocide on a scale never imagined, claiming the lives of some 6 million Jews from throughout Europe. The United States unleashed the first use of atomic weapons when it dropped two bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki to avoid the human consequences of an invasion of Japan and bring the war to a swift, terrible, final conclusion.
Time passed slowly in the camp. The wind blew in off the North Sea, bringing biting cold, and snow began to fall. Someone mentioned that it would soon be Christmas, and I realized with a shock that I had turned seventeen a few weeks earlier. Funny, I didn’t feel any differently. Seventeen seemed like such a child. It couldn’t have been me.
Christmas passed and 1946 began with hope for the future, but in truth, people simply lived from day to day. The men of the camp always gathered on one side of the mess building to discuss politics in the evening, the women and children on the other side. The women were usually sewing, patching torn clothes, and reminiscing about home before the war. Then one day the men began to argue violently while discussing politics.
The camp became divided between Tito supporters, or Socialists, and supporters of the young King Peter, or Loyalists. Tito had issued a decree for all Yugoslavs who wished to return, to do so by a certain date. They would be accepted back as citizens of Yugoslavia with no questions asked. Those who chose not to return by that date would lose their citizenship, no longer permitted to return. Endless discussions took place every night, growing more and more heated, and several times British soldiers had to break up serious fights. The tranquility of the camp was gone.
Many people chose to return home. I didn’t really know where I belonged and had no one to discuss the problem with. Father had made it clear that he could not, would not return to Belgrade because of the Soviets. I remembered his last word on the subject, “I would rather kill both you and myself than let you fall into the hands of the Hooligans.” Aunt ’Lyena was the only other family member left, but I had no idea if she had gone to a different town or city with Sonya and Sergei, or if any of them had survived.
Almost all our friends had fled ahead of the Soviet army as they advanced on Belgrade. I had no idea if anyone I knew was left. What if Father came looking for me in Hamburg? Perhaps I could go on to Paris and find Father’s friend, Father Gregórii, the priest. I knew Papa would contact him, but I had no money to travel to Paris and no idea how to find Father Gregórii—and the train to Belgrade was free.
I was deeply depressed and couldn’t decide what to do. The camp was built next to a railway siding, and train cars waited at the side of the camp for those returning to Yugoslavia. Finally, still undecided and deeply conflicted, I packed my suitcase, boarded the train, and found a seat in an almost empty car.
As I sat looking out the window, a fight started between Socialists and Loyalists, and a building next to the tracks was set on fire. Only weeks earlier these men had shared meals and singing, exchanging stories of home, but now they fought like dogs! I remembered the terrifying fight between the same groups on the train from Belgrade to Vienna, when the baby’s skull had been crushed. “No! I will not go back to that insane fighting of Serb against Serb!” I grabbed my suitcase and left the train moments before it pulled away and walked slowly back to my barrack.
I was sad, crying, and felt totally alone as I made my way back to my spot in the barrack. The women who remained tried to help, asking what was wrong and why I had changed my mind, but I had no explanation. Unwilling or perhaps unable to try to think things through, I grew weaker over the next several days, more and more depressed. I refused to eat and grew even weaker, finally even refusing to get out of bed.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” a voice beside the bed asked. “You know, you haven’t eaten anything for a couple of days now. You’ll get terribly sick.” I opened my eyes to see a friendly young woman named Nina looking down at me as she placed her hand on my forehead. “My God, you have a fever. We need a doctor to look at you.”
She left and returned with a British soldier who placed his hand on my forehead and said that he would get a doctor from the international camp. In about an hour, a very friendly man in dark-rimmed glasses stood next to my bed.
“Let’s see what’s making you ill,” he said in English, but with a strange accent.
He examined me, carefully checking my lungs, and diagnosed pneumonia. He said that I must remain in bed for complete rest, gave me some pills, and left. I slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning, coughing and waking frequently with chills, yet soaked in perspiration. The doctor returned the next day and became concerned that he was unable to bring the temperature down.
“You should go to the international camp. They have good hospital facilities there,” he said with concern. “But of course it is difficult because you are Russian, or rather from Yugoslavia.”
“Why is it difficult?” I asked in a weak voice, my lips hurting, dry and almost cracking as I spoke.
“Because,” he explained, “that camp is only for westerners, that is North and South Americans, Australians, British and Irish people, people who became trapped here during the war. Now they are free and waiting to return to their homes.”
