House of the Lost

by Sarah Rayne

  What Matthew thought was that if Mikhail talked about the Securitate so openly and so disparagingly, he might one day find himself stolen away as well.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Mikhail defiantly. ‘I read in a newspaper about Nicolae Ceauşescu. He’s wicked and greedy and selfish. He sends all our food and medicine to other countries so he can pay off Romania’s debts. If he cared about us he wouldn’t mind about a few stupid debts, he’d care more that everyone had enough food.’

  ‘Nobody would sell food and leave people to starve,’ said Matthew disbelievingly. ‘And you’re not supposed to read that kind of newspaper anyway.’

  ‘It was a good newspaper and it said Ceauşescu didn’t care about people starving,’ said Mikhail, obstinately. ‘I believe it. Newspapers don’t print things that aren’t right. Anyway, if he didn’t sell our food, where is it? It’s not in the shops. The newspaper said the next step would be rationing, like in the war between England and Germany when people only got half an egg and hardly any meat.’

  ‘How can you have half an egg?’

  ‘I don’t know, but that’s what it said. Ceauşescu says he’s keeping food out of the shops so we don’t get fat. I’d like to see anyone get fat on the food in the shops. Chicken wings and claws. Things made out of soy and bonemeal. Can you remember the last time you had meat – proper real meat?’

  ‘Wilma buys sardines,’ said Matthew, who could not bear sardines. ‘She says they’re just as good as meat, really. And she buys BucureÅŸti salami, although she says that’s no more than bonemeal, soy and pork lard.’

  ‘And the Ceauşescus have at least a dozen fine mansions and yachts, and lavish banquets whenever they want,’ said Mikhail bitterly. ‘I would like to kill them. I think Elena Ceauşescu’s a vampire.’

  ‘You don’t do you? Not really?’

  ‘I do. She sucks the life out of this country like Dracula. Or like the Hungarian Countess, Elizabeth Bathory bathing in virgins’ blood.’

  ‘Mikhail, where on earth—’

  ‘Books mostly,’ he said. ‘The ones in your father’s library.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘You did say I could borrow whatever I wanted, and I always, always return them.’

  ‘You can read the entire shelves,’ said Matthew, who liked and trusted Mikhail more than anyone else in the world, except perhaps Wilma. Mikhail was constantly surprising him.

  ‘Some of the books are in French,’ said Mikhail. ‘I’m trying to learn French, a bit at a time. Some of the finest literature in the world is written in French, it’d be good to read all those books in the original language. Proust, Voltaire and Dumas. And English. Think of reading Shakespeare and Dickens in their own language. Languages are interesting, aren’t they? And useful. You never know when you might travel to another country; you’d want to know how to talk to people, wouldn’t you?’

  On the night before Matthew’s eighteenth birthday Wilma came plodding determinedly into the study. Matthew liked being in the study because it made him feel near to his father. He liked having the photograph of his mother to look at while he sketched or read, as well. He was sketching when Wilma came in. She wanted, she said, to speak about Matthew’s future.

  He put down his sketchpad to hear what was clearly a prepared speech.

  ‘You need a future,’ said Wilma, ‘with proper training. It’s what your father wanted and it’s what your mother would have wanted as well.’

  ‘I’ll have to have a job, won’t I?’ said Matthew. He did not know what kind of job he could get, but it was what people did when they left school. There was money in a bank somewhere for paying bills and buying food. Wilma had always said there was not a great deal of it but they would manage and Matthew was not to worry. Matthew had never entirely understood how it worked, but supposed one day he would find out.

  He found out that night. It seemed that when he was very small, his father had set up some kind of trust fund with a bank.

  ‘It was in case anything should happen to him,’ said Wilma. ‘Maybe even that far back he thought those people would get him one day.’

  ‘And they did,’ said Matthew.

