The Girl They Left Behind

by Roxanne Veletzos

  She had seen plenty of Red Army soldiers before, sitting in groups behind café windows or marching in formation down the streets with their hands on their holsters. Some had even smiled at her on the street, saluted her as she walked past them, touching their index fingers to their khaki caps with red stars, gaping at her shamelessly. But she had never seen them this close. Standing here in their mud-splattered uniforms, glassy-eyed and smelling of brandy, they looked grotesque to her, almost inhuman. All the stories she’d heard came rushing back, stories of Soviet soldiers pillaging and robbing homes, taking everything they could. Alarmed, she looked at her mother, hoping for a sign, a signal of some kind, but her face was a white canvas. Only her arm moved ever so slightly, almost like a nervous spasm, then, as it stretched out at full length over the sofa, grasping her purse, then bringing it close, right up to her leg.

  “Please, officers,” Elena was saying now, coming up behind them. That artificial, strained tone had returned to her voice, although she was trying hard to sound cheerful. “Would you care for some tuica? I have some fresh pastries, too. Right this way, please.”

  She gestured for the men to follow her to the kitchen, but they ignored her. Instead, they stepped further into the room and began inspecting various objects—a crystal ashtray, a Fabergé angel on the mantel, a silver tray on the sideboard—turning them this way and that, studying the engravings on the bottom. The older, stockier officer said something in Russian, and they laughed. Then both pairs of eyes fell on Lidia. The younger, broad-shouldered soldier gave her a smile, but there was something dark and ugly in his eyes.

  Lidia stood up from the sofa and, averting the bold stare, headed toward the door. She was nearly there when he cut her off and stood before her, hands on hips, blocking her path. She tried to go around him, but he stepped in her way again. And again, two more times, the same sequence of movements. Lidia grew visibly flushed. Her breathing quickened. And then she did something unthinkable, something that made Natalia gasp in shock. Lifting her gaze, she looked right into the soldier’s face and spat in it.

  The room was as quiet as a tomb as he raised his hand to wipe his cheek. When he grabbed Lidia’s arm, his movement was so sudden that she did not have time to react. It was only when he spun her roughly around and pulled her against him that she began flailing her free arm, clawing at his hair, his face, pounding her small fist on his unflinching chest like a trapped, frightened bird.

  Lidia! Natalia thought she shouted, but no words left her lips. Lidia! And she instinctively closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut and covered her ears to drown out all that followed—her cousin’s piercing screams, the sound of her blouse tearing, the eggshell buttons hitting the floor one at a time, her aunt shrieking, imploring, the pounding of blood in her own temples. And then a single sound, a single terrifying sound that rose above the others, and all fell silent.

  No one moved as the smell of smoke enveloped the room. No one dared to breathe. It seemed that the air itself had stilled. The soldier took a few steps backward, his eyes wild with incomprehension before they traveled downward and an agonizing cry emerged from his throat. A crimson rivulet trickled through a hole in his uniform pants, just above his knee. When he crumpled to the floor, it was in stages, first dropping to his knees and struggling to pull himself up, then falling sideways, his shoulder hitting the wall with a loud thud.

  “Leave her alone. Leave this house now.” Her mother’s voice rose in the silence, raspy and thick, unrecognizable.

  Natalia’s pulse began to race, and she felt suddenly dizzy. She was only dimly aware of the smear of blood on the pale lilac wallpaper where the soldier’s hand had rested a moment ago, Lidia sobbing, clutching whatever remained of her blouse, the rug twisted at her feet, the men hunkered together now, in a fury of frenzied movements. From the corner of her eye, she observed the blithe figure beside her that was her mother, the way she held the gun steadily, waving it slightly between the two men. Give me a reason to finish the job, her steely eyes said, and there wasn’t a trace of fear in them or even rage now; there was only cold, hard resolve.

