The Voices of Silence Read online

  “Oh, Flora!” Mama sobbed, “I so want to see him.”

  “Come on, then,” I said briskly.

  “Where?”

  “Well, we’ll have to go and find him,” I said.

  “I’ll come too,” said Alys impetuously, but I shook my head.

  “No – you should stay with your parents, Alys. This is for me and Mama to do by ourselves.”

  The buses were running again, although the journey to the city centre was far from normal. There was the odd sound of a sniper; and smoke came from half burnt-out buildings. There were still crowds on the streets. It was easy to pick up all the news from the conversation of people around – because that was the most amazing thing, which stands out almost above everything else. The way people talked. Their gags off at last, they were unstoppable. Silence had found its voice, and would not be shut up.

  So we knew that the army had blazed away, that many people had been killed, that tear gas had filled University Square, but the demonstrators had not budged. Even when the Ceauşescus had been executed, the killings had gone on. Nobody was in charge. Both sides had weapons.

  It had not occurred to me that finding one man in the centre of Bucharest, whilst the revolution was still going on, was an impossibility. When Mama and I started to wander through the streets I knew we would find him. We had to find him. And so I took her arm, and encouraged her, and never let her give up hope.

  The city seemed stunned, like a huge animal, licking its wounds after a fight. Palace Square was still wreathed in smoke, some of the buildings half-destroyed, rubbish everywhere. Tanks were parked here and there, but they weren’t moving, still less firing. On the contrary, we saw a crowd of women go up to one tank, and hand up bread and flowers to the soldiers. “You’re with us now!” they called, and the men smiled, receiving the gifts.

  My mother looked at me in disbelief. You see, when you have lived your whole life in fear of men in uniform, sights like this were miraculous. Not surprising that I thought that anything was possible – any miracle. Even finding Tata.

  Everywhere there were shrines. In the gloom of the winter day, the tail-end of the year, the thin yellow candles stuck in pieces of wood, glowed like tiny beacons of hope. Here and there we saw people sitting and crying quietly near by, sometimes repeating one name over and over again.

  The names of the dead.

  Hours passed. We had no method. All we could do was to go up to groups of men who had clearly been involved in the fighting and ask, over and over again, “Do you know Constantin Popescu? Have you heard the name Constantin Popescu?” Always they shook their heads. Sometimes they looked at each other as if to say we were mad.

  We saw foreigners with television cameras, filming the aftermath of the revolution. I heard American accents, and German, and French, and stared at these people in wonderment. They were so well-dressed, the Westerners, in big smart coats, all confident. Crowds of little kids hung around them, begging for gum and chocolate. They got it, too. But I wasn’t interested in such things.

  My mother turned to me, as we huddled at the side of Boulevard Magheru, resting for a while. “We’ll never find him, Flora,” she said wearily.

  “We will! I know it!” I cried.

  Just then there was noise further up the street – a shouting and scuffling, then the sound of a single shot. Mama and I flung ourselves flat on the cold ground, and did not dare to move for about five minutes. Then, carefully, we raised our heads.

  About a hundred metres away someone was lying on the pavement, with two or three people gathered round. We could hear groaning.

  “Quickly!” shouted Mama, and we ran to see if we could help, keeping our heads down as we went. As we reached the group she called out, “Let me see! I know about first aid!” in a clear, authoritative voice.

  A young man was lying on the ground, groaning loudly, blood pouring from a wound in his head. Three friends knelt by him, pale and scared. My mother knelt too, making a quick examination. Then she looked up, relieved.

  “Looks worse than it is. But just half an inch more, and he would be dead. As it is, the bullet just grazed. But we need to stop the bleeding …”

  She tore the kerchief from her head, and folded it into a thick pad. This she held firmly against the wound. Then she looked at the three young men. “I need a bandage – something to keep it in place,” she said. They looked helpless. They had nothing.

  Then I knew what I had to do. My hand flew up and touched my birthday scarf, then fumbled quickly to untie the knot.

  “Mama! This will do it!” I said, smoothing it out, and rolling it across so that it made a long strip.

  “Good girl! Now I’ll hold this in place, and you tie it round – really firmly, mind! You – you hold up his head.” She nodded to one of the boys who obeyed; and in a minute the victim was bandaged. Mama helped him to sit up. “That’s it – gently. You’ll probably feel faint,” she murmured gently.

  The young man opened his eyes, and I stared at him. I had seen him before, but couldn’t remember when. He looked terrible; face dead white, freckles showing up lividly between the streaks of dirt and dried blood. And his carroty hair matted with reddish-black clots …

  I remembered at last. He was the boy we’d first met in Palace Square, the one who hadn’t wanted us to steal his place, the one who was my student Radu’s friend!

  “Hey!” I said excitedly. “You were with Radu, weren’t you? Where is he? Is he all right?”

  They all stared at me. There was a horrible silence for a few minutes, as the boys looked at each other, then my mother, then back at me. The one who was injured just gave a low groan, and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t look up again, just sat moaning softly. One of his friends put an arm around his shoulders and looked at me with a desperately sad face.

