by Greg Smith
The three guards watched uneasily as several rats scurried around their feet. The men squirmed, shifted their bodies, tried in vain to loosen their bindings.
Dragos entered the circle, carrying a wooden chair. He kicked a rat out of his way, placed the chair down, sat facing Mitu. He spoke loudly, in Romanian.
“Gheorghe Mitu, you and your comrades have been found guilty of the murder of Tatiana Belododia. You have been sentenced to death.”
He calmly pulled a Tokarev TT-33 pistol from the holster at his side, abruptly shot each of the three guards in the head. The sound of the gun was loud in the underground chamber, reverberated off the walls.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
The three black boys were now fully conscious, nervously eyed the blazing red eyes of the rats loitering in the darkness just outside the circle of light. Griggor stood in the center of the triangle formed by their chairs. He calmly unholstered his Tokarev TT-33 pistol, waved it about. The boys’ eyes grew wide.
“Marquis Kennedy. William ‘Free Willy’ Frederickson. James ‘Squirrel’ Johnson.”
He announced their names loudly, regarded each boy individually as he said his name.
“You are found guilty of brutal rape and beating of Nadia Nicolescu. And you are sentenced to die.”
He held the gun inches away from each boy’s head in succession, pulling the trigger each time. One by one, each boy squeezed his eyes shut when the gun was aimed at him. Each time, the gun registered a loud click.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
Mitu’s eyes grew angry as he witnessed the execution of his three friends. He struggled to speak, but could make only muffled grunts. He was powerless. Stomped his feet in protest.
“The pain you will soon begin to feel,” Dragos calmly explained to the large man, “is your remaining testicle. It is dangling from your scrotum, which I cut open with my scalpel. I did not sterilize. What is the point?” He shrugged. “The pain will get worse once the rats begin to gnaw on you.”
He let the image sink into the large man’s mind. Mitu couldn’t hide the fear that had overtaken his eyes.
“They have already eaten the other one, da?” Dragos said, nodding toward the floor where several rats sat chewing.
Mitu gagged, looked as though he’d vomited into his mouth.
“You have a choice, Mitu,” Dragos continued. “As you probably realize, you are sitting in a ‘suicide seat.’ Devised by the Securitate possibly. Or the Russians. It does not matter. You are familiar with the concept, I am sure. Da?”
Mitu closed his eyes, resigning himself to his fate. He now only wanted it to end as quickly as it had for his comrades.
“Of course, the hole in the seat is my own improvement,” Dragos added matter-of-factly. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly before continuing. “You have one bullet, Mitu.”
Dragos stood, left the chair, picked up the lantern to lead himself out of the tunnel. Rats had already begun crawling over the bodies of the three dead guards.
Before leaving, Dragos stopped next to Tatiana’s cruel tormentor, leaned over, whispered into the malicious guard’s ear.
“May the devil take you!”
As Dragos walked away, leaving Mitu in the dark, the click of the pistol echoed in the tunnel. After a pause it was followed by a second click. Then, in rapid succession, a continuous series of clicks.
Dragos smirked. He hadn’t put a bullet in the gun.
Leave Gheorghe Mitu to the rats, he thought and strode off.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
“Your pain you feel,” Griggor calmly explained to the three boys, “is coi. Testicul. It dangles from scrot, which I cut open with scalpel. I do not sterilize, hey? I do not see some reason to.” He shrugged. “Your pain, it gets worse as rats, they gnaw on you.”
He let the image sink into the boys’ minds. None of them could hide the fear that had overtaken his eyes.
“Rats, they already eat other coi, hey?” Griggor said, nodding toward the floor where several rats sat chewing.
Tears spilled over Marquis’ eyelids, down his cheeks. Free Willy closed his eyes, tilted his head back, his lips trembling in silent prayer. Squirrel passed out. Griggor, however, had come prepared for such a response. He quickly waved smelling salts under Squirrel’s nose. The boy snapped back to consciousness.