  And then the extraordinary. Grunting and cursing between clenched teeth, the wounded soldier drew himself up. He slipped and nearly fell, but his companion caught him in time and helped him back to his feet, sliding an arm underneath his shoulders for support. Without looking back, they stumbled out of the parlor, a three-legged beast receding from view, past the entry table and the framed lithographs in the foyer and through the front door that swung open in the evening breeze.

  The entire time, her mother kept her pistol at eye level. She only lowered it when the men had vanished from sight, when the only sound coming from the street was that of passing cars and the screech of a tramcar coming to a stop at the end of the block.

  27

  EMPTY STOREFRONTS AND POORLY LIT streets, the stench of garbage mounting on street corners underneath a blanket of grayish snow, that was all that remained of the old Paris of the Balkans, with its once pristine sidewalks and dazzling white modern facades, its lush parks and lively plazas. Natalia and her father walked in near darkness amid a backdrop of soot-blackened walls and half-toppled fences. Earlier, she had stopped by the store to help out for a few hours, as she did every Friday after school.

  On their way, they passed a few shops that had gone out of business, their awnings torn, their windows broken and vandalized, even though there was nothing inside to steal. Passing by the only bakery that was still open, they glanced at the empty shelves behind the grimy window. A lonely placard lay against the cash register, reading Out of Bread Today. Natalia had seen that sign nearly every morning on her way to school, hours after the customers who had lined up early had dispersed empty-handed.

  “I want to come to the store every day, Papa,” she said. “I can get my homework done in the back and help out after. We could walk home together every night. Just like this.”

  A flicker of a smile passed over his face. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m sure your mother would not approve of me breaking her rules. I am the last person from whom she would expect such rebellion.”

  She said nothing.

  “Things are not what they used to be, Talia. They’re different now, since . . . since . . .” He did not finish, but she knew what he meant. “We have to be careful, more careful than ever. Go home after school for now. It’s for the best.”

  At the corner, they stopped. Just before crossing, her father dug into one of his pockets and extracted a few coins, which he tossed into the metal tin of a blind old gypsy who crouched underneath an awning.

  “God have mercy. God have mercy, my child,” the gypsy chanted, her cloudy, unfocused gaze trailing them toward the intersection.

  “Let’s go,” her father said, taking her hand and pulling her along to make the light.

  He was always walking fast these days, Natalia thought, always dashing across changing green lights, and even red ones sometimes, as if he was in a mad rush to get somewhere. Always keeping his hands in his pockets and looking at the ground. His eyes had been darting about constantly ever since three weeks earlier, when she and her mother had gone to visit Elena and Lidia.

  She’d never forget his look that night, wild with worry, pacing like a caged cat when they walked into the house at nearly midnight. The way he had stood before them, barefoot in his silk robe, holding his hands out, demanding an explanation. She’d wanted to fall into his arms and tell him how terrible the whole thing had been, how frightening, but he’d followed her mother into the parlor, where she collapsed onto the sofa and began to sob in her hands. What was it that he had said to her then?

  “Tell me, Despina. Tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”

  Her mother had looked at him for a moment, and then, with trembling hands, she’d reached for her purse and extracted the pistol. “Get rid of it. Hide it,” she had said, holding it out to him.

  It seemed like an eternity before he had reached out and taken it fr
om her. When he placed it on the coffee table, it made a clinking sound, soft and innocent, like the chime of a bell.

