The Voices of Silence Page 5

  I know I was stupid. And ignorant. I thought refugees from Romania would be welcomed with open arms wherever they wanted to go, and … sort of … given all these goodies. As if! But we all believed that some sort of heaven existed beyond the borders of our poor little country. There were places where people could actually vote for their leaders and read free newspapers and watch other things on television than Ceauşescu jawing, jawing, jawing.

  The word Freedom doesn’t mean much to you when you’re young and you’ve never had it. It’s a great idea, but you can’t taste, touch or smell an idea. So translate it into the freedom to eat chocolate and sweets … and it starts to have meaning. I think I saw the West as some huge shop where everything was free.

  And my father was choosing that. It meant more to him than we did. If it didn’t, then he wouldn’t be going.

  Isn’t that what you would think?

  School was worse than ever, mainly because we found out at last what all of us had suspected. The word went round quickly. Our form teacher, Mr Paroan, the Old Monster, had been arrested. They said he had been seen talking to a foreign spy. Or maybe he was a spy himself. It was impossible to know the truth because everybody guessed this or that. We talked about it in whispers.

  “I can’t imagine the Old – him – doing anything wrong. He was always so down on us.”

  “Serve him right then.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “He was never very fair.”

  “No worse than the others.”

  “Better than some.”

  “He wasn’t really a bad bloke.”

  “You didn’t say that when he swiped your head with his ruler!”

  And so on – round and round.

  We had a new form teacher, called Miss Creanu. She was terrible: tall and thin with a face like an animal trap. Once she heard us talking about Maryon, and punished us all by keeping us in during the break to work out maths problems. She made Mr Paroan seem like St Nicholas. Already I found myself remembering only the nice things about him, despite what one or two people in the class said.

  Maryon. That story was much nearer home, somehow, because Maryon was one of us. Or, at least, he had been. His story was easier to find out, although you still had to depend on rumours, which may or may not have been true. They said he had been telling bad jokes about Comrade Ceauşescu in school, and that his father held secret meetings in their apartment, and was an enemy of the country.

  “How do they know that?” I asked Mariana.

  “Somebody told,” she whispered.

  “Who would do a thing like that?”

  “There’s always somebody,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

  They said Maryon had been called to see the Principal, and given a good grilling by him. That would be enough to finish anybody off, in my opinion. In the end he did break down, and somebody took him home, and then they arrested his dad. And Maryon didn’t ever come back to school. Nobody knew where he and his mother and little sister went.

  “Probably to stay with relatives,” said Daniel. “Anyway, it’s none of our business.”

  “Best to keep your nose clean,” agreed Mariana.

  We were standing in a little group. Alys was on the edge, but suddenly strode forward, her face scarlet. “Oh yes, close your eyes so you don’t see what’s going on. Stop up your ears so you don’t hear bad jokes about the President. Keep your mouth shut so you never tell the truth,” her voice was terrifyingly loud.

  “Shhh,” I said.

  Everybody looked shocked at her outburst, and I was afraid one of the teachers might have heard. But she didn’t care. She gave me such a look of pity I wanted the ground to open up and bury me.

  “Oh, shhhh,” she mimicked, “because that’s much easier, isn’t it, Flora?”

  “Well, it’s certainly much safer,” said Daniel Ghiban calmly, as if coming to my defence.

  “You should know, Ghiban,” said Alys, glaring at him.

  “What do you mean, Grosu?” he asked, in that same, level grown-up voice, which made her sound hysterical and silly.

  “I mean, you’re pretty safe, with all your foreign goodies, and no questions asked!”

  He raised his eyes to heaven. Most people would have lost their temper at that, and I admired him for being so relaxed and calm. He gave the slightest of shrugs and started to walk away. Over his shoulder he said loudly, “Talking about questions, Alys Grosu, I saw you spending lots of time with Maryon just before he got into trouble. I think you probably knew more about him than anyone.”

