Lost Footsteps

by Bel Mooney

  ‘Ana, Ana, do you want to change your mind?’ murmured Radu, horrified, laying his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I should be glad – he’s treating it as a game,’ she said.

  ‘But do you? It’s not too late. Please …’

  ‘He will be quiet, Radu. And he will be good. But make sure he knows exactly what he has to do …’

  ‘Ana!’

  ‘You know, I haven’t imagined what it will be like. But I know they’ll be kind to him. They’re good to children. Not like us.’

  ‘Ana, please!’

  She stared straight ahead, unblinking. ‘And maybe I will be able to go for him. One day. He thinks I will, and I told him it, half as a lie, but half believing it myself. Maybe all this will change … how can we tell? And Michael Edwards – he’s the Englishman I work for – he might be able to help me get a passport, after all. Anything could happen, Radu …’

  ‘Of course, of course …’ She did not see him shake his head, more distressed by this hope than her previous dogged acceptance of what had to be. ‘Now. are you going to come out? He’ll be wondering what’s wrong.’

  At that she jumped up, and quickly examined her face in the old spotted mirror. ‘Look at me – I’m like a ghost –’ she pinched her own cheeks viciously ‘– there, that’s better! Now, Radu, you promise that you’ll telephone from Belgrade? You’ve told Doina?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told Doina,’ he replied.

  Suddenly she flung herself at him, standing on tiptoe to clasp her arms around his neck, and whispering vehemently as she tightened her grip, ‘You will look after him, Radu? And it will work, won’t it? Tell me it’ll all be all right. Tell me!’

  ‘Anina, I promise you. I promise you … everything,’ he said, suddenly weary – and with the faintest flicker of resentment that her grief should so burden him.

  It was almost dark when Radu and Doina left. Ana and Ion had gone on ahead, and were to be picked up on the Strata Gheorghe Doja, walking south.

  In the car they spoke little; in the back seat Ana put her arm around Ion, and he nestled up to her, clutching his bag on his knee. It contained blue cotton trousers, a shirt, a pair of underpants, an extra jumper, and his toy motorbike. He was wearing Ana’s thin navy anorak, rolled up at the sleeves, as Radu had rejected his own grey one as too light. ‘It’s lucky you’ve got a small mother,’ Ana had joked, as he looked anxiously down.

  ‘Does it look silly, Mama?’

  ‘Oh, Ion, who’s going to see? In any case, it doesn’t.’

  He is as self-conscious as any ten-year-old; he worries about a jacket, when he’s about to leave everything he knows behind. He would be more concerned if he forgot his pathetic little toy than he is at leaving me … But no, that is not true. We all protect ourselves, in the most extreme situations, by concentrating on trivial, everyday things.

  From time to time Doina glanced at Radu, who drove more slowly than usual, with a constant eye on the mirror. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said once, ‘nobody could suspect anything. We just look like a family out for a drive.’

  ‘For pleasure? In a country with no petrol?’ he muttered, looking to right, then left and tightening his grip on the wheel.

  ‘Radu is my uncle, then – and Doina is my aunt. Or you can pretend to be my father, Radu. If we’re a family,’ said Ion.

  At Moraviţa they stopped in a side street, and ate their meal; cold potatoes, sandwiches of lettuce and salami, and lumps of cheese. Doina passed around a bottle of water with a flourish, saying, ‘Wine, anyone?’

  Ion giggled and said, ‘I’m going to get drunk, Mama.’

  Radu said, ‘I’ll have to introduce you to German beer.’

  Ana said, ‘Radu! You’re a bad influence,’ hearing her own voice, sounding strange: high and false. She found herself thinking how unbelievable it was, that they could eat and make jokes, sitting in this car, not far from the border, with a folded-up rubber dinghy in a suitcase in the luggage boot, beneath a pile of ancient paintbrushes and rolled up drawings.

  A poorer, narrower road took them due east from Moraviţa, following the line of the border a few miles away. There were no cars; just the rattle of the Dacia’s engine, uncomfortably loud, and the sound of the wind, sudden and surprising. Ana shivered.

