The Voices of Silence Read online

  We struggled through. The thought of Alys being lost somewhere in that heaving mass of people, maybe even being hurt, was the only thing that gave me strength. I thought of how she had saved my father, and wanted to cry with the fear of not finding her.

  Suddenly a voice shouted his name, and Radu stopped, panting. He’d met a friend in the crowd; I recognized the tall red-haired youth who hadn’t wanted us to climb up with them.

  “What you doing, Radu? Come on – we’re going to pack University Square,” he said.

  “Have you seen the girl, the tall blonde one, who was with this one in Palace Square? She’s got lost,” Radu asked.

  “Jesus! Kids shouldn’t be out in this!” was the reply.

  “I can’t leave her on her own,” said Radu.

  “Listen, I think I did see a girl … over there, near the line.”

  He jerked a thumb in the direction of the line of soldiers who stood without moving, but threatening. It was just possible to see their green uniforms, and the tips of their weapons, through the crowd.

  “If they started to fire …” muttered Radu. And without saying goodbye to his friend, he dragged me off.

  Slowly, slowly, we pushed a way through the crowd. Although people were afraid, there was a giddy atmosphere of celebration too – mad, and holiday-like. Yet the sight of blood, and the odd sound of gunfire, and the knowledge that soon it must get worse, all paralysed me. If it wasn’t for Radu I don’t think I could have moved. Two names drummed a tattoo in my brain: Alys … Mama … Alys … Mama … Alys …

  It would be good to be able to say that I felt brave, that I was proud to be part of this uprising, that my heart swelled with freedom. All that. But it’s not true. All I longed to do was find my friend and go home to Mama – and have her put her arms around me so I should feel safe.

  Radu was pulling me by my right arm. I put my left hand on top of his hand, to make sure it stayed there, so great was my fear of him being swept away, leaving me alone once more. A perfect stranger, yet already I depended on him.

  Suddenly everything happened at once. Somewhere to our right, people started to scream. Radu turned wildly, swore under his breath, and yelled at me to stay with him. I looked. A tank was crawling along, pushing the people back once more. Somebody had stuck a bunch of flowers in the huge gun and I remember wondering, in all the uproar, where on earth they had come from. And all around us people swirled and pushed, trying to get away, caught between the tank’s progress and the line of soldiers.

  It was then that I glimpsed the back of a blonde head, and a person who suddenly looked very small, jerked hither and thither like a puppet.

  “Alys!” I yelled, “ALYS!”

  I stretched out a hand through the mass of bodies, but couldn’t reach. My voice was drowned by screams. Her head disappeared from my view. She was being carried towards the tank …

  “ALYS!” I yelled again. “She’s there, Radu, there!”

  “Hold on to my jacket,” he panted, letting go of my arm and fighting his way through. Like a little animal to its mother I clung on, terrified of letting go. I was blinded by smoke, deafened by shouts, numbed by all the buffeting and blows my body had suffered. Still, Alys was like a beacon. I knew we had to reach her. We would reach her.

  Radu’s back was ahead of me. Once or twice my fingers felt as if they would slip from the fabric of his jacket as we struggled on. I shut my eyes. Then there was a sort of flurry ahead, and a cry of panic, as he grabbed somebody from behind.

  “Let … go … of … me, you … pig!” a voice cried, hysterically.

  “Stop it!” Radu yelled, trying to grab flailing arms. Then he made a last, strong pull …

  And, dirty and dishevelled, Alys was there – all ready to punch him in the eye if she had the chance.

  “What? Oh, Flora!” We both burst into tears and fell into each other’s arms. “Let’s get you out of here,” said Radu, dragging us both by a hand.

  I don’t know how we did it, but somehow we managed to pick a way through the chaos, and collapse in a heap in a doorway.

  “I thought I was being arrested,” Alys explained, her chest heaving.

  Out of breath too, I just nodded weakly, barely able to believe that we were together again. Radu stood watching us, his arms folded. Once he flinched at the sound of gunfire, and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Who are you?” asked Alys, staring at her rescuer.

