Lost Footsteps

by Bel Mooney

  Ion nodded.

  ‘Tell me then,’ Radu said.

  Ion hesitated, then said, ‘You will say I am not with you, that I came on my own. I have to tell them that my mother sent me away from Romania because … because of Ceauşescu, and … everything, and that she wants me to stay in Germany. And I must not tell them her name and address.’

  Radu nodded gravely, then went to ruffle Ion’s hair in the old, normal way. But the child’s expression switched from that of one who has learned his lesson well and seeks the teacher’s approval, to one of wide-eyed animal panic. ‘But Radu! Will they let me stay with you? Will you ask them to? Please Radu, let me stay with you!’

  Radu looked hunted. ‘Ion – I don’t know what will happen. Do you understand? This is all …’ He gestured around at the lights and the crowds, an answering panic in his eyes.

  He rose, took Ion by the hand, and joined the queue of people waiting to go through passport control. As he gazed nervously around, Ion noticed a boy of about eleven or twelve waiting in the line a few yards ahead, wearing gleaming white trainers, and new blue jeans with a shiny navy bomber jacket adorned with embroidered badges. A personal stereo was attached to his belt, and he nodded his head slightly to the beat of unheard music.

  Ion pulled at Radu’s hand. ‘What are those things in his ears?’ he whispered, pointing.

  ‘Oh Ion, never mind,’ murmured Radu impatiently, gazing ahead to where two border policemen stood on one side of the booths, surveying the line.

  Ion looked up at him, and then back to the German boy. Radu’s face was dirty, his hair and beard unkempt, his garments torn and muddy from the first part of their escape. Ion looked down at his own clothes. The shiny cheap synthetic of his trousers was streaked with dirt; one of the sleeves of his mother’s jacket had become unrolled and hung down over his hand, whilst the other one was ripped. His black lace-up shoes were caked with mud, like Radu’s. As Ion put up the flapping sleeve to wipe his nose he suddenly thought he smelt his mother in the cotton fabric of that jacket, and tears came into his eyes.

  Just then the German boy, moving about on the spot in boredom, turned and looked straight at Ion. There was little curiosity in his gaze; it rested for a second then passed on. But Ion cringed back behind Radu, shame overwhelming his grief. All he could think for that second was that he did not want to be seen; he did not want to be laughed at, in all his shabbiness.

  When it was their turn at last, Radu strode forward, dropping Ion’s hand. He placed both hands on the counter, gripping it hard, and announced in his good German that he had no papers, that he was a Romanian who sought refugee status on political grounds. Ion gazed up, not understanding, but noticing the look of weariness that crossed the official’s face, as he raised a hand to summon the police. Then he looked across to where Ion stood, halfway between the queue and the desk, unsure what to do, and asked Radu if he were his son.

  ‘No, the child is no relation of mine. He is a Romanian child, and I have looked after him this far. But I want to state that he is unaccompanied, and that his mother seeks entry for him without visa, according to German law.’

  Unused to such excellent German, and such precision from the countless terrified refugees he had seen during his career, the man looked at Radu respectfully, and nodded. ‘The border police will interview you, and the child,’ he said, adding quietly, ‘good luck, my friend.’

  They were escorted to one side, Ion shaking with fear at the sight of the police uniforms, and the guns in their holsters. He desperately wanted the toilet, but did not dare ask; suddenly Radu’s height and bulk, and the unintelligible language he was speaking, removed him to a pinnacle Ion could not approach. He felt very small and alone, and did not dare even to reclaim Radu’s hand.

  Radu was attempting to explain the situation. The two policemen looked dubiously down at Ion.

  ‘So he is not with you?’ one of them asked. ‘You are not the uncle, perhaps?’

  ‘The boy has no member of family with him. He has no relatives in Germany. He is on his own. It is important that you understand that.’

  ‘And the parents?’

  ‘His mother is in Romania. He has no father. She has sent the child to the West for political reasons, you understand?’

  The older of the two policemen sighed. ‘Another child,’ he said wearily, ‘as if we didn’t have enough to deal with. Go and tell the Social Services, Heinrich … Wait, take the boy to the waiting room first.’