  Daniel strolled off, hands in his pockets. Alys’s high colour disappeared with shocking speed, leaving her looking white and ill. I thought she was going to cry, or say something else; instead she just turned and ran off. The rest of us looked at each other in silence, then we all drifted away.

  From that moment it was as if Alys was set apart. Usually, in gymnastics, pupils stood around admiringly to watch her cartwheels and back bends and flips. She was so much better than everyone else. They said she would be selected for the national squad. I used to be proud of her (although jealous too), when we were best friends …

  But now people didn’t pay her attention in the old way. And Alys didn’t show off like she used to – as if she wanted to be private.

  As if she had something to hide.

  There was a nasty atmosphere of mistrust in our class – and I think, in the whole school. In a way we were used to that – brought up to be careful and secretive. But this was worse than ever. I felt as if everybody was waiting for something to happen – something to break the tension.

  In lessons, I noticed, we were getting more propaganda than ever about our country. The President and his doings seemed to come into every single lesson. When it was geography we were told what an amazing world leader he was, and how, when he visited England, he had met the Queen – so highly did they think of him. In history we learnt about how he had taken Romania from its bad times into a future of glittering prosperity. In grammar we were read bits of his speeches, and told how they represented the best examples of our written language. In science we were told how the President’s wife, Elena, was a brilliant scientist whom all of us must try to follow, for the good of our country. And so on, and so on.

  No wonder we all longed for sport!

  In the old days I would have told all this to my mother and father, to see what they thought. But I couldn’t tell them anything now, and it made me feel lonelier than ever.

  At least there were no more arguments at night when I had gone to bed. Mama and Tata had come to an agreement, and now they behaved more like young lovers than a married couple. If I hadn’t overheard the Plan, I would have been delighted. He came home one night with a little parcel, which he presented to her with a flourish. It was a bar of good soap. She squealed with delight, and sniffed it so hard, you’d have thought she was going to eat it. He didn’t say where he got it, of course, and she didn’t ask. So much went unspoken.

  They would sit quietly on the couch, holding hands, and he would do something I had never seen – go up behind her in the kitchen when she was preparing food, and put his arms around her waist and bury his face in her long dark hair. He helped more too, putting the knives and forks out, and washing the dirty dishes. It was all lovely.

  But because I knew the real reason behind his affection it made me more angry and unhappy than ever. He was loving her so much because he was leaving her behind, as if he had to make the most of the time left. I wished and wished I didn’t know anything at all, that some devil hadn’t made me get up out of bed that night and listen. Because it’s so much easier to be innocent. I’d eaten the M&Ms ages ago, and it seemed to me that they were like the fruit in the story of the Garden of Eden poor Grandma once told me – you know, that grew on the tree of knowledge. Being thirteen, and knowing things had brought me nothing but misery.

  One day I decided to tell Mama that I knew. I couldn’t keep it inside myself any longe
r. More than anything I wanted us to feel like a family once more, who shared things, good and bad. I decided that if I told Mama I could make things better. Maybe I could even persuade Tata to change his mind. Surely life couldn’t be that bad for him – not when he loved Mama so much. I knew it was my duty to talk him out of going. Then we would have a lovely Christmas together, and everything would be all right.

  It was a bitterly cold Saturday at the beginning of December, and Mama and I had been out to get our oil ration. She was in a good mood because we’d also bought some beetroot and some bacon and the ingredients for mamaliga – the old-fashioned corn mush dish her mother taught her to make, and which I loved.

  “We’ll have a feast this weekend, little Flo,” she smiled.

  The bags were heavy. We carried one each. I tucked my free hand in her free arm, and we walked slowly home, heavily muffled against the icy wind.

  All the time I was wondering how I could raise the subject.

  “Mama …” I began.

  “Ugh, it’s started to snow,” she said. I looked up. A few small flakes were whirling down from the leaden sky, and I blinked as one went into my eye, stinging and cold.

