by Wilson, Eric
I’ve been taught to beware Those Who Hunt. That’s all good. But no one’s ever given me the scoop on Those Who Resist. Where are they? Do they meet secretly, or mingle in the open? Would they even accept someone my age?
Suddenly, it seems so obvious. I mean, what else could it be? I’m being screened and recruited. I bet they want me to join their cause.
CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
August 1999—Arad, Romania
The orphans brought back her joy.
Gina’s heart had been ripped out nearly two years ago in Chattanooga, and she had battled on through the dark months that tried to engulf her. She figured that if she kept even one nostril above water, it meant she was still kicking and alive. Alive was a good thing.
At the beginning of this summer, Jed Turney had announced his plans to head for the Pacific Northwest to live near his uncle, the police sergeant. And to clear my head, you know, try to put things back in perspective.
Without her. That’s the part he had left unsaid.
There were a lot of things they hadn’t put into words, and despite efforts on both sides and joint sessions with a counselor, it was time to reevaluate.
Gina understood this. She felt as though they’d been holding separate handles of the same baggage, trying to drag it through the mud while heading in slowly divergent directions. Jed was as torn up as she by the loss of baby Jacob, and their son’s precious few hours on this earth had forever joined the two of them as a mother and father. That couldn’t be taken away.
The whole wife-and-husband thing? That was less certain.
Jed left in a U-Haul, and Gina waved good-bye from the sidewalk. She wore a brave face, refusing to let her emotions stop him from going off in search of himself. He was still young, and his grief was as real as her own. His left hand out the window was the last thing she saw as he headed down the hill.
She gave her two-week notice at Ruby Falls.
Shared one last cigarette with her coworkers.
Earlier, she had e-mailed a private orphanage in Arad, stating her desire to help and explaining her own childhood in the region. They’d accepted her application with exuberance, after criminal and background checks. With the HIV-infected kids and severely abused, the need was great. They would take anyone willing to serve.
Gina figured she fit the bill.
She shared a tense but cordial lunch with Nikki and said only that she was planning to save money by living more communally. Nikki assumed hippies. Gina let her think what she wanted. Later, she could send a letter of explanation.
She put an ad in the paper and sold off her remaining things. Half of the items were infant related: a crib, mattress, stroller, and car seat. They were all brand-new, but she sold them for a pittance. She had no desire to profit from Jacob’s death, and she hoped the items would be helpful to someone in need.
She kept only the black walnut chess set and a suitcase of clothes.
Using the name Lazarescu from her Romanian passport, she combined her final paycheck and her sale earnings to buy a one-way ticket to Bucharest—Bucuresti, as she called it in her mother tongue. She wondered how it would be to find herself inundated again with the sonorous flow of a Romance language. Would it all come tumbling back? Would the food and culture feel like old buddies, or like friends that had parted ways?
She arrived two days later at Otopeni International Airport, with only seven hundred dollars of savings in her front pocket, her dual citizen-ship in her back pocket, and the orphanage’s address on the other side of Romania.
And she felt free.
Gina Lazarescu never felt sorry for the kids. The Tomorrow’s Hope Orphanage staff members, muncitors, marveled at her connection with their young wards. Most of these children had played the “poor orphan/ poor HIV baby” act for so long they knew nothing but pity from others. Accordingly, their emotions were amplified, their behaviors unrestrained.
Here came Gina. She spoke their language and gave straight answers. She showed scars on her arm, neck, and legs that paralleled wounds that many of them felt, but which most only knew how to demonstrate through tantrums or withdrawal.
She had broken free, even lived in America. Then come back.
Now, she was one of them.
She learned that in 1989, more than a hundred thousand kids had filled orphanages across Ceaucescu’s ravaged land. Inexplicably, many had become infected with HIV.
“No one knows how?” she asked a muncitor.
“There are theories, naturally.”
“But no one’s tracked down the guilty party? That’s crazy. What if some irresponsible doctor was reusing needles for vaccinations? I mean, that kind of thing has to be stopped. Am I wrong?”
The muncitor wore an expression of disinterest. “You’ve been too long in America, with your naive notions of justice. Things such as this were commonplace during our days under communist rule. Really, who had energy to be concerned with anything other than survival?”
“These children, though. I mean, if I ever find out who—”
“You want to help?”
“Yes.”
“Then get to work, Ms. Lazarescu. We have beds to make.”
“Right away.”
During her first few months at the center, Gina found out that many poorer families had seen no choice but to surrender newborns to the government. The catch was that they could retain legal rights to their offspring, so long as they came to visit once every six months.
With some of the children now getting closer to an employable age, parents made sure to show their faces, counting on future paychecks from their juvenile workers.
However, certain kids would never be employable.
The gypsy orphans, for example, were societal outcasts with centuries of prejudice that kept them from good jobs. They were destined to be street sweepers and garbage collectors. This only encouraged their thievery and cheating, which then reinforced the ugly perceptions of them.