; “But I was trapped here, too.”
“No, no, it’s different. You were brought here as a forced laborer, and the other people were just visiting Europe and got caught up in the conflict. Now they are free and returning to their homes.”
“Are you an American?”
“No, I’m from South America, from Colombia. I, too, am waiting for my papers to be processed and shall return home.”
The following day was the last day a train would be provided to meet Tito’s deadline for all Yugoslav expatriates who wished to return. No cars waited on the track next to the camp, perhaps because of the fights and fire the day I had thought of leaving. Everyone who wished to leave gathered in the yard in front of the barracks to board waiting military trucks for the ride to the train depot.
Years later I would learn that Tito’s promise of amnesty had been an empty one, that the Yugoslav authorities checked everyone returning, and that many were separated and punished for past political differences. The camp fell silent then, as only a handful of people remained. I was still very ill. Only four women remained in my barrack. They continued to be concerned and brought me water, but I refused to take anything to eat. The doctor continued to visit, obviously concerned.
“You have to get better. You have to start eating, or you aren’t going to make it,” he said sympathetically one day. “Did you want to return to Yugoslavia?”
“No,” I answered. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“Do you have anybody back in Yugoslavia?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“In Germany?”
“Yes, my father. But I don’t know where he is now. I’ve written twice but never received an answer. I think he is dead.”
He gave me another pill and covered me with additional blankets.
“Look,” he said gently, “the medicine alone will not make you well. You have to eat and drink. You want to get better, don’t you?”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t make any difference to me.”
The doctor looked at me, stroking my hair, which was soaked in perspiration. He asked someone if there was a change of nightshirt so that they could put something dry on me. They found an old, oversized dress in my suitcase and changed my clothes, but within minutes I was soaking wet again. The doctor left, saying that he would return that evening. In a few minutes, I went to take a shower because of my heavy perspiration, and then became terribly chilled returning to my barrack. When the doctor returned I was shivering violently, apparently burning with fever. I no longer perspired but was incoherent. He made his decision. I was going to the international camp and into the hospital!
When I next opened my eyes, I couldn’t believe the change in my surroundings. The camp was gone. I was in a spotless room with a beautiful bed and thick mattress, snowy white sheets, and pictures on the wall. The windows had white curtains, and I found a large pitcher of orange juice standing on the bedside table. I reached to pour myself a glass of juice and was drinking it when the door opened and the doctor walked in.
“Well,” he said with a broad smile, “I thought you had decided to give up, but I was just as stubborn. I wouldn’t let you go. See, now aren’t you glad to be here?”
“Where am I? This is so clean, so pretty.”
“You’re in one of the hospital rooms in the international camp.”
“But since I’m from Yugoslavia, is it all right? Is it legal for me to be here?” I asked, remembering what he had told me, dreading the thought that I might have to leave.
“You let that be my concern. You just concentrate on getting your strength back. Look at you. You’re down below a hundred pounds.”
I felt my ribs beneath the blanket. It did feel pretty bony. Oh, well, it didn’t matter. I looked out the window and saw bright blue sky and sunshine.
“Is it warm outside?”
“Yes, it’s a beautiful day. Spring will be here very soon now, and you better get well soon so that you don’t take up any more of my time giving you weather reports. Doctors are very busy, you know.” He winked and walked out.
I looked around the room and saw a little table in one corner with magazines and newspapers. They were British and American magazines, and I looked at them in disbelief. So many colors, such pretty pictures. There were horrid pictures of war as well, but I had seen worse in person. They were of no interest. I wanted to see only pretty things. A light knock at the door sent me jumping back into the bed.
“Ah, ha, getting rather frisky, aren’t you? Good. I’ve brought you some breakfast,” a young woman said as she walked in with a tray of food.
As soon as food was mentioned, I suddenly was starving. She left the tray with instructions that I must eat everything. Heavens, what food! Eggs, hot biscuits, and jam. I haven’t seen food like this in years. I cleaned the plate, wishing there were more. From that day, my recovery was so rapid that the doctor could scarcely believe it. I took daily baths with heavenly smelling soaps and thick towels. Everything was too good to be true. I was afraid to leave the room for fear that they would see that I was better and send me back to the Yugoslavian camp.