  Since then, he and her mother had barely spoken about it. When it did come up, her father tried to make light of it, saying things like, “Luckily, Despina, they took you seriously and decided to leave when they did,” but her mother never laughed, as she might have another time. She only drew in a long breath. Days turned into weeks, and they rarely spoke of it now. Lately, Natalia had begun to relax, to think of it less, but all along, she couldn’t shake the feeling that despite the devastation of war, the fear of persecution, the endless food lines, and the rationed electricity, despite all that she and her family had endured thus far, this was the very thing that would unravel their lives. And still she could not expect how quickly it would happen, how swiftly the blade would fall.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary at first. As she and her father made their way home through the clatter of streetcars and billboards of factory workers swaying joyfully arm in arm, she saw nothing unusual, save perhaps a looming shadow, a blur that hung loosely in the corner of her eye. For several blocks, she paid no attention, until the shadow gained forward momentum and came into full view, and she noticed it was a black town car, an unmarked automobile with tinted windows and no license plate. The car swerved out of traffic, coming to an abrupt stop, and a man—stocky and rather sinister-looking despite the expensive overcoat—emerged through the back door. He might have been any man, a stranger with whom they were merely crossing paths, but the way he stood before them—arms folded at his chest, feet splayed apart—made it clear that he was not.

  Above his raised collar, his eyes were hard and fixed, and Natalia saw nothing in them, not even a trace of interest, as he mouthed, “Sir, are you Anton Goza?”

  “Yes, yes, I am,” her father replied, paling, though his head remained high. “How is it that I can help you?”

  “Sir, you are under arrest. You will need to come with us.” Placing a gloved hand on top of the car’s back door, he opened it all the way, almost courteously, as if he was inviting him to step in.

  Natalia’s gaze darted alarmingly between the man and her father. This was not a police car. And this man was certainly not wearing a police uniform. How could he arrest her father? She nearly smiled, thinking it had to be some kind of a mistake. A joke, perhaps. She did actually let out a sound, something like a stunned chuckle.

  “Papa?”

  And then it came to her. The realization hit her with such force that her knees nearly buckled. This was no ordinary police; this had to be the Secret Police. But what did they want with her father? The Securitate only dealt with crimes against the state. Her father was not an agitator, an activist. On the contrary, he kept to himself and spoke to virtually no one these days. Why would they want him? Then she remembered the stories she had heard on street corners, rumors of unexpected arrests and kidnappings, of people disappearing in the night, never to be seen again, and for no reason at all.

  “No!” she yelled, her voice raspy and choked. “Papa, run!”

  She tugged on his sleeve frantically, but he just stood there, not moving, not running. As if he wasn’t at all surprised. “Go home, Talia,” he said sternly, gripping her shoulder. “Go directly home, and do not stop for any reason.”

  With that, he took off his hat and climbed into the backseat.

  “Why?” she screamed. “Why? He has done nothing!”

  But the man in the dark coat was already sliding in next to him, and the door was slamming shut, and all she could glimpse of her father as the car sped away was the back of his head dropping backward, as if he was taking a long breath.

  A breath. She willed herself to breathe, too, aware faintly that across the street, several pedestrians had stopped to look, and above them, curious faces peered out from behind curtained windows. It took such effort to think; all her senses were pulled tight, like violin strings. What would happen to her father? Why had they snatched him like this? And where were they taking him?

  There were other things she remembered about the Securitate, and she couldn’t keep them at bay, much as she tried. This was exactly how they did their work. They pounced in the darkness, on an unknown street corner in the middle of the night, so there would be no scene. There would be no wild vociferations, pleadings, unnecessary emotions. Whatever her father was accused of, it didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, there would be a sham trial resulting in a sentence without the right to defense or an immediate transfer to a forced-work camp. The Gulag, Natalia had heard people call this place, where people who had committed crimes against the state were sent and from which no one ever returned.

  A violent cry, a spasm, emerged from her throat. What will I tell my mother? she thought absurdly. How can I tell her he isn’t coming home? That he may never come home? She buried her face in her hands and shut her eyes, slid down to her knees. Suddenly, she felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder and looked up. It took her a moment to recognize old Mr. Enesco, their next-door neighbor.

  “Natalia, what’s happened?” he said, bending down beside her.

  All she could do was fall into his arms and sob. She sobbed for what felt like hours in the arms of this kind old man who stroked her hair comfortingly with his withered, callused hands.

  “Let me take you home,” he said after a while. “Your mother will worry, and you should not be alone at a time like this.”