  “A student – but never mind all that,” he began.

  “He’s Radu,” I said. “He saved me.”

  “And me,” she said.

  “I said never mind all that,” Radu said, unable to stop the small smile that lit up his face. “But if you want to be my friends, if you want to pay me back, you’ll do something for me now. OK?” We nodded, still panting. “I want you to go home. This is going to get really bad. People will be killed tonight, I’m telling you. And I want you out of it – OK?”

  Alys and I looked at each other. I half expected her to protest, but instead she nodded. My knees felt weak with relief. I just wanted to go home.

  “I’ll get you away from the crowds, then you’re on your own,” said Radu. “Where do you live?”

  We told him, and he nodded. “Well, you might find a bus – otherwise you’ll have to walk. But promise me you’ll go home?”

  “I’ve had enough,” said Alys. “But I’m so scared for my parents. They’re somewhere in all that.” She nodded in the direction of the noise.

  “They’ll be all right,” I said.

  “Course they will,” said Radu, “Now come on. I’m getting you out of here.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I’ll head back to University Square, and stay there. They won’t shift us. They can bring the whole damn army.”

  “Be careful,” I said.

  He grinned, as if he was about to make a joke, but then his face grew serious. “Listen, kids,” he said with a wobble in his voice, “what you’ve seen tonight is history. You understand? Change at last! No more dictators! I feel as if nothing can stop us now – and that’s why I don’t care what happens to me. I’d die happily now, if I thought this country would be free, for kids like you and my sister. You hear me? None of us are cowards any more! We’ll shout freedom from the rooftops, even if they shoot us down!”

  TWELVE

  I don’t really remember much of that long walk home – only that Alys and I did not let go of each other’s arms. If we had, one of us would have fallen.

  We passed crowds of people in the streets, all heading for the city centre, because they had seen the rally on television, and were heading to join the revolution. Sometimes in the distance we would hear yelled slogans:

  Olé, olé, olé!

  Ceauşescu’s gone away!

  It was like walking through a dream.

  But our aching legs were real enough, and so was the scattered sound of gunfire. I wondered what my mother would have heard: we had no television, so it was possible she had no knowledge of what had happened. In any case, she would be desperately worried. Alys was wondering if her parents would be at home, or still caught up in the violence we had left behind.

  Instead of going home, I climbed the stairs with her to their apartment. All was dark and silent. Alys chewed her lips, then said resolutely, “I know they’ll be all right.”

  “Come home with me to Mama,” I said gently. I knew Alys and I had to look after each other from now on. Nothing would change that, not after what we’d been through. So, arm in arm, we walked down again, and crossed over to my block. As we climbed wearily upstairs, my heart started thumping wildly at the thought of seeing Mama.

  My mother fell on my neck as if she were drowning, and I was a passing log. Then she cried, and I felt more guilty than ever before in my life. Except when I learned about Daniel Ghiban …

  She had heard the sound of shooting in the distance, searched for me around the area, and been told that “something had happened
’. That’s all. Frantic, she had gone to the Grosus’ flat, to find nobody there. Then a neighbour of theirs told her I had been seen heading off with Alys.

  “I knew then,” she said, “that you two had gone to the centre. I was frantic …”

  “It was my fault. I’m sorry, Mrs Popescu,” said Alys, hanging her head.

  Mama looked at us. We must have been a pathetic sight – filthy and exhausted. “I’m going to put you both in the big bed. You need to sleep,” she said decisively.

  “What about my parents?” wailed Alys, suddenly, sounding like a little girl.

  “Once I’ve settled you I’ll walk over and put a note under your door,” said Mama.

  We slept for twelve hours. When we woke up, it was to the sound of voices. My mother and Alys’s parents were sitting at the table drinking tea. Alys leapt up; there was a great fuss of reunion and explanation and general delight.

  Then Mr Grosu got up. “I’m going back,” he said.