Once, in conversation, the doctor learned that I knew how to type, and he made arrangements for me to become a permanent resident of the international camp. I was given a job in one of the offices typing the endless forms and questionnaires for the camp residents who were preparing papers for their departure. No salary. I worked for room and board, but it was wonderful. I shared a room with a girl from Australia, who was also awaiting repatriation. She kindly gave me two of her dresses, beautiful clothes that fit. It was the first time I had had a dress that fit me since I had left Belgrade—really since we had lost our home in Dedinye to the Nazis.
I went back to the Yugoslavian camp one day, to get something from my suitcase, which now held my many cartons of cigarettes. Since I didn’t smoke, I simply threw them in the suitcase when they were passed out, and Nina, the girl who had been so nice, continued to do the same for me while I was in the hospital. I didn’t think about them or why I saved them or even accepted them, but I would eventually be very glad that I did.
I blossomed in the international camp and was extremely happy. It was not really a camp per se, but a ten-story building in the center of Hamburg that miraculously had escaped the terrible bombings. Soon, however, people began leaving to return to their own countries, to their homes, and I was sad. The international camp would soon close, and I would have to return to the Yugoslavian camp.
I began to take long walks after I had finished all my typing and office work. There was a park nearby, and although the city was in ruins, the park had been picked up and looked clean and neat. Then one day I found a single, lonely daisy growing in debris near the park, swaying in the wind. I remembered my favorite little nun at Hopova—“nothing ever dies”—and it filled me with new hope.
A dance was announced at the international camp, and the doctor stopped at the office to invite me. Before the dance I took the longest bath, selected my prettiest dress, and even curled my hair with little pieces of torn cloth. I was all prepared for the evening.
We entered a large room filled with people, the women all dressed in beautiful clothes, and the men in suits. There were British and American officers as well, all in uniform. A live band was playing, and we found a small table close to the dance floor. I was amazed as I listened to the strange tunes and watched the people dancing even more strangely.
“What kind of music is this?” I asked the doctor, wide-eyed.
“That’s the American jitterbug, and it’s a Glenn Miller piece called ‘In the Mood.’ You’ve never heard it before, have you?”
“Nooo,” I answered in amazement.
“Would you like to try it?”
“Oh nooo, no, thank you.”
“Good,” he said smiling and laughing lightly. “I’m glad because I don’t know how to jitterbug myself.”
“You know,” he added, “this is a farewell dance
. Most of the people are leaving this week, which means that we have to try to make some arrangements for you. This camp will close completely very soon.
“Does that mean I’ll have to go back to the Yugoslavian camp?”
“I hope not. In fact, I think it would be a good idea for you, as a Russian, to leave the British zone. It’s not that they dislike Russians. It’s just that it will be difficult for you to find a job, and I understand that most of the camps in the British zone will be dissolved fairly soon. The Yugoslavian camp as well. People are trying to pick up their lives and begin to live normally again, so the camps will all soon be obsolete.”
“Well, where do you think I should go?”
“In my opinion, the American zone would be the best.”
“Where is the American zone?”
“Oh, let’s see. There is Frankfurt, Heidelberg, Wiesbaden, Stuttgart. All those places are in the American zone. That’s the reason I invited you here tonight, so that I could introduce you to some American liaison officers. Maybe they will have some ideas. We’ll see,” he said with a smile.
“Are you leaving for the American zone also?”
“No,” he answered, smiling broadly. “Thank God, my papers have finally come through, and I’m returning to Colombia. You know, my children are about your age now, and I’m afraid they may have forgotten that they have a father. But let’s go across the room, and I’ll introduce you to some Americans.”
We walked across the dance floor to a small group of people sitting at a table. Everyone was speaking English, but as a group, with voices sounding all around the table, it sounded very strange to me. The doctor introduced me, and all I heard was, “Hi ya, Blondie. How are ya?”
“Good evening” was all I could think to say when I realized that I was “Blondie.”
After a brief conversation and a few questions about my background and language ability, the liaison officer stated that I would have no problem finding a job in the American zone. People fluent in English and European languages were desperately needed. He told me that as soon as I had a place to live and was settled, I should simply go to the Headquarters Compound and apply. There would be many openings, he said, and he strongly recommended that I move to Frankfurt. That was where the main U.S. Headquarters Division was located, and with my language abilities it would offer the most opportunities.
Ancient Furies Page 41