  “Let’s take the short cut,” said Mama, walking faster, “I really don’t want to get colder than I already am.”

  There was a building site over the road. It seemed that half of the city was being knocked down and rebuilt, and where we lived was no exception. Instead of walking the long way round, on the main road, we would walk through the site despite the notices saying KEEP OUT. It was all right on a Saturday because the workmen weren’t there.

  All I could think of was how much I wanted to talk to her. In my mind I rehearsed my opening sentence.

  Mama, I overheard you and Tata talking …

  Mama, why does my father want to leave us …

  Mama, I know Tata is going to try to escape and I want to talk to you about it …

  Mama, why didn’t you both tell me? Treat me like a person, not a child …?

  “Please, Mama …” I began.

  But she stopped suddenly, and her bag of shopping fell to the ground. Only the beetroot rolled out, stopping a few metres from our feet. My mother was gripping my arm so tightly it hurt, and I cried out.

  “Oh my God … oh my God,” she whispered, staring straight ahead as if she had seen a ghost.

  I looked.

  It wasn’t a ghost – it was something far more shocking. And (it took me a few seconds to realize) frightening. There, on a half-built concrete wall ahead of us, someone had daubed a slogan. The white paint ran down like tears. It said, “DOWN WITH CEAUŞESCU”.

  This was the wildest, wickedest, most dangerous thing – if you believed all we were told in school about our country and our leader. It was unimaginable. Down with Ceauşescu. A terrible crime, to daub that on a wall in a public place. It was unthinkable: yet there it was in front of us.

  My mother began to shake. She was still gripping my arm fiercely, but looking all round, panic-stricken.

  “Don’t look! Don’t see it!” she hissed.

  I thought that was rather stupid, because how could I not see something that was before my eyes, in huge white letters?

  “Quick, let’s get out of here. Before someone sees us!” she cried.

  “But Mama! We didn’t put it there!” I said.

  “Don’t be stupid, Flora! We’re HERE! We’d be accused!” she said, almost crying as she picked up the bag. “Come on!”

  She started to rush away, not waiting for me. I hurried after her for a little way, then remembered something.

  “Mama! The beetroot!”

  “Leave it, Flora! Hurry!”

  That was too much for me. I turned back, and ran to where the beetroot – promising wonderful bright red soup – lay like a dark crimson ball on the ground. I scooped it up quickly, and ran after her. But my heart was thumping, as my eyes were drawn again to that writing on the wall.

  Who could have been so foolish?

  Or so brave?

  SIX

  Of course, I never got the chance to have that conversation with my parents. Maybe if I had, things would have been different. I wouldn’t have felt so lonely any more. I wouldn’t have been driven …

  When Mama and I got home, me clutching the precious beetroot as if my life depended on it, she sat down heavily in the chair as if she was going to faint. She looked strange – as if the skin was stretched tightly over the bones of her face, ghostly and pale.

  “Rodika – what’s the matter?” my father asked, in alarm.

  She shook her head. He looked at me, and so I told him. His response was extraordinary. First he put his finger to his lips, and flapped the other hand, telling me to keep my voice down. The walls of our apartments were cheap and thin, and the front door fitted badly. Whenever my parents wanted to talk about something important they would put the radio on, so people in the next flat couldn’t hear. But now I sounded very loud in the silence, saying “Down with Ceauşescu”.

  It took a second after that for what I’d said to sink in. Then he closed his eyes, threw back his head, and punched the air with one fist.

  “Oh,” he whispered, half to himself, “the fool! Whoever you are, I love you, you crazy fool! You dared!”

  “Who, Tata?” I asked.

  “How do I know? The man who painted that slogan on the wall, of course. They’ll get him and he’ll suffer. Oh, he’ll suffer. But imagine the feeling of doing that. It would be worth the suffering.”

  “No, Constantin, NO!” My mother cried, in a strangled voice, dreadfully afraid.

