House of the Lost

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Romania, early 1980s

Zoia had never had any compunction about making use of the people she had encountered during her work for the Party. When she heard that Mara was returning home, she composed a very careful letter to Gheorghe Pauker. She was cautious, not knowing who might actually see the letter; there might be a wife – Zoia rather hoped there was – or the letter might be opened by a branch of the Securitate. Some people said the Securitate operated censorship. Zoia had no idea if this was true, but it was very likely that a Politburo official such as Pauker would be subject to surveillance.

So she reminded him of their brief acquaintance at the time of the Black House’s closure. She was sure he would remember her, she wrote, they had had such a very interesting conversation about Elena Ceauşescu and she had never forgotten what he had said about their leader’s wife. She smiled as she wrote this, knowing that no matter how drunk Pauker had been that night, he was unlikely to have forgotten what he’d said about Elena Ceauşescu. Zoia did not spell it out. She merely said his words that night had given her much food for thought. She was still working diligently for the Party, she said in her letter, and she had a small project in mind with which she thought Gheorghe might be able to help her. Perhaps he would contact her as soon as possible? She would enjoy renewing their friendship. It was an innocent enough letter – a note from a former colleague, a note about work for the Party. But as she addressed and sealed the envelope, she thought those comments about Elena would bring him running.

They did. He came to her lodgings two days later. He was older and coarser-looking and small red veins were prominent in his nose. Recalling the way he had downed the wine that night, Zoia was not surprised. But he remembered what had happened between them – that was apparent from the onset.

‘What do you want?’ he said, seating himself on the one easy chair in Zoia’s room.

‘Some help. As I said in my letter, there’s a small project I’m minded to undertake.’

‘Why should I help you?’ But Zoia knew the memory of what he had said was strongly between them.

‘Oh, for old times’ sake,’ she said, ‘and because it might be safer for you.’

‘Safer?’

Zoia smiled. ‘Let’s not pretend,’ she said. ‘We didn’t pretend that night, did we? You wanted something then and I provided it. Now I want something and I think you can help me get it. I’d hate to tell people all those things you said about Elena Ceauşescu. What did you call her? A cheat. A liar. Everything smoke and mirrors and half her grand qualifications the result of sordid coinage. I really would hate to let people know you said all that, Gheorghe.’

‘But you will if I don’t do what you want.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s blackmail. In any case I’d deny it.’

‘Of course you would. But there’s the old saying about mud sticking. People would believe you, but would they believe you absolutely? Mightn’t they look sideways at you and remind one another you’re the one who spread vicious gossip about their beloved leader’s wife? Still,’ said Zoia, with a shrug, ‘if you want to take the risk.’

He said warily, ‘Supposing I said I would help you. What exactly would you want?’

‘I want a vicious little bitch inside a gaol. I want her to become one of the lost ones.’

Zoia had watched Mara for several weeks, and knew Mara and her brother had fallen into the way of taking a walk through the lanes most Sunday afternoons. Sunday was a quiet, somnolent day: people went to church in the morning, ate their Sunday dinner – or what they could scratch together for a Sunday dinner – then spent their few precious leisure hours resting or reading or visiting their friends. It was a time when a stranger walking through the streets was not likely to be noticed or commented on.

One Sunday Zoia waited until she could be sure Mara and Mikhail were clear of the village, then walked in a leisurely way down the street. There were very few people about and those who were barely glanced at her. A casual stroller, somebody visiting perhaps. Her face might have been vaguely familiar from the library in the neighbouring town, but if it was it would not matter.

The cottage was set a little way from the road; it backed onto trees and scrubland, which was very good indeed. Zoia slipped round the side and considered it. She would break in if she had to, but she hoped it would not be necessary.

Luck was with her. A small ground-floor window was slightly open near the top. Zoia peered through and saw a kitchen with a stone sink and neat rows of pans and crockery. There was a faint scent of food and she guessed Mara had made lunch for herself and Mikhail and left the window slightly ajar to blow away the cooking scents while they took their walk.

She had to stand on a large boulder from the garden so she could reach inside and release the window latch. She glanced behind her to make sure she was not being watched, then pulled the window to its widest point and climbed over the sill. It was a narrow opening but she was wiry and active, and got inside quite easily. She stood for a moment, absorbing the atmosphere of the bitch’s home, then went through to the front of the house. Everywhere was extremely neat and clean – that was the convent training, of course. The stairs to the bedrooms were behind a latched door in the sitting room. The cottage was not unlike the cottage where Zoia had spent her own childhood, although it was bigger and more comfortably furnished.

There were two bedrooms. The one at the back was clearly Mara’s. There were a couple of rather drab cotton frocks hanging behind a curtain and stockings neatly rolled up on a little shelf, which also held several books, mostly with a religious slant. Nuns’ training again. Zoia studied the room. There were no cupboards – where would Mara hide something secret? There was a hatch in the ceiling which must lead to the attics, but that might be a bit too inaccessible for her purpose. What about under the bed? No, too obvious. Think, Zoia, be subtle about this. And then she had it. What she had brought with her were just sheets of paper, and paper could be folded and slotted between books. She smiled and drew from the pocket of her jacket the things she had so carefully prepared in her own room with the door firmly locked.