“Unlike Gheorghe Mitu, you have no choice,” Griggor said, then caught himself. “But then, I do not leave Gheorghe choice either, hey?”
The boys, of course, had no idea what the foreign-sounding man was talking about.
Griggor picked up the light, walked away, left the boys in darkness. Left them to the rats.
For the next forty-five minutes, the old Romanian dined casually at Madame Magda’s. He sipped wild mushroom soup, one of his favorites, perused the most current edition of Tribuna Romaniei he’d managed to get his hands on. When Magda approached, he folded the newspaper, laid it on the table, crossed his hands over it.
“Romania, she does not change so much, hey?” he muttered, speaking Romanian.
He smiled amiably at the old woman, inquired about Nadia’s condition.
“She heals, but she heals slowly, Dragos,” the old woman sighed. “These things, they take time, da?”
“Da, da.” Griggor consented.
He peeked at his pocket watch, made a show of tapping it for Magda.
“I must go.”
He returned to the Bowery tenement. To the basement where’d he’d left the three black boys. This time, he carried a flashlight. Not all of the rats eating at the boys scurried away as he approached. But they squealed and ran when he quickly shot each boy once behind the left ear.
Several weeks later, Magda frantically met Griggor at the apartment door, led him into the bedroom where Nadia lay bleeding.
“She thinks she is pregnant, Griggor. With negru’s child. She tries to abort it herself. With this.”
Magda held up a large silver spoon that was mottled with blood.
“Cut the negru bastard out, Griggor!” Nadia screamed. “Cut the negru bastard out and feed it to its negru daddy for breakfast!”
Stunned, Griggor blinked. He was immediately back in Gherla prison. The young girl on the worn mattress in the dank cell spat at him as he prepared to sedate her.
“Cut the monster out!” she demanded. “I do not want communist bastard at my teat!”
“Shush, shush, Tatiana,” he said softly, before realizing his mistake, correcting himself. “Shhhhh, little Nadia. Shhhhh.”
He spoke soothingly as he injected the girl with enough sodium pentothal to put her out. He then performed a pelvic examination. Followed by a dilation and curettage abortion. He’d performed hundreds of such procedures in his clinic, there being no shortage of clients in the City of Sin.
When he’d finished, had washed and dried his hands, Griggor looked at his patient with the concern of a distressed parent. The old man had dealt with many unsavory individuals over the years. None had displayed the vindictiveness Nadia had demonstrated before he’d performed the abortion. She was much too young to carry so much spite. He wished he could counsel the girl. But, his specialty was medicine for the body, not the mind. Or the soul.
“Nelegitim (illegitimate), it is destroyed,” he whispered to the unconscious girl. “So, too, is negru tatic (Negro daddy).”
Once she’d recovered, Nadia reluctantly returned to school, graduated on schedule. Magda encouraged her to pursue a career as a cosmetologist or a hair stylist. However, she wasn’t upset when Nadia insisted on going to work full-time at Madam Magda’s.
Two years later, Magda renamed her restaurant Nadia’s. Not in honor of her granddaughter. Rather, in hopes of banking on the popularity of Nadia Comaneci. The Romanian gymnast who’d stolen the hearts of Americans during the 1976 Summer Olympics. Magda liked to boast that the poster of the fourteen-year-old gold medalist standing on the Olympic medal stand, waving to the crowd, which hung near the front door of her bistro, had been signed by Nadi
a herself. A dear friend of Magda’s. The Romanian restaurateur had absolved herself from the slight untruth by having her granddaughter forge the signature. So that the poster truly had been signed by “Nadia.”
Magda’s bistro enjoyed modest popularity. Her Romanian-style kebobs and eggplant were house specialties. Her wild mushroom sour soup was very popular. Few could resist her mouthwatering gogosi (fried dough dessert). She also featured Hungarian goulash and other Eastern European dishes.
The aging Romanian woman continued to perform as Madam Magda, psychic. Primarily for the host of faithful clients who relied on her readings in order to function in their daily lives.