  “Why, Tata?” asked Alys, reaching out a hand.

  “Don’t go,” said Mrs Grosu.

  He stood, looking down at us all, his face a mixture of seriousness and excitement. “Listen,” he said, “I saw people killed. I saw a teenage boy dying in the arms of his friend.”

  I closed my eyes when he said that, briefly imagining Radu. Please let him be all right, please let him be all right.

  Mr Grosu was still speaking. “And it’s getting worse. Ceauşescu and his lot aren’t giving up without a fight – and I’ve got to be there.” He looked at my mother, and added quietly, “Constantin would feel the same.”

  “I know,” she said. “If only he’d stayed.”

  “Maybe he did,” I said.

  She shook her head. “No; I’m sure he crossed the border … What a thing! To risk your life that way, when just a short time afterwards everything would change.”

  “Don’t let’s speak too soon,” said Mrs Grosu. “We don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” said Alys’s father, heading for the door, “Ceauşescu’s finished. Of that I’m sure.”

  He was right. Three days later, on Christmas Day, Nicolae Ceauşescu and his wife were put to death by a firing squad. But they had told their followers to fight to the last man, so the shooting went on, all through the city now. We even heard gunfire near our block. There were hidden snipers everywhere. Four days … five days, and all the time we were like prisoners in the block. And all the time, Alys’s father did not return.

  The morning came when Mama and I had nothing to eat in the flat, except for a half-full jar of pickled gherkins. It was quiet outside, a bright, cold, frosty day, so we decided that we had to go out to find some food. I had grown used to my stomach rumbling; my foolish dreams about luxuries like chocolate and bananas seemed a long time ago.

  So we set out, arm in arm, each carrying a shopping bag, and planning our expedition with all the expertise of military commanders. We decided that we would split up when we reached the local shops – Mama joining the most promising queue, whilst I scoured the side streets where the country people would sit selling their wares, if you were lucky. Then I’d go back to her, and she’d direct me to the next queue.

  After I’d left her I set off at a run determined I would make my mother a good meal. Since my father disappeared, I felt much more protective towards her, and I looked back with some contempt at the little girl who only thought of herself. Mama was still frail; it was as if she would only recover her full strength when she heard from my father.

  If she heard from my father.

  I couldn’t waste time brooding on such things; ahead of me a little crowd of people clustered around someone sitting on the pavement. I recognized many of them: people we used to see every day, but not speak to. I joined them. It was hard to see, but at last between backs and elbows I glimpsed an old man, wearing his conical peasant hat; a sack spread on the ground before him, on it a tumble of vegetables. He had a couple of sacks behind him, so there was clearly a good supply of turnips, swedes and cabbages.

  What’s more, everybody was talking – stranger to stranger.

  “I’m glad they were killed.”

  “I’d have killed them myself.”

  “I heard there’s already thirty free newspapers on the streets.”

  “Who cares about newspapers? It’s fruit I want!”

  There was an easy, friendly, uncompetitive atmosphere – like I had never known. I looked around. Further up the street people were crowded round some sort of poster on a wall, reading it and exchanging views. Everything was buzzing – as if a whole nation, asleep for centuries, had suddenly woken up.

  I waited patiently in the ragged queue, and at last came to the front, buying eight potatoes, one huge turnip, two smaller swedes, a good cabbage, and four onions. They filled my bag. I wanted to leap and yell for joy. But I decided I wouldn’t give in to the temptation to rush to show my mother. There might be some more goodies on sale further along.

  Turning quickly in my eagerness, grinning with pleasure, I bumped into somebody who had just arrived to see what was for sale. My shoulder cannoned into a chest. I nearly dropped my precious bag. I didn’t look up, just mumbled an apology, when I heard a sharp intake of breath that had nothing to do with the collision.

  I looked up, and found myself face to face with Daniel Ghiban. For a few seconds I was incapable of movement or speech, and so was he. We stood staring at each other, whilst the life of the street moved all around us, as if we were not there. Daniel looked terrible. His handsome face was pitted with shadows; his eyes were bloodshot and gazed at me from dark craters in his face.