  ‘Are you cold, Mama? I’m not, I’m warm,’ said Ion.

  ‘I don’t like the wind, Radu,’ said Doina.

  ‘It won’t matter,’ he replied shortly, ‘all the better, in a way. I don’t want stillness …’

  ‘But the crossing?’

  ‘It’s not a storm, Doina! It’ll be all right.’

  They drove on for about an hour in silence, leaving the border far behind, before turning westwards once more at Oraviţa. Here the road was even worse, narrow and uneven, but Radu did not mind. ‘You know, Ion, I once had a girlfriend who lived down here!’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘But what about Doina?’ asked Ion, slightly embarrassed. Radu gave his old throaty laugh. ‘That was before I met her, little bear! I was only eighteen – you remember that, Ana?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Little did I think when I took her walking in these hills that everything I found out would be so useful one day. We used to have to go places her father wouldn’t find! God, we used to be afraid – like refugees in our own country! And now it’s the real thing …’

  Doina rested her hand for a moment on his arm.

  After what seemed like a very short time (and Ana was aware that the universe had speeded up, suddenly, whirling them forwards) Radu turned the car off the road and down a narrow track. Ion was thrown against Ana by a particularly deep rut, and she tightened her grip around his shoulders.

  At last they stopped, and Radu let out his breath in a short sigh. It was very dark.

  ‘Where are we?’ whispered Ana.

  ‘Belobresca’s up there, Moldova Nouă’s down that way,’ he replied, jerking his thumb. ‘There isn’t a proper guard post near here – not very near anyway, and I’ve found out when the patrols change. They talk a little bit, and have a smoke – you can’t blame them. So there’s no one around then. And I’ve heard that there’s been a lot of escapes up near Arad and Oradea recently, which makes it even better for us. That’s the area they’re concentrating on. So …’

  ‘What now?’ asked Doina.

  ‘We take turns to blow up the boat. Ion, you can fix the bits of the oars together …’ The child sat up straight, pleased to be given a job. ‘… and then, we go.’

  ‘You’ll take the rest of the food?’ said Ana.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want to carry too much. We’ll stuff our pockets, and leave the rest.’

  They got out of the car, careful to leave the doors open, and Ion stood passively as Ana packed up little parcels of bread and salami and cheese, and pushed them into the pockets of his jacket.

  ‘I must do the oars now, Mama,’ he said importantly. She stood back, her hands falling helplessly to her sides.

  Radu was already puffing at the dinghy, Doina at his elbow ready to take over. Ana could barely see them in the darkness.

  ‘Listen!’ hissed Radu suddenly.

  They all froze. Ana felt her heartbeat would betray them. ‘There it is again – listen!’

  The wind rustled the trees and bushes around them; they could hear the soft lapping of the Danube, not far away. And then it came again, a short, hoarse sound, like someone clearing their throat.

  ‘Mama?’ His voice was tiny. Ana reached out and pulled him close, holding so tightly his breath was expelled in a sharp gasp.

  Then something emerged, white and ghostly, from the bushes nearby, and Ion laughed softly. ‘Maybe the sheep wants to come with us!’ he whispered, easing himself from Ana’s grip.

  At last the boat was ready. It looked very small, Ana thought, and Radu was so huge. How could it possibly carry both man and boy across the Danube, buffeted by this stiff breeze? Her mouth and cheeks ached from her turn at inflating; t
he smell of rubber clung about her face and hands as she helped Ion sling his bag across his chest, leaving both hands free.

  Radu was tying his plastic bag around his neck, inside his jacket. Then he squatted down by the car to light a match and look closely at his watch, took a deep breath, and turned to face them, speaking in an urgent whisper. ‘Now – Doina will help me carry it a little further on, then Ion will have to manage. It won’t be far to the water. Ana, you must say goodbye here, and wait for Doina to come back.’

  She stood transfixed, staring beyond him into the darkness. Radu strode forward and embraced her, whispering, ‘Be strong, Ana, and it will all come right.’