When Magda passed away, Nadia inherited the restaurant. She’d learned to channel her clairvoyant skills well enough to assume the persona of Madam Magda years earlier, continued to perform readings for a handful of regular clients. As well as the occasional passerby.
By the time of Magda’s death, Griggor had become almost as much a fixture in Nadia’s life as her bunica was. He ate often at Nadia’s. Nearly every night. He did small handyman jobs around the place, even helped cook and wait tables on those rare occasions when the restaurant got too busy for Magda and Nadia to handle. Nadia soon came to depend on the old man. With her bunica gone, she relied on him for comfort, companionship. The old Romanian came around out of a sense of family. A sense of duty. To offer help and protection. To enjoy a free meal now and again.
Nadia remained Leo Nicolescu’s loyal, grieving widow. She never re-married. Never had another boyfriend. Never so much as went on a date. She lived a quiet life. Tolerated the modest living her restaurant and psychic businesses provided.
She never lost her strong hatred of negri.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 14
Saturday, September 15: Day 4 post-9/11
Four days after the attacks, New York City was already neck-deep in the massive cleanup. The last survivor had been pulled from the wreckage on Wednesday. After spending twenty-seven hours trapped in the rubble of the North Tower. On Friday, the FBI had released the names of nineteen hijackers. All nineteen were presumed dead.
Though initial estimates had been as high as thirty thousand, the official New York City “missing” count for the World Trade Center had settled around five thousand. Only 150 bodies had been found. 92 had been positively identified.
The two-hundred-and-twenty stories of the Twin Towers, plus an additional forty-seven stories of WTC 7, had tumbled into a sixteen-block heap of jagged concrete and metal that loomed five stories high. Ground Zero workers were now faced with the colossal task of removing tons of debris, sifting through it for human remains.
The stranger awoke in an unfamiliar room. He sat upright in bed, his thoughts fuzzy. He struggled to focus. He had no idea where he was, how he’d gotten there or how long he’d been there. Nor did he know who he was. He couldn’t remember his name. The day. The year. He couldn’t remember anything about himself. Though he was conscious, his mind abruptly went blank. When his awareness returned, he found himself in an unfamiliar room. He didn’t know who he was, where he was or how long he’d been there.
He didn’t hear the soft knock on the door. Didn’t turn to look when the door eased open and a dark-haired woman entered.
“Ah, you’re awake! How do you feel today?” Nadia asked.
The stranger didn’t answer. He remained seated on the edge of the bed, staring blankly.
“I’m Nadia. Can you tell me your name? Do you know what happened to you?” the woman asked genially.
The stranger continued to stare straight ahead, made no eye contact with the woman.
Nadia was unsure how to proceed. She’d hoped for a response. But the stranger’s condition seemed no better after three days’ rest. She grabbed the glass of water off the bedside table, went into the bathroom, returned with a fresh glass of water, placed it carefully in the stranger’s hand. In doing so, she touched him gently. Hoping to receive a reading. She sensed nothing. Hadn’t sensed anything when she’d undressed him, put him in bed, four days earlier. She raised the hand holding the glass slowly to the stranger’s lips. The man blinked several times, drank, but remained silent, unresponsive.
“You had an accident,” Nadia explained. “You were wandering in the street. I took you in. Griggor stitched you up. You’ve been sleeping here for the past three days.”
If the stranger had heard anything she’d said, he didn’t show it. His face remained expressionless. Nadia couldn’t determine whether he couldn’t speak…or chose not to. Not knowing what else to do, the dark-haired woman defaulted to offering food. That was her profession. What she knew.
“You must be hungry. I’ll make you some breakfast. You can wait up here. There’s a television in the front room.”