  “You!” I said.

  “I came out to get some food,” he explained.

  “Me too,” I said.

  This is ridiculous, I thought, we’re talking as if nothing has happened.

  I made a slight movement, as if to go on my way. Daniel made an equally slight movement with one hand, as if he was going to detain me, then he let it drop. And his gaze slid down to the pavement. That decided me. Why should he be allowed to escape like that?

  “Look at me,” I said.

  He did so, and once again I was shocked by his appearance. He was a remnant of the person he had been.

  “I have to ask you. Why did you do those things?” I spoke coldly, wondering why I didn’t hit him.

  He shook his head.

  “I need to know,” I insisted. “I trusted you. And look what happened. Do you realize what you did?”

  “I couldn’t help it!” he burst out. “I had no choice. I was just doing what I’d been taught to do.”

  “And did that make it all right?” I sneered.

  “No.”

  “I hope you suffer. I really hope you suffer,” I said.

  He looked as if he was about to cry, and I could hardly catch the next words.

  “I’m already suffering,” he muttered.

  “What’s happened to you?”

  “My father … my father … he …”

  Inside I already knew what he was going to say. His head was bent, and his chest heaved for a few seconds as he fought for control. Then he went on: “My father was killed – shot – two days ago. He was on duty, and he … didn’t come back. Then some people came to our door, laughing. They threw his coat at my mother. It was all covered with blood. They said he got what he … deserved …” He swallowed, then went on, “My mother doesn’t know what we’ll do. We have to get away, but I don’t know where we can go.”

  He couldn’t go on. I saw a tear run down his cheek. All my instincts told me to put out a hand to try to comfort him, but of course, I couldn’t. Those people were right. His father, a hated Securitate man, did deserve whatever he got. This was a war – the old order against the new. But …

  The boy who stood before me was still a person, still a son mourning for his father. I suppose your father is your father whatever he’s done.

  And so would I o
bey my father, even if he told me to betray people? Would I think it right just because he said so?

  The thought of Tata brought all the memories sharply back, and immediately, hate for Daniel threatened to drive out the other things I was feeling. Then he looked up at me, with those exhausted, brimming eyes, and said, “I’m so sorry.” It was very quiet – and hopeless, too. “I’m sorry.”

  I knew I would never see him again – that I didn’t want to see him again. But it was impossible not to feel sorry for Daniel Ghiban. Without his smart clothes, and chewing gum, and chocolate, he was nothing. Without his father he was nothing. He was in a dark pit, and I was standing in the light, looking down on him. And feeling – pity.

  “Flora,” he said, as if asking me to make a response.

  I looked at him for a long time. Then I said quietly, “I believe you. I believe you’re sorry.”

  “Can you … will you … forgive me?” he asked.

  In the second before I replied two armies fought out their own battle within me. I put my hand up to my neck and fingered my birthday scarf, then let my eyes travel all over this shabby, broken boy who stood there, his eyes pleading with me.

  “Yes,” I said, “I do forgive you.”

  Then I turned my back and walked away, in case I should change my mind.

  As I walked up the street I found myself shaking, and near to tears. But there was little time to think about Daniel Ghiban. For I saw Alys and my mother running towards me, shouting my name at the top of their voices, so that people turned to look. Mama’s cotton headscarf had slipped back, so that her dark hair streamed out. Her face was rosy with cold and excitement. As they reached me I expected Mama to tell me that she had found some meat, or some other such piece of good luck.

  “Flora!” she panted. “Alys just came to find me. You’ll never guess – Tata’s been seen! He was fighting in the city centre. Tata’s still in Bucharest!”

  Then she flung her arms around me, and started to cry, not caring about the stares of passers-by.

  “My father came home. He’s been occupying the radio and television studios,” said Alys, “and one of his group said they’d seen Constantin Popescu in the fight at University Square.”