  Doina stood with her hands on Ion’s shoulders, and for a second nobody moved. Then, very quickly, Ana bent down and hugged Ion, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Goodbye, Ionica – be good for Radu!’

  ‘Yes, Mama. And you’ll come soon?’

  ‘I will, Ion – don’t worry.’

  Radu and Doina picked up the dinghy, and looked at them. Ana was glad no one could see her face in the darkness, nor she theirs.

  ‘Come, Ion,’ Radu whispered.

  Then to her amazement, Ion spoke in English. ‘Goodbye, mother,’ he said.

  Is this what they mean when they say ‘She thought her heart would break?’ Is it this order of pain, so that your eyes remain dry, like your mouth and your heart, suffering an invasion of sand? Is it this tearing, deep within, as a small voice tries to please you, at the last, with his formal schoolroom enunciation? Best in the class … a monitor … Mr Eogdan was pleased with him …

  ‘Goodbye, my darling,’ she replied, grateful to be able to use a foreign endearment which protected him from its real emotion.

  She stood alone as they disappeared. Prayers formed themselves in her mind and then lost themselves in its darkness. Imagining this moment she had thought her chief fear would be for their safety: the dread of shouts in the darkness, of shots fired over heads … Yet now she realized she had no doubt they would arrive safely. A great faith was carrying her through, so that she had no need to ask God, ‘Please keep them safe, please watch over them,’ when greater by far than that power she had always doubted was the strength of her own love: the human will that remained attached, like an invisible cord, to the child she had created, and whom she had chosen to set free.

  Her vigil seemed interminable. She was sweating slightly in Doina’s jacket, but shivering too, so that the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Like someone in a dream she stood, straining her eyes in the direction they had gone, knowing she could still run, could still call, ‘No, no, come back,’ to have him with her again. Yet her feet were rooted, and her voice had gone, and she fancied she could be metamorphosed, like a ruined maiden in myth, growing protective foliage and remaining there for ever, an organic part of the scenery which had last held Ion.

  Suppose Doina does not come back? Suppose she goes with them? When I was sixteen a boy in our block did that; he went to help a friend escape and at the last minute he joined him. His parents knew nothing. His mother was wild with grief…

  There was nothing she could do, except trust her friends. In itself it was a miracle, she thought, that in a country which systematically committed crimes against the spirit, where you looked fearfully over your shoulder night and day, you could still emerge with any human trust intact.

  And yet Tată, you did not come for me. Why did you not come for me, for the sake of my mother at least?

  Doina would come back and then …? They would survive. There was nothing else to do.

  Ana listened carefully; then at last she thought she heard a faint splash, and the dip of oars. She leaned intently towards that sound, needing to cling to the evidence of one of her senses, that Ion was still there, just down there … But it might only have been her imagination.

  Eleven

  Doina Kessler was the kind of woman who counters adversity with efficiency, so that someone who did not know her well might judge her lacking in feeling. Ana, who did know her well, always thought her the perfect partner for an artist: someone who believed so totally in the other’s work that she was content to create the frame in which it could be made. She was strong-minded, unselfish and without complaint. Never in Radu’s shadow because she stood squarely by his side, she nevertheless seemed to lack all personal ambition beyond the role of wife, lover, helper, inspiration.

  The first thing she did, when (after a silent, shocked journey that seemed interminable) they returned to the apartment at two in the morning, was to take Radu’s last ‘painting’ from the easel, put it on the floor and chop it to pieces with a small axe, then feed the pieces into the stove.

  Ana watched. There was a grim finality about the other woman’s actions which forbade question or comment, even assent. In any case, within this dream through which they walked nothing was too strange to be believed. Saying goodbye. Destroying. Was there a distinction? As Ana watched Doina, dazed and numb, it seemed to her that already the difference was diminished. How could the universal contagion be avoided? Flames leapt in the stove; the ceramic tiles radiated heat, making Ana shiver uncontrollably. She bent to pick up a piece of painted board which Doina had overlooked, and a splinter embedded itself in her finger. She stared down at it – a tiny black dot in the rawness of her flesh, and willed it to throb and fester, as if by such small means her own humanity might be proved.