  “Radu … Radu died,” he said simply. “He was shot. We couldn’t do anything …”

  His voice tailed off. I knelt there, stunned. My mother put out a hand, pulled me up, and let me away. I stopped, and glanced back at the little group, with a picture in my mind of a cheerful, friendly face under a blue peaked cap. But all I could see were four shocked young men, in the bleak street; one of them moaning into his hands, his head bandaged brightly in my precious birthday scarf.

  Somebody was selling roasted chestnuts on the street. My mother stopped and bought some, but I shook my head. She insisted, and I took one. It burnt my mouth, and that moment’s pain, followed by the delicious taste, brought me back to life.

  “Flora …” said Mama.

  “Don’t let’s talk about it,” I said. “I just want to think about Tata.”

  On we went, asking, looking, asking, looking … passing men with guns, breathing in bitter smoke, hearing now the sound of singing, now the sound of weeping. It was like walking through all the levels of Hell in old pictures I had seen, taken from the ancient churches of our country. And I wondered what we had all done, to be punished like this. Yet, I reminded myself, we’re free now. Once this bit is over, everything will be all right. As long as we can find Tata …

  We reached a patch of green in the centre, a small park where the road split into two. An old woman dressed in black was kneeling there, singing quietly. It sounded like a prayer. A rough cross, just two bits of wood tied together with string, was stuck in the ground, and in front of it she had put two thin yellow candles. As we approached she was in the act of placing a small bunch of flowers and leaves at the foot of the little cross. And all the time she muttered her prayers.

  We were just a couple of metres away, when I heard my mother gasp and at the same time she gripped my arm so tightly I thought her fingers would crack my bone.

  “Look!” she croaked.

  On the rough cross someone had scrawled a name in white chalk. It said CONSTANTIN.

  “Mama! There’s lots of men called Constantin,” I whispered, but she wasn’t listening. She knelt down beside the old woman, her face white, and asked her if this shri
ne was in memory of a relative of hers.

  “No, my dear,” came the reply. “Just a young man I saw die. I held his head in my hands, I begged him not to die, but I couldn’t save him. He just told me his name, that’s all. Just his first name … May the Lord have mercy upon him.”

  “A boy?” asked Mama.

  “No, a man. In his thirties, I’d say.”

  “What … what did he look like?” asked Mama.

  “Dark hair, dark eyes … he was a fine-looking man. Not tall …”

  “His clothes …?” whispered Mama.

  “Oh, I can’t remember … So much blood … But – yes – a blue jacket. Too thin for this weather. Poor man, poor man … Dear Lord, save his soul.”

  I looked into my mother’s eyes and knew what she thought. Myself, I refused to believe it. But her mind was made up.

  “Where did they take him?” she asked, standing up.

  The old woman shook her head, patting the flowers, and murmuring her prayers. But a man standing near overheard, and told Mama that the bodies of the people killed in this area of the city had been taken to a public building near by, which was acting as a temporary morgue.

  “Where?” asked my mother. Her voice was firm now, as if she knew she had to be strong, whatever happened. The man pointed, and gave her directions. Mama turned to me. “You can stay here, Flora. It may not be …”

  “I’m coming with you, Mama,” I said, loudly, and took her arm.

  Once we were inside the building I felt less brave. People were walking slowly out, supporting each other, sobbing and wailing because they had found their dead loved ones. In the huge room ahead of us, its double doors thrown open, we could see rows of bodies on the floor, all covered in blankets. Over the door someone had hung the new Romanian flag – red, yellow and black, with a round hole cut out of the middle. Mama moved forward slowly, until she was standing beneath it.

  “I don’t want you to come in with me, Flora. You must wait here,” she said.

  I was frozen, incapable of movement. The thought of her walking on alone, lifting all those cloths to search for my father’s face … finding him, without my arm to give her support … It was impossible. And yet I did not want to go on. I was afraid.

  And, I realized, even if Tata wasn’t there, we might come across the body of Radu. It was unbearable. Yet she would have to bear it. “No,” I said at last. “It’s just you and me, Mama. Whatever you can look at, I can look at too.”

  As we took the first steps into the room, holding on to each other for strength, I felt her start to tremble. And the voice in my brain was just saying Please, please, please, please … when the universe stopped its sickening, dizzying whirl. I remember it all in slow motion. The sound of running feet, in the distance it seemed – yet just behind us. And a voice a million miles away, shouting, “Rodika! Rodika! Flora!” Echoing, yet right in my ear. And my mother turning round stiffly, like someone in a dream, to confront the man behind us. The man who was lurching towards us, his head bandaged, a gun slung over his shoulder, his blue jacket torn and bloody, almost unrecognizable, but …

  “Constantin!”

  “TATA!”

  Then he was clutching us both, laughing and crying at the same time, choking but trying to explain.

  “I saw you come in,” he said. “I was on duty at the top of the house across the street, looking out for snipers. I couldn’t believe it was you!”

