For a moment, Anton was silent. Then his hand came out of his pocket, and he extended his arm in an inviting gesture. “Come,” he said. “Come with me. I know a place where we could get some mici, even at this late hour. I’m hungry, too, you see, and I could use the company.”
They arrived at a well-known beerhouse on Stavropoleos Street. Despite being labeled a pub, it was the kind of place people flocked to for the setting more than the selection of beer. Catching the critical glances that greeted them the moment they entered, the young man considered turning around and walking out. But his hunger was greater than his dignity, and the maître d’, a portly old man in coattails who seemed well acquainted with Anton, was already ushering them toward the back of the restaurant, where a perfect ensemble of starched white linen and gleaming silver awaited. As they passed a row of tables where the conversation had suddenly hushed, the young man scanned the mural paintings, the ambient light emanating from the delicate art deco sconces, and thought, No wonder they’re all staring. Normally, he would have been chased away from a place like this if he so much as glanced through the window.
Yet as midnight neared, they were the last two patrons left. Anton ordered more mici and steak with fries, and they switched from beer to brandy. The waiter had grown visibly impatient, but he could not refuse Anton’s requests. Anton and his wife had been his best customers for years. There was simply no way to rush him along, especially not at a time like this, when he seemed so engrossed in a conversation.
It was the first time Anton had opened up about his past. It took him by surprise how easily he confided in this perfect stranger, how he effortlessly shared the story of his humble beginnings. Little by little, he laid bare his soul and the inner workings of his heart to the famished young man, this student whose name was Victor and who worked all kinds of night jobs to pay for his university tuition, even if it meant not eating for days. Anton felt liberated while speaking to him, as though an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
At first, Victor did not understand why the wealthy shop owner from downstairs would take an interest in sharing a meal with him, much less reveal such intimate details about his life. He’d seen him nearly every morning, unlocking the shop in his elegant suits and silk scarves. He’d seen the black Buick that dropped him off every day, the dark-haired beauty—undoubtedly his wife—who stopped by several times a week, carrying an assortment of hatboxes and shopping bags, always in a cloud of expensive perfume. What would a man like that want with him? Why would he bother? Yet as the hours clicked by and Anton delved deeper into stories about his childhood, he began to understand a bit why he’d been invited here.
“No child should be forced to work under such conditions for the benefit of the wealthy,” Victor declared when Anton had finished telling him about his days as a delivery boy sleeping in the back of the storage room. “There will come a day when no one will have to live through such atrocities.” He leaned forward so his voice wouldn’t carry. “The subjugation of the poor that has plagued Europe for hundreds of years will soon come to an end, mark my words. When the wealthy are stripped of their undeserved fortunes, when everything is divided equally among the people, that’s when this country will regain its humanity. You will see, Anton. You will see.”
Reaching across the table, he extracted a cigarette from the golden case that Anton held out to him. All the beer and brandy had fueled his candor, and he had forgotten that the man sitting across from him belonged to the very ranks to which he referred with such disdain.
“But it hasn’t worked,” Anton replied truthfully, placing the case back in his pocket. “It hasn’t worked in Russia. People are living in communal apartments in Moscow and Leningrad, they have no food, no heat. And what about the thousands of people Stalin has killed to protect what he has created? No one is better off. Everyone suffers all the same.”
“You are naive, Anton!” Victor declared, more loudly than he intended, tapping his fist lightly on the table. “Stalin has industrialized Russia. He has created more opportunity, more advancements than any other country in the world. And why do you think that is? Why?” He paused, though obviously not for an answer. “Because the Soviets are devoted to society as a whole, not just selfish gain. And that is why they will win this war.” He finished the last of his brandy and put down the empty glass.
Anton could not help smiling. He did not remember ever meeting anyone who spoke with such conviction. Not that he agreed with much of what his young friend was saying, but his enthusiasm, that fire in his eyes, was certainly catching. There was a bit of an indignation flourishing in his own breast, thinking that someone this articulate and intelligent had to dig inside garbage bins for discarded food. It seemed inconceivable.
Anton motioned for the bill. “Are you free for lunch Easter Sunday?” he asked. He guessed almost with certainty that Victor did not have a standing engagement or much reason to celebrate, but he didn’t know how else to extend the invitation. “It would be a great pleasure if you could join us. If you’d like.”
“Anton, thank you. But do you think your wife would be happy entertaining someone like me in her home?” He shook his head. “No, Anton. I think we will keep this—our meeting of minds, if you will—just between us. And I thank you. I thank you again for your generosity.”
With that, he stood and extended his hand to Anton, who, still sitting, took it and held it firmly for a moment.
“Come by the house,” he said, smiling in the dim light. “I’d actually like you to meet my wife. I’d like you to see that you’re wrong.”
13
MARIA WAS NOT A DEVOUT woman, despite the fact that everyone who knew her thought her to be without question fully and completely dedicated to God. Certainly, she believed in his supreme power; she never questioned that all matters pertaining to life on earth were decided by the Almighty. But what was puzzling to her was why God always chose her as a vessel for his work, why he chose to put such difficult matters in her flawed and mortal hands.