  He went across, and knelt at her feet, cradling her face between his hands and speaking tenderly. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said in a soothing voice, as if talking to a child, “I won’t do anything like that. I couldn’t. Too much is at stake. Please don’t worry.”

  She bent forward and kissed him on the cheek – and I felt left out, as always. So I went into my bedroom, and shut the door.

  On top of my little drawer unit sat my old doll, Mary. She was part of the furniture – something you stop noticing after a while, because it’s always there. But something made me look at her now. She looked as if she had shifted position a bit. It was strange.

  I stood looking at her for a moment, then picked her up and instinctively cradled her, just as I used to do. Alys had chosen the name, Mary – it was an English name, she said. I said, No; it was the name of the Virgin Mary, the Mother of Jesus. We weren’t allowed to believe in those things. It was against the message of communism. But sometimes I found myself wondering about it all, and wishing there was such a thing as God. Not because I wanted to believe in him. Because I wanted to have someone to blame.

  Mary was a sad old thing – an ugly plastic head with tatty blonde hair which had once been thick, but which I had brushed into patches of baldness. She had staring blue eyes, although, to be absolutely correct, only one worked; the other one had stuck shut, giving Mary a weird, winking look. Her eyelids had reached the same state of baldness as her head. Her body was made from once-pink cloth, now a dirty grey, and clad in a dark blue knitted dress my mother had made when I was four, and Mary was new.

  Now she was old, battered, and perfectly hideous.

  But I’d loved her. Oh, how I had loved her!

  I suppose I had loved her into ugliness.

  Alys and I had little carts our fathers had made, and we would push our dolls around for hours. And we’d sit on the stairs and nurse them, singing lullabies and telling stories, and really believing that our dolls were real. When Tata used to tease me and call Mary a “doll”, I used to go mad and put my finger to my lips, saying, “Shhhh.”

  “Don’t be mean. You’ll hurt her feelings,” I’d say. “She isn’t a doll. She’s REAL!”

  Then later, as I got older, I would lower my voice to a whisper, and cover Mary’s ears with my hands, saying to my mother, “You see, she thinks she’s real. She doesn’t know she’s just a
doll …”

  I smiled to remember it. It’s funny the way children cling on to their beliefs for so long, keeping the real world at bay. Then the morning comes when you wake up, and you’re hugging your beloved doll, and you feel the hard plastic head and the grubby cloth body – and suddenly you know that what you’re loving IS just plastic and cloth. And you feel a bit of a fool to yourself, because you can’t just throw the thing away. It’s become a part of you.

  Now my old doll reminded me of so many things I’d lost. Like Alys. And complete trust in my parents. And belief in … what? Well, a sort of miracle, I suppose. That something obviously fake CAN be real at the same time, and worthy of your love.

  I went to sit on the bed, gazing down at her sadly. She leered up at me, with her one horrid blue eye, and sealed pink eyelid. With my fingernail, I peeled a piece of red paint from her mouth. Then I felt guilty, wincing as if I had just picked a fresh scab. So I smoothed her patchy hair, to make her feel better.

  Suddenly I wanted so much to believe again – to make everything like it was. Couldn’t you make ugly things beautiful again? Couldn’t you put things right, if you tried hard enough?

  Without knowing quite why, I jumped up, pulled open my drawer, and took out my silky birthday gift. Folding it into a large double triangle, I wrapped it across the front of Mary’s head, like a gypsy scarf, taking the ends round to the back of her neck, winding them tight, and bringing the wings forward over her shoulders. I crossed them over her chest, and tied the tips behind. A little tugging, and the old blue dress stretched down easily to cover her feet. Then I held her out to look at my handiwork.

  All the patchy hair was concealed. So were her dirty-grey arms. She was swathed in brilliant red, black and green patterns, like a gypsy queen. All she needed now was a little surgery. So I took my old stylo pen, inserted the nib under the stuck eyelid, and worked at it carefully. After a few seconds I was able to prise the eyelid open – and Mary stared at me properly, with two blue eyes.