  “Oh, where’ve you been? Why didn’t you come home?” sobbed my mother.

  “It’s such a long story,” he said, hugging her tightly. “I went underground, then I knew the revolution was going to start, and it wouldn’t have been safe for me to have come home. Since then …” He shrugged, and touched his bandaged head. “I was out of action for a couple of days with this, then it was back to the fight. Everybody was needed. But I knew the time was coming when I could come and see you. I couldn’t wait …”

  “She thought you were dead,” I whispered, finding his hand and clinging to it. In front of us someone was crying, and it seemed almost wrong to be so lucky, so happy.

  “Not me! I’m more alive than ever,” cried Tata, turning us round, and walking us out of that sad building, his arms around our shoulders, our arms around his waist.

  “It’s over now,” he said, “and we can all start again. A new life, Flora!”

  I gazed up at him, hardly able to see, my heart thumping like mad. Behind his back, I clutched my mother’s hand, so that we were like a little wall, which nothing could break down – no politics, no presidents. Just the three of us against the world. “Let’s go home now,” I said.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  An old Romanian proverb says, “A change of rulers is the joy of fools” – meaning that getting rid of one regime will not make for a miracle. Old ways do not disappear overnight.

  In March 1990 I went to Romania to research a novel for adults called Lost Footsteps. This was just after the events of The Voices of Silence had happened, and there were still candles in the streets to mark where people had been killed. Later that year I went back and drove all over the country. Both trips made a deep impression on me, which is why I ended up writing two novels, a short story and a screenplay – all set in Romania.

  Although the “revolution” my Flora witnessed was over, things hadn’t improved as much as people had hoped. Of course, the regime of the dictator had been overthrown, and there was more freedom. The West was beginning to invest in the country; there was a general sense of opening up. But people still waited in line for basic things like bread and meat, and the longed-for rise in the standard of living had not come about.

  To make it worse, there was corruption everywhere, just like before. Aid workers from Britain, France, Canada and the USA who went to help the orphans were shocked when toys, clothes and medicines donated by generous people back home just vanished, then reappeared on the market – for a price. They were depressed that some Romanians did not seem able, or willing, to help themselves. But the people had been poor and oppressed for centuries, not just years, and ways of thinking and acting can become engrained.

  Does that mean change is impossible? Of course not. When countries like Poland, Czechoslovakia and Romania finally rejected the communism of Soviet Russia, history was changed; and history is, after all, nothing more or less than the lives of individual men, women and children. Brave people have always stood up to their oppressors in the end – and always will. That’s why we must have hope.

  Now Romania is a part of the European Union, which means that many Romanians have come to Britain looking for a better life. This tells us there must still be much poverty at home; Romania (so beautiful in parts) is still not prosperous. The sad truth is, most thirteen-year-old Romanian girls today would still think of a scarf as a special gift.

  Bel Mooney, 2007

  Amnesty International

  The Voices of Silence is a work of fiction, but its description of the Romanian Revolution depicts fear and violence that is still real in many countries today. Not being able to speak freely because of fear of the consequences can lead to mistrust and emnity among friends and families. Life under a repressive regime is highly restrictive, denying people their basic human rights.

  Human rights are the principles that allow individuals freedom to live dignified lives, free from abuse, fear and want and free to express their own beliefs. Human rights belong to all of us, regardless of who we are or where we live.

  Amnesty International is a movement of ordinary people from across the world standing up for humanity and human rights. Our purpose is to protect individuals wherever justice, fairness, freedom and truth are denied.

  Youth Groups

  We have an active membership of over 550 youth groups. Youth groups are gatherings of young people in schools, sixth-form colleges or youth clubs who meet to learn about and campaign for Amnesty International. You can also join as an individual member and receive magazines to keep you up to date about w
ays you can help us. If you would like to join Amnesty International or set up a youth group, or simply find out more, please telephone our Education and Student Team on 020 7033 1596, email [email protected] or visit www.amnesty.org.uk/education/youthandstudent/.

  Amnesty International UK, The Human Rights Action Centre, 17-25 New Inn Yard, London EC2A 3EA. Tel: 020 7033 1500.

  www.amnesty.org.uk

  All royalties from the sale of this book will go to the work of Amnesty International UK.

  THE VOICES OF SILENCE

  Bel Mooney studied English at University College London and then embarked upon a successful career in journalism that now spans four decades. In addition to making numerous programmes for radio and television she has contributed to most national newspapers, notably The Times, The Sunday Times, The Daily Mail and the Mirror. She is also the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction titles for both adults and children and is well known for two hugely popular series for younger readers, one about a girl called Kitty and another about a small white dog called Bonnie.

  Bel lives in Bath with her husband and the real Bonnie. You can find out more about her and her books at:

  www.belmooney.co.uk

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  First published in Great Britain 1994 by Methuen Children’s Books Ltd

  First published 2007 by Walker Books Ltd

  87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ

  This edition published 2013

  © 1994 Bel Mooney

  Background cover photograph: Mihai E. Popa

  The right of Bel Mooney to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.