  ‘Perhaps the child should stay with me?’ said Radu, but his tone was meek now, the words barely audible. The younger policeman beckoned to Ion, who was looking from one to the other.

  ‘We have a procedure,’ shrugged the older policeman, tired and irritable. ‘Tell the boy to go with my colleague. And you must come with me for questioning.’

  Radu looked down, meeting Ion’s huge, terrified eyes. In rapid Romanian, conscious of the impatience of the policeman, he told Ion that they would have to be separated for a few minutes while they asked questions. Then in German he said, ‘But the child speaks no German!’

  ‘The Social Services have translators. Now please come,’ said the older policeman, motioning to Ion to go with his colleague.

  ‘Radu …?’

  ‘Go with him, Ion. We have to do as they say, because they will look after us – you know that. And I will come and see you just as soon as they have finished. Trust me, Ionica – and be brave.’

  The younger policeman put a light hand on Ion’s shoulder and steered him towards the open door of a small room a few yards away. Ion looked back once, to see Radu following the other policeman in the opposite direction. He felt a desperate need to see Radu glance back just once, and smile or wave, or give some other sign that everything would be all right. But his retreating back was impenetrable, leaving Ion more frightened and isolated than ever. Then, as the boy returned his eyes to the front, trotting miserably behind his escort, Radu did glance back. ‘Oh Ana, Ana,’ he murmured under his breath as he saw little Ion disappear, and the door close behind him. She was so stubborn, she believed what she had read – but what if it was not true? Radu was afraid, but in truth, mostly for himself. He had not wanted to bring Ion, he had not wanted it … Surely each of them would have a better chance alone?

  The policeman motioned to Ion to sit, looked at him for a few moments as though he wanted to say something, and then left. Ion looked around. It was a small square room, painted orange, with stacks of chairs in one corner, and others around the walls. A television set, switched off, stood on a high shelf. On the wall near it was a travel poster advertising Frankfurt, showing a highly coloured photograph of the city skyline against a vivid sunset sky.

  To blot out the demanding pain in his bladder Ion fixed his attention on this picture, half-closing his eyes so that its hectic colours merged with the blare of the wall. He glanced down but shadowy blotches of orange smeared his vision, reminding him of the sickly syrup they drank once, was it at a party when he was little …? He thought irresistibly of liquid, flowing liquid, and his mouth grew drier and drier as the pressure within him increased.

  It seemed an age before the policeman returned, with him a thin young woman, wearing glasses and carrying a notebook. They spoke together in German for a minute or two, looking at Ion, who stared down at his knees, pressing them tightly together. Then the woman knelt down in front of him, so that her face was level with his. She pointed to herself and said, with a broad smile, ‘Helga.’

  Ion looked back at her. She had a a short, slightly spiky haircut, and the round, gold-rimmed glasses glinted, but the eyes behind them were kind. He hesitated, but knew that he must communicate with this person, if he was to find a toilet. And so he mimicked her gesture, pointing to himself and whispering ‘Ion.’

  The policeman frowned, as if unsure of spelling, then noted it on the clipboard he carried – a small action which returned Ion to a state of fear. The policeman’s uniform reminded him of militia at home, and
the horror they were taught to feel, from the cradle, at the sight of any such representatives of the state. He must tell them nothing, he knew that. Maybe he should not have told them his first name? What would his mother say? At the thought of Ana he winced, and dropped his head, to hide the tears which flooded his eyes as uncontrollably as urine flooded his trousers.

  Now shame made sobs shake his whole body. The young policeman looked away, as, not noticing what had happened, the social worker reached out awkwardly to put an arm around him, murmuring soothing sounds that transcended language.

  When he was quieter she spoke to him in slow Russian. ‘We will try to help you. But we must ask you some questions. Do you understand?’

  Ion shook his head, his body still racked by the occasional spasm. He did not dare move in case they saw the wet patch, but pressed his legs all the more tightly together, and pulled the too-large jacket down over them.

  Helga glanced up at the policeman, and said, helplessly, ‘I’m sorry, I thought all Romanian children learned Russian.’

  ‘Try French,’ he suggested.