There were two pamphlets describing the attempt to reestablish the National Peasant Party, which had been banned since 1947, calling for recruits. Zoia knew most of the categories of charges from her Black House years. If Mara were found to have these pamphlets in her possession, the charge known as plotting against the social order, might be levelled against her. Certainly she would be considered to be in possession of subversive literature. But the pamphlets by themselves would not be enough. What would really damn the bitch was a letter purporting to come from Mara’s great childhood friend, Matthew Valk. Elisabeth’s son. The symmetry of this pleased Zoia.

She had folded the letter a number of times to make it look creased and read, but standing in Mara’s room now, she unfolded it and read it again.

Zoia had not been able to find a sample of Matthew’s handwriting, but she knew, in a general way, the style of writing children were taught, and she knew, as well, that it was unlikely the letter would be put to any kind of test. If Matthew were ever questioned about this letter he would deny writing it, but that would be perfectly all right. In Zoia’s experience, people always lied about this kind of thing. The slightly dramatic wording about not caring if he had to beg on the streets or sleep in the gutter seemed to her the kind of thing a young man studying art would say or write. She thought the whole thing would pass muster. And with Gheorghe’s help…

She was smiling as she slid the folded letter and pamphlets between two of the books on Mara’s shelf. She was still smiling as she slipped out of the cottage, carefully closing the window to its original position, then walked unnoticed down the lane to her own home.

Mara was deeply happy to be back in the familiar cottage. To curl up in the fireside corner where she had listened to her grandmother’s tales, to cook and eat a meal with her beloved Mikhail, even though supplies of food were so meagre, these were the most joyful things in the world. During all the years at Debreczen she had hoped and dreamed and prayed to return, and now it had happened. If only her grandmother could be here, life would be perfect.

Mikhail still went off to school each morning, but he would shortly be leaving and decisions would have to be made about what he was going to do. There was a small amount of money which their grandmother had left. ‘Hoarded under a floorboard in the bedroom, the old miser,’ Mikhail said, smiling with affectionate memory. ‘She didn’t want the Securitate snoopers to know about it. They can get into bank accounts and demand all kinds of payments these days, did you know that?’

Mara was not sure if this was true or if Mikhail wanted to make the Securitate sound even worse than they were. She had already noticed how very defiant he was, but after almost nine years in the quiet remote convent, the whole world seemed defiant. And loud – she had forgotten how loud the world was. Even this small village had been like an assault on her senses, so that she had wanted to hide herself in a dark corner. But she was grateful for the sturdy tin box with the money. It had to be used with extreme care, but it might be enough for Mikhail to go to university if that was what he wanted. She was going to ask Sister Teresa about that.

In the meantime, it was wonderful to be at home after so many years, to wave Mikhail off to his lessons each morning, to welcome him home each evening, and to walk with him in the lanes on Sunday afternoons when everywhere was quiet and church bells could be heard ringing. Mara wanted to trap the moments and lock them away safely somewhere so that one day, a long time in the future, she would be able to take the memories out and relive them. The convent’s routines were deeply embedded in her; every night she prayed the happy times would last.

They did not. In the middle of a perfectly ordinary week, on an apparently ordinary afternoon, two Securitate men came to the cottage, knocked sharply on the door, and walked inside when Mara opened it. Her heart thumped in her chest because this was how it had all started, all those years ago, when she hid in the attic and the men found her and carried her off to the Black House.

They were not exactly discourteous, because they did not say anything, other than the initial information that they had come to search the house. Mara started to ask why, but they were already inside, opening doors, looking inside cupboards, going upstairs to the bedrooms. She tried not to panic and reminded herself that the Securitate still came summarily into people’s homes like this and that, apart from the little store of money, there was nothing in the least incriminating here.

But it seemed there was. There was a shout from her bedroom, and the younger man came rattling back downstairs holding what looked like a letter and a couple of printed leaflets. He brandished them at Mara, who had never seen them before. When she said this, the men smiled knowingly, and the younger one grabbed her arm and said she was under arrest.

‘For what?’

‘Several crimes,’ he said, and thrust the handful of papers in her face. ‘Possession of subversive literature for starters.’

‘I haven’t got any—’

‘And,’ he said, a lick of pleasure in his voice, ‘conspiracy.’

‘What d’you mean? What have I conspired to do?’

‘Helping free a prisoner from a state Gaol,’ he said, and Mara stared at him and remembered what Sister Teresa had said all those years ago about a lie. There are always consequences of a lie, she had said. Was this one of those consequences?

‘Why do you think that?’ she said at last.

‘We’ve found evidence.’ Again he brandished the papers he was holding. ‘Information was given to us – a very reliable source indeed it came from.’

‘Who?’

‘A gentleman high up in the Politburo. Never you mind about his name, that’s not for you to know. But he was quite right. This is the proof. A letter from your friend – a friend who’s the son of two enemies of the State.’

Matthew, thought Mara.

‘It tells it all,’ said the man. ‘The details of the plan you were going to put into operation to steal his father away from prison. A bad crime, that, stealing State prisoners. You’ll probably be a prisoner yourself because of it, and if you’re a Category III prisoner that’ll mean ten years at least. I doubt you’ll see the world for a very long time.’

I’ll make sure you’re shut away and that you never see the world again, Zoia had said the night Annaleise died. Zoia was behind this, Mara knew it quite surely.

As they took her out to the waiting car – not a rattly jeep but a smart sleek car – she said, ‘Where are you taking me? Am I going to be put on trial?’

‘I don’t know about a trial,’ he said. ‘But I do know where you’re to be taken.’

Pitesti, thought Mara. That’s where they’ll take me.

But the man said, ‘You’re to go to the fort under the ground. The sunken prison house. Jilava Gaol.’