The letter fluttered ever so slightly as she held it up against the window and read it again. It did not take long to get through it. Only a few lines had been written in black ink on a flimsy sheet, as fragile as a butterfly wing. It slipped out of her hand and landed at her feet, just underneath the windowsill. She crouched down to pick it up, and as she did, her finger slid over its edge, and it cut her skin.
Gazing absentmindedly out the window, her mind drifted to the day before. She had barely arrived at the orphanage in the early morning when the director had greeted her by the entrance, saying there was an urgent matter she needed to discuss. At first, Maria assumed that it had something to do with the long hours she had been putting in. Even Mrs. Tudor had noticed that Maria had been spending every waking moment at the orphanage, that her obsessive preoccupation with the children was beginning to take its toll on her appearance. “I don’t need you here night and day,” she had told her once. “I need you to stay healthy. Take a few days off, get some rest, go out for a good meal.”
Maria knew she was right. Her husband, too, had become increasingly anxious about her sudden pallor, her thinning frame. He was telling her the very same things. But whatever Ana Tudor was going to discuss with her had nothing to do with her health. She knew it the minute Mrs. Tudor had followed her into her office and closed the door behind them. Somewhere along the years, she and the orphanage director had become friends, bound by a sense of responsibility and concern for the children, their constant care. They were beyond formalities and closed doors.
“Would you mind sitting down, Maria?” Mrs. Tudor had said, walking around her desk and sitting as well. “How to begin . . .” She laced her fingers together. “This is very delicate. It has to do with the Goza girl.”
“Natalia?” Maria had asked, unable to conceal her surprise. “What about her?”
“This.”
Across her desk, Ana Tudor had slid a cream-colored envelope. “I received this
last week. Because of its sensitive nature, I wanted to entrust it to you. You and the girl’s mother are very close, no? And so I think you will know best how to handle it.”
Maria had taken the envelope. Reaching inside it, she had extracted a single sheet of paper, folded in half.
“Maria, before you read it, please know that whether you decide to share it with the Goza family or not is entirely up to you. I make no judgment about it either way, because I know that you, my friend, will make the right decision. Either way, my involvement in this matter ends here.”
Maria had nodded, then unfolded the paper and begun reading. It did not take long to get to the end. When she looked up again, her hand was trembling.
Now the hardest part lay ahead of her. She shuddered, thinking about what she needed to do, what she had to do if she was ever to have another moment’s peace. It seemed so simple yet impossible to fathom at the same time. Despina was Natalia’s mother; she had a right to know about the letter, what the letter said. But Despina was also the person closest to Maria. They had shared everything growing up, including a bed at the family’s summer house in Salonika and secrets whispered in the dark and promises that nothing would ever come between them. She was the last person on earth Maria wanted to upset.
But suddenly, Maria recalled another face, not that of her cousin but the other one’s. That woman who had lived in her attic for half a year, who had by a mere miracle survived, only to resume an empty life, one undoubtedly filled with pain and remorse. She sighed, thinking about how she had looked that last morning coming down the service stairs bundled in one of her own old woolen sweaters. How her eyes had lacked life. Yes, she knew what losing a child did to a person, how little else mattered after that. And so what of this woman? Did she owe her anything?
And then there was Natalia, that sweet, beautiful auburn-haired girl, whose smile could light up a room. She seemed so happy with Anton and Despina, so content. How could Maria, of all people, risk coming between that? How could she risk destroying that blissful peace they had all found in one another?
Heavily, Maria sank into a chair. She sat there watching the sky darken in the window, then evening giving way to night, as she lingered over the possibilities, the consequences, going back and forth and starting again. It was pitch-black outside by the time a searing knowledge rose unflinchingly in her heart, like a pinprick producing a droplet of blood on the surface of her thumb.
At last, she understood. Ana Tudor knew her better than she knew herself. Maria let her face drop into her hands and her tears spring forth. She did not try to hold them back, as she was grieving for what she herself had lost so long ago.
14
IN HER SUNNY KITCHEN, DESPINA bustled around in an impeccably starched apron tied over her lilac silk dress. With one hand she brushed a few loose strands away from her face, while with the other she stirred milk, sugar, eggs, and butter in a large metal bowl, methodically adding raisins and shot glasses of rum. Only the slight frown line embedded between her perfectly arched eyebrows gave away her intense concentration as she stirred in ingredients and motioned to Sofia to bring more sugar from the pantry, more flour.
On a stool in the corner, Natalia sat and watched her mother, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. These were Natalia’s favorite moments, the hustle and bustle in the hours before a party, when the possibility of a perfect day still lay before them, filling her with anticipation. It was only ten in the morning, but the fragrance of her mother’s baking, of braids of dough and nutmeg rising from the oven, had already seeped into every corner of the house. From a small portable radio on one of the shelves, her favorite show, The Children’s Hour, droned away.
“Why don’t you go outside and see if you can find some of your friends?” Despina said, catching a glimpse of her daughter. “The fresh air will do you good. Go on, now.”
Natalia’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really? You mean it?”