  Though he spoke no German, Ion guessed what they were saying. In fact, he did understand some Russian as they had begun to learn a little in school. But his mother had always said it was a barbaric language, and so he did not like it – certainly did not choose to admit to it here. Suddenly he was filled with a desire to make Ana proud of him, to do exactly what she would have wanted him to do. So he lifted his head and spoke clearly, ‘Excuse me, I speak English.’

  ‘You speak English? Very good!’ said Helga, with a smile of relief. ‘Now, Ion, the policeman will ask you some questions, and I will tell you what he says. Do you understand?’

  Ion nodded.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Ten,’ he said. But when asked for his surname, his mother’s name, and their address in Romania, he just shook his head, again and again.

  ‘Maybe he has no family,’ murmured Helga in German, repeating, in English, in a very gentle voice, ‘your mother and father, Ion, are they alive?’

  The thought of his mother being dead made Ion start crying again, quietly this time, like one who has almost given up. Needing desperately to assert the fact, he whispered, through little snuffles, ‘My mother is alive. She lives in Bucharest. And she tell me I say I am here because of Comrade Ceauşescu. And she tell me not to say where she lives, because of Securitate …’ At the last word an image flashed into his mind of a thickset man pushing his mother against the wall of their tiny hall and touching her, and he gulped air frantically, to stop himself from wailing.

  ‘Shh, now. It is all right – do you understand?’ said the social worker, standing up. She turned to the policeman and told him they must leave the questions for a moment.

  ‘We must get the details,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Yes, but not from a child in this state,’ she replied, sharply. ‘Why don’t you go and call the Children’s Home?’

  He shrugged, but did not move. Then Helga turned back to Ion and said, in her careful, clear English, ‘Ion? Would you like something to eat? Or to drink?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. Come with me.’ She held out a hand, nodding encouragment for him to rise.

  But Ion shrank back into his plastic chair, shaking his head frantically, eyes darting from one adult to the other like an animal at bay. He could smell his own shame, and wondered that they could not. But if they saw?

  ‘What’s he afraid of now?’ asked the policeman.

  Helga shook her head. ‘Everything,’ she said.’

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling, ‘More and more kids – flooding in. This country’s a dumping ground now. It’s time they clamped down and stopped it.’

  ‘They’re children, it’s not their fault.’

  ‘Is it our fault we have to take them? This country can’t afford it. Their parents don’t give a damn about them – pack them off to great and glorious Germany, knowing they’ll be fed and housed at the expense of the German people. My God!’

  ‘People get desperate … but I wouldn’t expect you to understand,’ said Helga, clicking her tongue with impatience. ‘Look, why don’t we telephone the Home? It’s no good going on with this here, and it’s cruel to make him wait.’

  ‘He has to be interviewed properly before they collect him.’

  Ion looked from one to the other, crossing and recrossing his legs so that his thighs chafed. They both looked irritable, although the woman tried to smile at him when she caught his eye.

  ‘Where is Radu?’ he asked.

  Preoccupied, the social worker hardly heard his question, and a few seconds later she and the policeman left the room, telling him to wait.

  Ion felt stiff and uncomfortable. Now at last he rose, peered downwards, then craned his head backwards over his shoulder, to see if it showed that he had wet his pants. He pulled the wet fabric from his crotch, thought for a minute, then removed the jacket and tied it around his waist, so that it hung down like a skirt. Then he allowed himself to walk around the room to stretch his legs. Once he opened the door a crack and peered out into the transit area. But the sight of the incomprehensible signs in bright colours and the constant buzz of noise, penetrated by those sinister disembodied voices, made him start to shiver. His teeth chattered. He pulled the door shut, preferring this small orange prison.