  ‘Yes. Well now, I don’t understand all this trust stuff – I never heard tell of such a thing before – but your father was a clever man, and he wanted to make sure you would have a little money. So he worked it all out with the people at the bank, without telling you. There were pieces of paper to be signed. I had to put my name to them as well, saying I had seen your father sign while I was in the room. A legal thing, so they said.’

  This was exciting because it was as if his father was stretching out a reassuring hand from the past, but it was also dreadfully sad because of his father not being here to do the reassuring.

  ‘I never read the words on those pieces of paper,’ said Wilma, ‘and I daresay I shouldn’t have understood one word in twenty anyway. But what I do know is that it meant when you came to be eighteen there’d be money for you to study whatever you wanted. Not a lot of money, but your father thought it would be enough.’

  ‘To study whatever I wanted,’ said Matthew, staring at her, feeling something start to open up inside his head.

  ‘The university if that’s what you want,’ nodded Wilma. ‘You’d have to work hard at some exams or other – I daresay you’ll know about that, or the teachers at the school would.’

  Matthew, his heart beating very fast, said, ‘Yes, they would know.’

  ‘It would be studying painting and drawing, I daresay?’ she said. ‘That’s what you’ll want, isn’t it? Although how you’d make a living from it, I don’t know any more than the man in the moon.’

  ‘I don’t know either,’ said Matthew, and discovered he was having to control his voice very tightly in case he started crying. My father’s gift to me, he thought. Wherever he is now, will he remember I’m eighteen tomorrow and know I’m being told about this money? Will he even be allowed to remember? For a moment the old image of stone cells and prisoners was with him so vividly he could feel the dank cold of the stones and almost smell the despair and bitterness. It was unbearable to think his father might be in one of those places. Matthew struggled to summon the memory of him seated at the desk in this room, smiling his gentle smile. But it eluded him and all he could see was his father being taken away by the Securitate, shouting back the words of encouragement as they drove off. ‘I’ll be back very soon… whatever happens, remember I love you very much…’

  Matthew dug his fingernails into his palm to stop himself crying because he was eighteen tomorrow and grown-up people did not cry.

  After a moment he was able to say to Wilma, ‘Yes. If there’s enough money, it would be studying painting and drawing I’d want to do.’

  There was enough money.

  ‘But only just,’ said the man in the bank, to which Matthew, nervous and apprehensive, travelled. ‘You won’t be able to live a high lifestyle – in fact you might have to do evening work at times. If it’s art you want to study, you’ll need expensive materials – paints, brushes and canvases. But a lot of students have jobs in cafes and bars and so on, and there’s no reason why you can’t do the same. I daresay you’ll cope.’

  ‘I daresay I will,’ said Matthew, who would have scrubbed floors all night and every night if he could be taught to draw and paint during the day.

  ‘Your school can probably advise you as to an actual place,’ said the man.

  ‘Yes.’ Matthew had already talked to his art teacher, who had been surprised and pleased and was finding out what was needed and what might be available. The Royal Drawing School in Budapest had been mentioned, which sounded dauntingly grand, but which nevertheless made Matthew’s heart thump with sheer joy.

  ‘You’re hesitating,’ said the bank manager. ‘Is it that you don’t understand about the trust fund? It’s a perfectly legal and usual arrangement. It was set up shortly after you were born.’

  ‘I understand that. It’s just…’

  ‘Yes?’

>   ‘Sir, my father was taken by the Securitate when I was nine.’ It came out in a rush and he had no idea if it was safe to say it to this unknown man. ‘I’ve never seen him since and I’ve never known what happened to him.’

  But the manager said, very gently, ‘I know about that, Matthew. I didn’t know your father well, but I did know him for a man who spoke out against injustices – against what he saw to be injustices,’ he said quickly.

  ‘I don’t even know if he’s still alive,’ said Matthew. ‘But if he is…’

  ‘If he is, he could be anywhere in one of many prisons, and he could be in any of several countries.’

  ‘Oughtn’t I to try to find him? To use this money that way?’