“Well, why not?” Despina smiled, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Just be back before two. I’d like you to change into something more festive for lunch.”
“Thank you, Mama! I promise to be back in time!” she exclaimed, jumping down from her stool, needing no further encouragement.
Ever since the day she’d had to serve detention at school, her mother hadn’t let her out of her sight. She’d been hesitant even to let her go as far as the mailbox or step out in the yard. Not that Natalia could blame her. Weeks had passed, and she was still shaken with guilt thinking of all that had followed when she’d finally arrived home that night.
There had been no torrent of fury. No yelling, no punishments. No phone call, apparently, from Mother Superior, either. That much was obvious the moment her mother had wrenched open the door despite her best efforts to sneak in quietly, to explain that, in fact, she’d been in the attic the whole time, searching for her old train set, which she meant to give to Maria for the orphanage. She was relieved, of course, at not having to lie, but the way her mother had looked at her, pale and wide-eyed, holding on to the door as if it was some kind of a life raft, made her own breath cut short.
“Talia,” she’d said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “Talia, where? Where have you been?”
“I’m sorry, Mama, I am so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen,” she’d mumbled, and burst into tears.
Sometime later, after she had been bundled in a cashmere blanket, after she’d been brought a cup of tea and had her feet and her hands rubbed, Natalia found the courage to tell her the truth. Softly, nervously, keeping her eyes on the rug, she’d recounted the whole awful day, what that girl had said to her in the schoolyard, how she had not been able to control her rage, how she’d been forced to stand facing a wall through the evening.
To her amazement, her mother had listened patiently, not uttering a word. It wasn’t until she got to the part—almost as an afterthought—about the man who’d approached her on the street that she sprang to her feet as if she’d been shocked by a bolt of electricity.
“It’s all right, Mama!” she’d cried. “I’m all right. Nothing happened! It was nothing.”
But her mother could not stop pacing the room after that, rubbing her temples in tiny, frantic circles, frowning at the floor, sitting and standing and sitting again. After a while, she took Natalia’s hand in hers, but this time there was no excessive affection, only an endless barrage of questions that seemed to go on for hours. How old was the man, Talia? How was he dressed, Talia? What, and I mean precisely what, did he say to you? Natalia did her best to answer, but truly she did not know why that man had tried to speak to her. Or why he’d seemed familiar—a part she thought best to leave out.
At one point, her father had come into the room and, not wanting to interrupt, poured himself a cup of tea and went to stand near the window. He did not take a single sip from his cup. He just stood there with his hands curled around his tea mug, listening.
“All right, Despina. Let’s finish this in the morning,” he’d said after a while. “Talia, come with me to the kitchen. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
She’d wanted to run up and kiss him. Thank God they were done with it, at least for the night. Yet as she followed him out of the room, she paused in the doorway and turned to Despina one last time:
“Good night, Mama,” she’d said softly. “I’m sorry.”
But her mother did not seem to hear her. She was leaning over the back of the sofa, holding on to the backrest with both hands, her shoulders bent forward, as if some deeply troubling knowledge had hooked itself inside her heart.
Now, after weeks of keeping Natalia under lock and key and watching her with the attention of a prison guard, her mother was telling her that she could go outside to play. How funny she was. How unpredictable. But Natalia certainly wasn’t going to question her change of heart.
“I’ll be back in time!” she reassured her mother again as she sprinted toward the kitchen door.
Her hands suddenl
y froze when she grasped the smooth, glossy surface of the doorknob, and she retreated back a step. There was a sound coming from outside, a whining like that of an ambulance but louder, more insistent. It sounded like howling.
She turned instantly to her mother, searching her face, but it was blank as she stood there with the bowl in her hands. It was not the sound from outside but the clatter of metal—the bowl slipping from her hands, white dough splattering over the tiles—that made her cry out. On the radio, The Children’s Hour was interrupted by the grave voice of a male announcer.
“Bucharest is under bombardment! The Allied forces are bombing the city! All citizens are advised to take shelter immediately!” There was a crackle, a pause, and then the voice returned more urgently: “I repeat, all are to take shelter immediately! God help the citizens of this country. God help us all.”
15
IT HAD COME AFTER ALL, without warning. The thing they had all feared had taken the city by surprise, on Easter morning of all days. A single siren had sounded, not far away from their house, perhaps in one of the central plazas. It had come late, much too late for Despina to do anything but grab hold of Natalia’s hand and drag her toward the cellar door that Sofia had already pried open. They had barely made it halfway down the steps when their house began to shake and give way to sounds they’d never heard before. Still, Despina thought they had been lucky to be able to act right on the spot.
Down in the cellar, she did her best to comfort Natalia. Above the shrieks, the bone-rattling booms, the pop of fracturing bricks and blasted-out windows, her daughter’s cries were the hardest sounds to endure. Despina hummed a tune in her ear, telling her to think of something happy, telling her not to be afraid. What more could she have done? She might have prayed, as Sofia did, on her knees with her forehead pressed firmly against the wall. She might have, but it would have only terrified the child more.
The Girl They Left Behind Page 8