She grasped the man by the elbow, lifted gently. The stranger stood. Nadia hadn’t realized how tall he was before. She now saw he was well over six feet, trim and fit. He was wearing only the tank top and boxers he’d had on beneath his clothing. Nadia went to the dresser, took out the pajamas Griggor had brought. She held the pants up, realized they would be much too short on the tall stranger. The waist would be too wide, as well. Of course, the sleeves of the top would also be too short. They would never conceal the stranger’s tattoo from Griggor. Something Nadia was intent of doing. For the time being. The three shirts the old man had brought would also be undersized. Nadia had already laundered the clothing the stranger had arrived in. She helped him dress in those clothes.
She led the tall man down the hallway to a sitting room. The room was sparsely decorated, contained only a television, a recliner, a table and a lamp. She sat him in the recliner, turned the television on. The image of a plane exploding into the North Tower immediately appeared on the screen.
“Such a horrible thing,” Nadia said sadly. “Tragic.”
The stranger stared at the television, appeared to be captivated by the images on the screen. He could just as easily have been staring absently into space.
Nadia left the room. When she returned, carrying a breakfast tray, the stranger was exactly as she’d left him. Sitting in the recliner. His hands on his thighs. His gaze apparently fixated on the television screen. Nadia went to a closet, removed a TV tray. She set it up in front of the stranger, placed the breakfast tray on it. Glancing at the television, she spoke to the tall man.
“You weren’t there. You weren’t hurt in the Towers. You came to me long before the first plane hit.”
The tall man remained stoic, staring rigidly.
Griggor arrived later in the day to learn the stranger had awakened from his three-day slumber. The old man was anxious to visit with his patient.
“He doesn’t talk,” Nadia told him. “He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t respond to anything. He only watches television. At least, he stares at the television as though he’s watching. I can’t really tell if he actually sees anything. Or hears anything. He sat in front of the television all day, Griggor. Like a zombie.”
“And he does nothing?”
“Nu. He doesn’t even look at me. He just stares.”
“He eats, da?”
“Da. I fed him, Griggor.”
“How is appetite? It is good, hey?”
Nadia seesawed her hand.
“Asa si asa,” she answered. “He just chews and stares. He didn’t eat a lot, but he ate.”
“I need to make examination.”
Griggor headed up the stairs, his medical satchel in hand. He took the satchel everywhere he went. Had learned long ago that it was better to have it, and not need it, than to need it, and not have it.
“Alo. I am Griggor.”
The old Romanian held his hand out as he entered the front room. The stranger took no notice of the elderly man. As Nadia had indicated, he appeared to be absorbed in the televised news. Griggor was mildly surprised to see the tall man dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing the day
he’d stitched him up. He accurately assumed the clothes he’d brought Nadia weren’t a good fit. He set his satchel down, picked the remote off the table, turned the television off. The stranger remained staring at the blank screen.
“How are you feeling, my friend, hey? Does head hurt? Any nausea?”
Again, he received no response.
“You can hear me, hey?”
He snapped his fingers in front of the stranger’s eyes. The tall man didn’t blink, gave no response. He showed no emotion, made no eye contact with Griggor. He simply stared straight ahead.
“May I?”
Griggor stepped close. The stranger offered no resistance while the older man examined his head wound.
“Ah. It heals well. You must have good surgeon, hey?”
Griggor chuckled at his own joke. The stranger remained emotionless.
The old Romania took a small flashlight from his shirt pocket, shined it in the stranger’s eyes. The pupils were of equal size. They constricted, as they should, in reaction to the light. Griggor asked the stranger to follow his finger as he moved it from side to side. The man continued staring straight ahead.
“You can follow finger, please? You can do that for me, hey?”
He attempted the test a second time, got the same result.
Griggor persisted with his questioning, though he had yet to receive a response.
“Can you say name? Address? Anything?”
The stranger didn’t so much as blink. Realizing further questioning was pointless, the old Romanian finally gave up. He clicked the television back on, left the stranger in the front room, joined Nadia in the kitchen of the upstairs apartment.
“Vesmant I bring, they are not good fashion, hey?” he teased.
“He’s so tall, Griggor,” Nadia remarked. “He’d look like a scarecrow in your clothes.”
She allowed herself a mild chuckle. Griggor assumed a more serious tone.