  There was a clock on the wall, and he stared at it, imagining he could see the minute hand move. Somewhere else, not far away, Radu was being interviewed by the Border Police, and refusing steadfastly to say anything other than that he demanded political asylum. The interview was tough, as he had expected, and took all his concentration. From time to time, in a pause, Ion flashed into his mind, and he intended to ask if he could see the child. But he was afraid that if he associated himself too much with Ion, somehow Ana’s plan would not work, and they would cease to believe that the child was truly alone. Besides, the moment passed, as they pressed their questions, demanding to know his reasons for seeking refugee status, and he had to concentrate on his own interview. Sometimes, he knew, they put you straight back on a plane …

  Ion waited, believing that any minute the door would open, and the kind lady would enter, accompanied by Radu. But the minute hand moved, through five, ten minutes, and nobody came. He ran his tongue over his lips, remembering her offer of a drink. Maybe she would bring one? Maybe she would return without the dreaded policeman? Maybe she would bring Radu? Please let her bring Radu.

  The door opened and two people walked in. A different member of the Border Police, this one avuncular and middle-aged, escorted a teenage boy, with dark brown skin, wearing clean beige trousers and a brown windbreaker. His black hair fell in a fringe over his forehead; every so often he raised a hand to push it back in a nervous, impatient gesture. The policeman signalled to him to sit down, pointed to the clock, and held up five fingers, adding the universal, ‘OK?’ The boy nodded silently, and the policeman went out.

  The newcomer sat opposite Ion, eyes lowered, hands folded loosely in his lap. From time to time he would glance up, his dark eyes fixed on Ion, as if he wished to speak. But the two of them sat without making a sound, shifting occasionally on chairs that creaked slightly in the silence.

  Ion’s hands were fiddling with the fabric of the jacket which he now sat on, somewhat uncomfortably, with the bulk of its sleeves and bodice in his lap. His fingers encountered a small zipped pocket, and pulled it open. Exploring inside he pulled out two things that made his stomach contract. There were the remains of their train tickets from Bucharest to Timişoara, rolled together, and the little plastic rainhat his mother always carried, and which he laughed at, because she looked so funny when she wore it, like an old lady. Ion held these in his hand, and stared down at them. Saliva poured into his mouth, and he felt sick and faint, the orange room trembling about him. He raised the small folded hat to his nose, and sniffed it, imagining the aroma of her hair in the faint smell of plastic; and he r
olled the scraps of paper around in the other hand, remembering, in that movement, the shake of the train as it rattled to Timişoara, and how she looked out of the window, pointing out a pretty view every now and then, but never telling him that this was to be no holiday. Never telling him …

  ‘Oh Mama, Mama!’ cried Ion aloud, and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking, ‘Mama …’

  He heard no one approach, but a minute later he felt an arm around his shoulders. Still sobbing, he took his hands from his eyes, and looked round to see the other boy perched awkwardly on the chair next to him, his face close, his mouth murmuring incomprehensible sounds of comfort. He looked down at the objects Ion held in his hand, and seemed to understand their significance, because his face settled into an expression of such pity and kindness that Ion stopped crying at once, and sat there, glad of the weight of the other boy’s arm.

  After a few minutes the arm was withdrawn, and the boy pointed to himself and said, ‘Franklin.’

  Ion made the same gesture and said his own name. Then Franklin prodded his own chest once more, and held up first ten fingers, then five. Ion understood, and in response to the questioning look that followed, he held up ten fingers. Franklin smiled and nodded.

  They looked at each other, unsure of what to do next, until Ion glanced down again, spreading his palms to show the scraps of ticket stubs, and the folded hat. He whispered one word, ‘Mama,’ by way of explanation, convinced that the older boy would understand. He did, and his own mouth drooped as he nodded. Then he put his hand in his own pocket and pulled out a small piece of material, carefully folded. It was iridescent purple, with a woven gold border, a piece from a sari. Franklin raised it carefully to his cheek, let it rest there for a moment, then held it out to Ion, nodding again, but not saying a word. Understanding, Ion put out a careful finger to touch the beautiful fabric, imagining as he did so a woman who looked something like his own mother, but with dark skin like Franklin’s, rustling in purple in an exotic landscape he had only seen in pictures. The image faded, to be replaced by a much clearer image of Ana herself: her face above his bed as she leaned over to say goodnight, perhaps singing to him, perhaps improvising a story. Ion looked down, shifting his gaze from the shimmer of that purple, to the cheap ordinariness of the plastic hat which represented his mother, and the contrast was so unbearable, a small moan of anguish escaped him, and tears poured down his cheeks once more.