  The manager was silent for several minutes and Matthew began to be afraid he had said something wrong. But finally he said, ‘I suppose it would be possible to alter the terms of the trust – they say all laws are made to be broken – but this is a very strongly worded document. I think it would be expensive and also long-winded to break it. You’d probably use most of the money in lawyers’ fees and end with nothing – no funds to search for your father, and none for your studies, which is what your father wanted. He wanted you equipped to go out into the world and make your mark on it.’ He thought for a moment, then, clearly choosing his words carefully, said, ‘Matthew, the kind of search you’re talking about would be massively difficult and probably unsuccessful. The Securitate is a formidable engine; it’s very good indeed at keeping its secrets.’

  ‘You don’t think I’d find him?’

  ‘I think it’s unlikely in the extreme. What I do think is that you’d break your heart and end up with nothing. It could even be dangerous for you. Your father was what they call high profile, Matthew. His articles were scathing attacks on Romania’s government, so if it became known that Andrei Valk’s son was prying into the Securitate’s work… into their prisons, into the identities of the occupants… I’m sure you can see what I mean.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

  ‘I don’t think any of his articles appeared in this country, which is probably why it took so long for the Securitate to compile enough evidence to arrest him. Although I don’t know what really happened.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘They frequently imprison people on what seems to us a thin thread of evidence, but your father’s name was known in foreign newspapers and so they’d have had to be very careful. I’d say they took their time and made sure the proof was watertight. So even if you did find him, it might be very hard indeed to disprove the accusations or the charges. My advice is that you use this trust fund in the way your father – perhaps your mother, too – wanted.’

  ‘I’ll trust your judgement,’ said Matthew, meaning it. ‘Thank you very much for being so frank.’ He spoke truthfully; he did not think there was anything sinister behind the advice.

  The manager stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck to you, Matthew,’ he said. ‘Work hard, but remember to play hard as well.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll try to do both.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Romania, early 1980s

  There were times in Budapest, at the Royal Drawing School, when Matthew felt deeply guilty for being so happy. It seemed to him the ultimate delight to be living in this beautiful city; to have a tiny studio apartment of his own with marvellous views over the rooftops; to go with fellow students to the cafes and bars; to take the metro to visit castles and churches and study the fragments of breathtakingly beautiful Turkish and Magyar art, and see the influences of the Italian Renaissance. He learned some Italian so he could understand Italian painting and sculpture better, and from there found it not too difficult to pick up a little more English and French. But to draw and paint all day and every day with people who understood that this was the most important thing in life, and who were patient in helping Matthew to become better – that was the most wonderful thing of all.

  The memory of his father did not leave him. His father’s words from all those years ago – the words written by the Englishman Thomas de Quincey – were vividly in his mind.

  ‘There is no such thing as ultimate forgetting: traces once impressed upon the memory are indestructible.’

  He would not forget his father ever, and if he had known how to go about finding him, he would have done so, despite what the bank manager said. But as things stood, he had not so much as the smallest clue.

  But during a summer vacation visit to Wilma, who still kept the house going, a clue did come his way. It was Mikhail Ionescu, now nearing the end of his own schooling, who provided it. Mikhail had been reading about the Securitate’s methods and found Matthew a sympathetic listener.

  ‘It’s forbidden reading, of course,’ he said rather defiantly. ‘I know that. But who cares?’

  ‘You’ll care if they find out and haul you off to some wretched prison,’ said Matthew, smiling at Mikhail’s earnestness, wanting to draw him in this mood, but knowing his expression would change too swiftly to be captured.

  ‘Like Pitesti Gaol?’ said Mikhail. ‘The house of the lost. Well, one of them, at any rate.’

  The house of the lost. The words plucked at the deeply buried memories of Matthew’s childhood.

  ‘Pitesti’s where they used to practise what was called reeducation,’ Mikhail was saying, ‘they did it in Jilava as well.’

  ‘What’s re-education?’