  Who am I? What have I done? The splinter might poison me, in which case there is nothing for it but to amputate the hand. That is what you do, when it is really sick. And the world is sick, so what else is there to do…?

  ‘Ana – look!’ Doina held up a small bottle of brandy.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ Ana did not care, yet she was programmed to ask the question.

  ‘Three days ago. I heard a noise, lots of shouting, and they were selling the stuff from the back door of a shop. I don’t think I’d have bothered to get pushed and punched, even for Radu. But I thought of us – and tonight. So I fought my way to the front and got one. A man had his bottle pushed out of his hand as he left the crowd. I saw him cry.’

  ‘Did Radu know you had it?’

  ‘No. This was for me. Well – for us. You need more help if you’re left behind.’

  As Doina filled two glasses, gravely and with some ceremony, Ana studied her face – broad and handsome, yet drawn.

  It gave nothing away, and she found herself wondering how much Radu knew of this wife with whom he had lived for – how long? – twelve, thirteen years. She had planned his escape with him; she had sacrificed herself to let him go, yet she had kept her bottle of brandy a secret.

  They both drained the first glass at a gulp, then lit cigarettes and took the next one more slowly. The brandy was cheap and bitter. Ana’s throat burned. She looked at Doina, who met her eyes, stared back for what seemed like minutes, without speaking, then said, ‘Well,’ in a tone that was neither question nor exclamation.

  ‘Where … do you think?’

  ‘On the road. There’s a place to hide – he was given instructions. It’s an old shelter. Then Muller will drive to meet them. Four’ – she looked at her watch – ‘that’s not so far off.’

  ‘Is he …? How is Radu sure?’

  ‘Muller? He’s Radu’s second cousin’s brother-in-law, if you can follow that. You knew?’

  ‘Yes, he told me when he came. I think.’

  The alcohol was going to Ana’s head. She felt the room tilt, the heat from the stove making her dizzy. And yet the loosening of her limbs was a relief. She wanted to drink herself into oblivion, yet feared there was not enough brandy for such mercy.

  ‘It’ll all work, Ana, I know it will. Have some more?’

  Ana nodded, then said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Stay here for a while. Radu will telephone today when they reach Belgrade. Then we’ll know … But you don’t have to go back to Bucharest anyway. Stay with me. I … I’d like that.’ Doina looked down.
>
  ‘But I’ve got my job. I’ll probably lose it.’

  ‘You could telephone and say you’re sick.’

  ‘I am sick.’

  ‘Don’t. There’s no point, and you know it. Have another drink, it’ll help.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘What else can we do? Come on, let’s finish it off, and tomorrow we’ll talk. We haven’t talked at all, have we? Not for years.’

  ‘It was all so difficult – in the end.’

  ‘God, yes. And you know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not really sorry I ate that egg, you know. It was so good, Ana! And I felt I deserved it; I’ve never really been the self-sacrificing sort, not deep down.’

  Ana smiled wryly. ‘That’s how you seemed. Seem. But I suppose none of us know what’s going on beneath the surface, even when we know someone quite well. Maybe you and I don’t know each other at all. In any case, I don’t feel I know myself, let alone anyone else.’

  ‘We’re so used to secrets. We’re so …’ fuddled with alcohol, Doina fought to find a word ‘… submerged by secrets, maybe we can’t even trust ourselves, to know ourselves.’

  ‘And if we did, maybe the truth would be too terrifying. Like after a death, if you unveiled the mirror suddenly, and instead of your own reflection, or even the ghost’s, there’d be some terrible monster, like the devils painted on churches. And you’d open your mouth to speak, and it would open its mouth too. You’d hear this inhuman roaring when you tried to speak. Or whimpering, I suppose. And that would be your secret.’

  ‘People plan to escape without even telling their wives, or children. Imagine such deception!’ Doina said. ‘At least we’ve all been honest. Well…’ She glanced away.

  Ana looked down into her glass. ‘Doina, I really don’t know what I’ve done, or what I’m doing, or what I’m going to do,’ she said, trying to enunciate the words clearly, but with a new note of hysteria in her voice.