  Natalia nodded and wiped her eyes. She stood and picked up her bag, praying that it had all been a dream.

  “Your father was a good man,” Mr. Enesco said, shaking his head as they began walking toward home. “I don’t know what he’s done, but that is a fact.”

  My father still is a good man! Natalia felt like shouting in protest. He is a good man, and he will come back to us! But she didn’t have the strength to speak. Instead, she took the man’s hand, and they continued the rest of the way in silence.

  28

  VICTOR DIMITROV HAD INDEED COME up in the ranks. She hardly recognized him when he stood in their doorway, dashing, taller than she remembered, with his cap in his hand and an air of quiet authority behind the polite smile. He looked handsome in a dark leather coat, which he removed promptly before entering, for it had been drenched in a torrent of rain.

  “Hello, Miss Despina. Talia,” he said, smoothing his black hair which despite the downpour had remained perfectly intact. Green eyes that she remembered well held hers for a moment. He smiled, and one corner of his lips turned slightly upward, as it did involuntarily when he was amused by something or surprised. Natalia dropped her gaze. Something shifted inside her, a small leap, barely perceptible, stifled by her sudden embarrassment. She blinked, a little out of breath, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

  “Please come in, Victor,” her mother said, taking his coat. “Thank you for coming. I know how busy you are.”

  Hearing her say this brought Natalia back to reality. Victor had not come just for a visit; he’d come because her mother had asked for his help. It was, in fact, the very first thing she had done on that late afternoon when Natalia had come home alone without her father, without the words that were, after all, unnecessary. Paling visibly, steadying herself against the stairwell banister, her mother had ambled directly to the study, then flicked on the desk lamp and rummaged through her father’s papers, opening and shutting drawers, knocking over a stack of files. At last, she had found what she was looking for in an old cigar box. Holding the small scrap of paper against the light, she’d dialed the number on it, slowly, steadily. “Yes, I realize this is a private number. He knows who I am,” she’d heard her say. The conversation itself had been short, but when she hung up, a trace of light had returned to her eyes. And now Victor was here. He had come as promised.

  How long had it been since they’d last seen him? Natalia couldn’t remember. He was so thin then that the sharp contours of his shoulders were visible through the wool and angora sweaters that had once been her
father’s. He was coughing a lot, too, and his hands, perfectly manicured now, were then rough as sandpaper and cracked around the knuckles.

  “Is there anything you can you do for him, Papa?” she’d asked once. “Could you give him a job at the store?”

  Her father had smiled affectionately and patted her hand. “He doesn’t want to work for the likes of me, sweetheart. But I’m helping in any way that I can. Don’t worry.”

  He had no family, Victor had told them once over one of those long Sunday suppers that now felt like they belonged to another lifetime. He was an orphan, like Anton, but unlike him, he had never known his parents. He was raised by his aunt, his father’s sister, who was a seamstress before the war. They had lived in a one-room flat in the back of a courtyard perpetually strewn with sheets and undergarments fluttering on crisscrossing clotheslines, and Victor had earned his keep by helping with deliveries around town. Through the windows of grand villas, he stole glimpses of a life he would never have, no matter how hard he studied, how hard he worked, how well he applied himself. He came to detest how he was often greeted in doorways, told to wait outside, to not touch anything. He loathed the way butlers or housemaids removed the gowns from his hands as if they were dirty, even though he had helped in the making of those gowns—cutting out patterns, unraveling the rolls of velvet and silk, and preparing his aunt’s needles. At night, he would rub her aching shoulders, her hunched back, as she worked late so they could buy food the next day. After a few years, her stoicism began to unnerve him, and soon he began to detest her a little, her quiet resignation, the overstated humility with which she accepted a few coins for an entire month’s work, her unrelenting belief in a good and mighty God. The God she praised on her tired knees every morning at the church down the street and in the evenings in front of her homemade altar to the Blessed Mother.