Though Gina had grown up around this struggle, she boiled with indignance when she overheard a fellow muncitor berating one of the gypsy wards in the fenced play area: Hai prostule!—come here, you stupid one.
“He’s only as smart as you’ll let him be,” she barked back.
Word got around that she was the big sister—the one ready to defend, while never showing too much pity. Building relationships with the kids took time, and she made many of her first connections as their sister through the love of games.
The boys were convinced she would be easy prey at the chessboard, a notion she dispelled in a hurry. She earned their respect through her no-gloating policy and her aggressive style of play.
With the girls she played remi, a game using numbered and colored tiles. The real focus during these sessions was unguarded girl talk around the rec room table. Many of them were victims of sexual abuse. At ages ten and eleven, they were showing interest in related topics, and she was a nonthreatening advisor who gave real answers, with hard-hitting cautions against the risky behavior in which some were already engaging.
Daily, Gina found herself smiling at the small victories.
Every night, Jacob’s unmarred, beautiful face flitted before her eyes.
“Are you happy to be back?”
“Definitely, Petre.”
There was no hesitation in Gina’s response to the orphan boy. She loved the charm of the old buildings that lined Arad’s Revolutiei Avenue, and the broad, gardened approach to city hall. Street and business names evoked nostalgia in her. Even walking into her new banking establishment, Banca Transilvania, conjured images of her childhood.
At the moment, the Tomorrow’s Hope choir was lining up before city hall for a performance approved by the mayor. Public religious displays were frowned upon—in fact, many churches viewed Christmas as a pagan celebration—but this was a holiday leading into a new millennium, and some concessions could be made.
Gina quivered in the cold. The day was unseasonably warm for
December, yet her blood had thinned after years in Tennessee’s temper-ate climate. Even with chattering teeth, she decided she liked the bracing slap of the breeze. It appealed to something deep in her—a call to stand against the elements, to bend but not break.
Conscious of dehydration, she took a sip from her bottle of Borsec mineral water. She had missed this too. It fizzed with unsweetened delight on her tongue.
“Este extem de frig,” Petre Podran said.
“Ahh, it’s not that cold,” Gina responded.
“You know, my brother thinks you’re pretty.”
“Really?”
“He says you might marry him one day.”
Gina chuckled and looked down into the ten-year-old’s round, black eyes. “I don’t think that will happen.”
“You love American men now? But Pavel is handsome, yes?”
“Stop it, Petre. I know what you’re up to, and you’re only saying this because you two are twins. I think maybe you’re the one with the crush.”
Petre changed the subject. “Why did you leave America?”
“Because my husband was gone, and I needed a boy like you to love.”
Petre beamed.
“As a little brother,” she qualified. “Or a nephew.”
Pleased to be loved on any terms, he bounced across the walkway, trampled a hedge, and weaseled in among the choir members.
Minutes later they broke into their first number, a statement of national allegiance sure to win over the passersby. The song had been banned in 1947, after the communists’ forced abdication of King Michael I. Gina had never heard it sung publicly in her homeland, and it caused a lump to rise in her throat:
Awake, you Romanian, from the sleep of death . . .
It’s either now or it never will be . . .
that you create for yourself another destiny . . .
It’s either life in freedom or it should be death.
When they were done, Gina tried to whistle without success—it was a skill Jed had never been able to teach her—and resorted instead to hearty applause with gloved hands. The children in the choir tried to hide their grins.
A destiny, Gina thought. That’s what she wanted more than anything. It’s what she hoped to give these boys and girls.
Much of Romania’s soul had been drained in the seventies and eighties. In the same way, many of these orphans had suffered health issues that put them into constant survival mode.
Hepatitis B and intestinal parasites were not uncommon. Thousands of kids across the country were HIV infected. The World Health Organization had stepped in recently to help, providing antiretroviral treatment, but many were already dead. Conditions were not always sanitary in the state-run facilities, and a simple sinus infection could rage into a life-threatening illness for those with weakened immune systems.
The public mind-set was also difficult to change. Many shunned and feared these stigmatized kids. Thus, as the orphan choir switched to the joyful sounds of a Christmas carol, Gina was not surprised to see a few hecklers in the crowd.
She was surprised, though, by the man who stepped up to confront them. He had a chiseled chin, eyes hard as flint, and a mouth that—
Tasted of grapes and blackberries? Of goat’s milk?
Was this her Teodor, from the village of Cuvin?
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
Teodor and Gina strolled along the Strand Neptun, an outdoor recreation area that usually catered to all ages. With winter upon them, the swim-ming and wading pools had been emptied, leaving only patches of ice that glinted in the afternoon sun. Lawns were forlorn, the trees naked and shivering. Clustered in the center area, restaurants tried to attract diners, while old men played remi at tables under Pepsi umbrellas.
“Langosi on me,” Teo said.
“You don’t have to do that. I have money.”
“I’ve been with the tourist bureau for three years, Gina, and I’m sure my job pays more than the orphanage. Please. For old times’ sake.” He stopped at a small hut, leaned his arms on the counter. “How do you like yours?”
“With dill and grated cheese,” she said.
