House of the Lost (53 page)

‘I think,’ said Andrei, suddenly, ‘this is where we step back, Matthew. Some of the crowd are moving towards the building. Over there, look. It’ll turn ugly at any minute. Let’s get into one of the side streets and out of the way. I’ll do a lot for Romania’s freedom – I have done a lot for it – but I’m not getting caught up in mob violence and neither are you.’

They moved away as unobtrusively as possible, but as they reached the edge of the square, Matthew turned back and scanned the faces. Who were they, these people, who once had bowed their heads to the yoke of a tyrant but today were shouting their defiance of him? He stood very still, letting the extraordinary atmosphere soak into his whole being, trying to print the moment on his memory, so that one day in the future, he could look back and relive it and say,
That
was the moment when the old order changed, that was the moment when I knew the bad years were over for Romania.

Zoia had not intended to go to the central committee building that morning, but her rooms overlooked a main thoroughfare, and the shouting and running outside was impossible to ignore. She had lived in Bucharest for two years, and at first she’d liked it. She liked the feeling of being nearer to the centre of things. She tried to continue her work for the Party even though she was no longer sure if she believed in its policies and principles. She tried to ignore the feeling that her former zeal had been because of Annaleise, but it was a feeling that came frequently to the surface of her mind these days. Her work in one of the city libraries was moderately interesting although not especially well paid. She hoped, as most of the staff did, that the promised national library and national museum of history would one day be completed and she could move there.

But today, just four days before Christmas, it was as if a huge fire had been ignited at Romania’s heart and was spreading through the whole country, raging its way into small towns and villages, licking its greedy flames inside the houses so that people were forced outside. It forced Zoia outside. She had watched for a while, then grabbed her thick coat, and ran down the stairs to join them. As she entered the square, pushed and jostled on all sides, Ceau
escu’s voice rang out over the heads of the crowds, but she could see almost at once that his words were going for nothing. He’s making futile attempts to regain his authority, she thought. He’s standing up there on the balcony as if he thinks he’s a god, but his subjects aren’t listening. They’re out of his reach.

With the thought there was the sound of explosions from the outskirts of the square, and people began to run and scream. ‘Bombs!’ cried a woman. ‘No, it’s guns – the bastard’s ordered the army to fire on us!’ shouted a man. ‘Get under cover!’ Someone with a megaphone began shouting that the Securitate was firing on the people. ‘It’s the revolution!’ bellowed the voice. The word span and bounced all round the square:
revolution, revolution
. . .

The crowd jeered and whistled, and more and more people ran into the square, turning it into a rioting, seething mass. Anti-communist chants began. ‘Down with the dictator.’ ‘Death to the murderer.’ ‘Death to Nicolae Ceau
escu and the bitch Elena!’

There was a flurry of movement on the balcony, and Zoia saw Nicolae Ceau
escu, Elena at his side, scuttle back inside the building. They’re afraid, she thought. They know the speech was futile, and they’re slinking into cover like cowards. And these, thought Zoia, are the people for whom I spied, for whom I dealt out cruelty.

She fought her way to the side streets, and walked back to her rooms, keeping near the buildings, unnoticed, unchallenged.

The fighting continued for two more days, but Zoia remained in her rooms, not wanting – not daring – to go out.

On Christmas night she watched, on the small television she had finally managed to buy, the news that the two Ceau
escus had fled Bucharest in a helicopter. Then there was video footage of the show trial in the army schoolroom, which had been hastily converted to a makeshift courtroom. She listened to the charge of genocide against the Ceau
escu couple: genocide by starvation, lack of heating and lighting, they called it. An extraordinary charge, said the news reader. Elena appeared aloof and arrogant throughout, refusing to answer the questions put to her, refusing, as well, to acknowledge the legitimacy of her interrogators. She’s not going to break, thought Zoia, leaning forward, her fists clenched, the nails digging into her palms. She’ll be imperious to the end.

But Elena Ceau
escu was not imperious quite to the end. As the police made to separate her from Nicolae, intending to perform two separate executions, she rapped out an angry order. ‘Together,’ she said. ‘We die together – together –
together
. . .’ When they bound her hands behind her back she cursed and fought, saying they were breaking her arms. The police had to use force to subdue her, and Zoia’s skin prickled with horror at the fury and defiance in Elena’s face, this woman who had caused so much suffering and who was about to be led to her death. The cameras did not follow the two, but in her mind Zoia saw them stand against a wall in a stone yard, she saw the rifles take aim and the bullets rip into their bodies. Exactly as Zoia’s mother must have looked when she stood against a wall all those years ago to be shot for a murder she had not committed – the murder Zoia herself had committed. She shivered and pushed the image away.

Back at her work in the library, she listened to the avid discussions about the events, contributing the occasional remark. She did not say she had once met Elena – that she had travelled in a car with her and helped arrest a young woman caught making illegal broadcasts. The best thing now was to get on with her work. Life went on; bills had to be paid. You lived with your ghosts as best you could.

There was one ghost that Zoia had not expected, though.

On New Year’s Day, she was crossing a street near the university, on her way to the library, when she saw three people walking across one of the squares – a woman and two men. She glanced at them incuriously, then looked again. The older man had a thin face with a small beard. He had a scholarly look about him, as if he might be a don. The younger man resembled him. But it was the woman who walked with them who drew Zoia’s eyes. Once she had looked at her she could not look away.

The years and deprivations of Pitesti Gaol had stripped the flesh from Elisabeth Valk’s bones, but she had been beautiful twenty years ago, and she was beautiful now, even thin and gaunt, her hair cropped short, her clothes unremarkable. She clung to the arms of the two men, as if she was afraid they might suddenly vanish, and she kept looking from one to the other. There was such deep love and gratitude in her eyes that Zoia felt something slam at the base of her throat. To feel like that, to have endured all that, and to come out and find your heart’s desire still there.

None of the three saw her, but she watched them until they were out of sight. Then she turned round and went on to her work in the library as usual.

The present

‘Matthew saw both his parents as heroes,’ said Petra, into the quiet room. ‘He saw them as idealists and even romantic. Two people who had wanted to save the world they lived in, and who had been hurt in the process.’

‘But she survived,’ said Theo.

‘Yes. She was frail and afraid of the world. They took her to Switzerland and she had five years with them before she died.’

‘And Andrei?’ asked Lesley.

‘He died shortly afterwards.’

‘Did you meet Elisabeth?’ said Theo.

‘Just once. It was a curious experience. I knew so much about her: what she had done, how brave and defiant she had been. What I saw was what was left after the brutality of a Romanian gaol. And yet,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘there was the impression of a light still flickering somewhere. Like seeing a flame through a misted-over window.’

Theo could not think of anything to say, and it was Lesley who reached out for Petra’s hand, and Guff who said, ‘My dear, I’m so sorry.’

‘Things heal,’ she said. ‘But I don’t forget him.’ She blinked, then said, ‘Is that the doorbell?’

It was the doorbell. It was Michael Innes.

‘You suggested I came back this evening,’ he said, looking hesitantly at Petra’s car. ‘But it looks as if you’ve got people here, and I don’t want to intrude—’ He broke off, hearing sounds of crockery from the kitchen where Lesley was helping Guff find something for supper.