  ‘A form of brainwashing. Haven’t you ever heard of it? Come down from your Magyar ivory tower, Matthew, and live in the real world.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Its eventual aim was to alter personalities to the point of absolute obedience. They made prisoners denounce personal beliefs, renounce their deepest loyalties and loves. Or maybe persuade them they’d committed some horrific crime so that everyone hated them. If anyone was particularly devout, they’d be forced to blaspheme religious symbols.’

  ‘That’s grotesque,’ said Matthew, horrified.

  ‘I know it is,’ said Mikhail. ‘It’s supposed to have been stopped years ago before you and I were born – in fact way back in the 1950s – but there’s a belief that it still goes on here and there.’

  After Mikhail had gone, Matthew found his father’s old atlas and looked for Pitesti. It did not look too bad a journey, but even if he went there to search for his father, he could not think how he would get inside. You could not just present yourself at the gates and ask to see a prisoner. If you had money or influence you might be let in, but Matthew had neither. He was not sure he had the courage, either; it would take a lot of nerve to demand admittance to a State prison, and he did not think he was a very courageous person. In any case, Pitesti was one of a great many gaols.

  But maybe one day he would have courage, influence and money in abundance and he could travel to all the places where his father might be. Or maybe one day the world would change – something would happen to change it – and the lost prisoners in the forgotten prisons could be set free.

  Mara did not exactly count the days until she would be free, but she did mark the years. She was twelve, fourteen, fifteen… the years wheeled by, each one the same as the one before or the one that came next. A good, quiet student, the nuns said, pleased, and when Sister Teresa made her twice or thrice yearly visit, told her how well things had worked out. Would Mara be allowed home soon? Surely, when she was seventeen and her studies finished, she could be regarded as grown-up? They had heard, with sadness, that Mara’s grandmother had died the previous year and they had offered up a Mass for her soul, but the brother was still living in the family house.

  Sister Teresa thought once Mara was seventeen, she might be allowed home. Mikhail was living in the cottage on his own which was not absolutely ideal, but he seemed to manage well enough, despite his youth. Neighbours kept an eye on him and helped with shopping and so on. He would soon be thinking about what to do when he left school, of course. Going out into the world.

  ‘Yes, of cour
se he will,’ said Mara, and, taking her courage in both hands, she asked about Zoia.

  ‘As far as I know she left the district shortly after you came here,’ said Sister Teresa. ‘The Black House is empty and boarded up. Doubtless a few legends will grow up round it, but I should think Zoia would still have her spies around. She’d want to assure herself that the bargain we made has been kept. If you came home, what would you do?’

  Mara did not really know. She had seen nothing of the world beyond her small childhood village and this convent, so she had no comparisons to make, no idea of what might be possible or attainable. All she really wanted was to live in the cottage once more. She was deeply sad that her grandmother had died, but Mikhail would be there. If she and Mikhail could live in that beloved cottage, the two of them together again, she would have everything in the world she wanted. But she understood people had to have money in order to live, and money had to be earned by working. So she said she had wondered about teaching. Might she teach at the school where once she had been a pupil? She had worked hard at her studies, and the sisters here thought she had done well.

  Sister Teresa thought this might be possible. She would ask Reverend Mother about it. Teachers needed proper qualifications, but they were difficult to acquire in Romania nowadays. Still, it might be possible for Mara to be trained in their own classrooms in the Founder House school.

  Lying in the narrow bed in the dormitory, Mara was gradually aware of a new fear – a fear churned up by the suggestion that Zoia would still be watching her. Was it possible that Zoia might still exact a warped revenge? That she might take an eye for an eye or a tooth for a tooth. Mara had been the cause of Zoia losing Annaleise – and in some way Mara still did not fully understand, Zoia had loved Annaleise as if they had been husband and wife. Supposing Zoia decided to take from Mara the one thing Mara loved best in the world? Supposing she tried to take Mikhail? The more Mara thought about this, the likelier it seemed, and the more she became convinced she would have to be very clever about protecting him.