“Coming right up.”
The orphanage choir, after a half hour of lukewarm response, had been ferried back to Tomorrow’s Hope, and Gina had been released for the evening. Later, she would take a tram, then connect on a bus to get back to her place—a one-bedroom flat in a complex adjacent to the center. Food and lodging were part of her salary, leaving her the equivalent of twenty-five dollars a week for personal luxuries.
“Multumesc,” she thanked Teo.
The smell of the fried flat bread tugged Gina back to cozy recollections. She felt awkward here, now, with her childhood beau. She was married—on paper, at least—and had no desire to betray Jed in any way. There was an ember of love still there. Nevertheless, her heart was in a tug-of-war between what was and what could’ve been.
Here on Romanian soil, she felt rooted in reality. Life in America, it seemed far away. Almost unreal.
Or maybe she just knew it was time to forge ahead. She couldn’t let the past bleed her dry.
With snacks in hand, Teo and Gina followed the meandering brick path around the curve of the park. He was tall and thin, his gait long and loping. He seemed at ease, and she hoped none of her anxiety showed. She tucked her free hand into her coat pocket and watched her breath turn to fog in the cold air.
“Do you know what happened to Treia?” he asked her.
“My dog?”
“When you drove off that day—why, I’ve played that over in my head a thousand times—I saw you duck down in the backseat. I could just feel it in my chest that you weren’t coming back. I really liked you. You knew that, right?”
Gina finished her bite. “What happened to Treia?”
“I kept him.”
“You did? Is he still alive?”
“That was ten years ago,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, he was with me for a total of four. It made me think of you every day. At least he died peacefully. I woke up one morning, and he just never responded. He was gone.”
“I loved that dog. Thank you, Teo.”
“What else was I supposed to do? He would’ve ended up roaming Cuvin with those wild packs, and I’m not sure how long he would’ve made it on only three legs.”
“He would’ve made it.”
“Yeah,” Teo agreed. “I moved to Arad soon after. It’s nice here, especially in the summers. We’ll have to stay in touch, don’t you think? We can go to the lake, explore the Cetatea—a very interesting place. Maybe take some hikes or whatnot.”
“Maybe. It’s hard to say. I’m still adjusting to the center’s demands.”
“Tell me this. If you could have three wishes, what would they be?”
“Teo.” She jabbed a finger at his arm. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.”
“You remember that? I was wondering. It was my first real kiss, you know?”
“Pretty obvious, actually. Mine too.”
They laughed and looked in opposite directions.
Gina’s gloves fumbled with the wrapping around the langosi, and she said, “To hear the national anthem. That would be right up there.”
“One of your wishes?”
“I couldn’t believe that was happening, and in downtown Arad.”
“It was definitely moving to hear those kids sing it. You missed the revolution, didn’t you? Well, we admire our martyrs of 1989. They bought back our souls with their blood, you might say. Forget about those hooligans who tried to disrupt things at city hall today.”
“It happens. Thanks for speaking up.”
“I would’ve spoken sooner if I’d known you were standing there.”
“That would’ve been my second wish,” Gina said. “Running into you again.”
“Really? And that was number one on my list.” He gestured to a park bench facing the Mures River, and they sat. “What about the third wish?”
“Don’t know. I’ll have to think it over.”
She did know, though. Her unspoken desire was that one day she could enjoy a relationship built on unconditional acceptance. Not on her looks, or on any baggage from her past, or even on physical chemistry. Something deeper. Something more.
“Here,” Teo said. “Let me get that for you.”
He took her trash, balled it up, and made an arching shot that bounded off the rim of a metal receptacle. He was standing to retrieve the errant throw when a shape appeared from the huddle of foliage near the riverbank.
She saw the boy before Teo did. “Hello,” she said.
If Gina could’ve compared her life to a thick novel, she would’ve pointed out that the most pivotal moments came in bunches—sharp peaks in the pace of the story. Of course, whole chapters had been torn from the spine of her biography, so she knew her perceptions could be flawed.
This did not negate, however, her ability to hone in on the details of a given moment. And this was one such moment.
The child was malnourished, eyes dulled by hunger and earlobes bluish white. He was the same size, maybe a year or two older, than most of the boys in the center. He had a small, dirty pack over his shoulder, and he wore a pair of shoes that were too large for his small frame and showed a smear of red around the canvas toe of the left one.
He stared down at the ground. Was he deaf ?
It wasn’t uncommon. Street urchins were a regular sight around the city, often sent out by poverty-stricken parents to rummage for change and old bread. Citizens were approached at outdoor eateries or at traffic intersections. This nuisance had overwhelmed and tired most people, who had their own daily concerns.
“Hello?” Gina ventured a hand wave this time.
The boy eyed her from beneath tangled hair.
Her motherly instinct said to rush to him, while her intellect cautioned otherwise. She’d seen the same sort in the orphanage, those with the mentality of cornered animals. They would react to an advance by: (a) fleeing for their lives, or (b) attacking first to fend off a perceived threat.
