The Girl They Left Behind

by Roxanne Veletzos

  Three

  VICTOR

  37

  August 1959

  NATALIA HAD PROMISED LIDIA THAT she would be at her place no later than six, but with the buses not running on time, it was clear she would never make it by then. Her cousin, her dearest friend, was hosting a small birthday party at her new apartment. She had invited a few friends from the national bank where she had been working for the past two years, people she wanted to introduce to Natalia.

  “Please, Talia, just this once, be on time. I think you might find it worthwhile,” she’d teased, nudging Natalia with her elbow as the two of them sat on a park bench sharing an orange soda the previous Sunday.

  At first, Natalia had said she had something to do that day, that she was busy. But Lidia kept insisting, deploying her full charm, laying out every reason why she could not miss out on this gathering, she simply could not. “Don’t you think you’re too old to be without an admirer?” she’d said more directly, when it seemed that she was making no progress. “You’re twenty-two, Natalia, for God’s sake!”

  And so in the end, Natalia had agreed to go.

  It took nearly half a day and two buses to get to Lidia’s house. She lived now in one of the city’s outlying sectors, where housing blocks erected after the war stretched on for endless kilometers. Each time Natalia visited, she had trouble finding her cousin’s flat and often got lost in the maze of pathways that connected one identical concrete giant to the other. Most of the time, it seemed to take nearly as long as the commute itself to find the right wing, the right stairwell, the right door.

  At least Lidia was lucky enough to live on her own. She was the master of her destiny, Natalia mused with a twinge of envy as she rode on the first bus amid a mass of crammed bodies. In five years’ time, she herself would probably still be living at home. The export produce hall where she worked barely paid enough to sustain the three of them, much less a separate residence. But she was in no place to complain. Luckily, she’d been able to secure a transfer from the cooperative farm twenty kilometers outside of Bucharest where she had been putting in twelve-hour shifts for the better part of the year. At least she no longer had to put up with the foul-smelling train rides, the lack of sleep, the field workers leering at her, brushing up against her, laughing at her puritan pride. She no longer had to endure the sun beating on her back as she harvested potatoes in an open field, the bitter cold that followed in the winter months when by sundown she trudged back to the train station unable to feel her legs.

  No, the warehouse where she now worked was a dream by comparison. Her job, too—cleaning and sorting pears and peaches and apricots, then loading them onto the platforms of trucks that took them directly out of the country—was less taxing than she’d imagined. Even though she had little memory of what all that fruit tasted like, she enjoyed the feel of it in her hands, soft and plump and fragrant in full season.

  The bus screeched to a halt, and as the doors swished open to let on a new wave of sweltering commuters, Natalia realized that she was about to miss her stop. Clutching her bag against her chest, she carved a path to the front and descended hastily in Piazza Romana, mere blocks from where her father’s store used to be. From there, she crossed Magheru Boulevard to the connecting trolley line, where she sat on a bench and waited, watching the activity unfold on the periphery of the square: gypsies selling flowers, pretzel vendors and cardboard squatters begging for coins, and mostly pedestrians, hurried, preoccupied, frowning at the ground. The trolley was late as usual, and a half hour later, she decided to walk.

  From time to time, she glanced behind to see if the trolley was anywhere in sight, but there was no sign of it, so she continued ahead in no real hurry. A few blocks later, she noticed a café across the street with red-and-white umbrellas, where a few patrons were seated around wrought-iron tables, talking casually, enjoying the balmy late-afternoon sun. The softening rays trickled through the thick branches of a large oak in the center of the terrace, casting glints and dancing shadows on the checkered tablecloths. How lucky, she thought, to be able to sit in a place like that, to enjoy a bowl of ice cream or a cold beer on a hot day.

  Not for people like us, she reminded herself. Those tables were reserved for a select few, officers and Party leaders, government workers. She sighed, watching the people on the terrace a little while longer, when all of sudden, near a fountain in the far corner, a woman caught her eye. What Natalia first noticed was her wavy blond hair, so long that it covered the back of her chair. As she moved, those golden waves shimmered in the sun, cascading over her bare shoulders.

  Natalia was mesmerized. No one had hair like that anymore, no one she had seen in recent years. The girl laughed at something her companion said. She threw her head back and let out a bellow, then quickly covered her mouth, catching the curious stares of the other patrons. Trying to stifle her laughter, she leaned over the table, and the mass of blond hair tumbled over her face. The man sitting across from her laughed, too, as he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. Then he stood and took out a few bills from his pocket, which he counted and placed under the ashtray. Before he walked away, he leaned over the woman’s chair and, tucking a golden strand behind her ear, kissed her cheek.

  Natalia did not know why it moved her so, whether it was the tenderness of his gesture or the way the woman smiled at him as if they shared some kind of secret. And in that moment, she realized what her heart already knew. That man was Victor.

  She stared at him as he made his way toward the door of the café in large, confident strides. On his way, he paused to say something to the waiter standing nearby with a tray in his hand and a white napkin draped over his forearm. The waiter bowed slightly and smiled as Victor disappeared inside.

  All her blood seemed to have seeped into the ground through the soles of her feet. The bag in which she had packed a change of clothes for the party felt too heavy, and she let it drop to the ground. Leaning against a wall, she watched the blonde across the street extract a compact mirror from her purse and apply a fresh coat of lipstick, tilting her delicate, heart-shaped face toward the sun. Something shot through the pit of Natalia’s stomach like acid. She needed to get away, immediately. Go, walk, now, she commanded herself, but her legs wouldn’t obey.

  With all her effort, she reached down and picked up her bag. Slinging it over her shoulder in an unladylike way, she began moving, marching unsteadily down the sidewalk. She picked up her pace, her body pitched slightly forward in a direction she did not know, no longer toward the bus stop. And then she heard him.

  “Talia! Talia, please stop!”

  Again, she quickened her step, gazing at her feet, only at her feet, concentrating on putting one in front of the other. For a moment, she considered running but then realized there was no point, really. He would only catch up with her. When she stopped and turned quite abruptly, he was so close behind her they almost collided.

  “Talia,” he said, bewildered. “It’s really you. Why are you running from me?”

  She looked up into his face, feeling as though the air had stilled, and her first thought was that she was trembling so much that he would see it. A flash of anger tore through the web of shock and embarrassment and confused feelings.

  “What do you want from me?” she blurted recklessly. “Why are you following me?”

  He took a small step back, shocked by her tone, but his eyes remained on her. “It really is you,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He grinned unsurely, his eyes seeking hers, but Natalia’s were not smiling.

  “Why are you following me?” she said again, icily.

  He looked as if he was trying to compose himself, to find something to say, a justification for chasing her for nearly two blocks. It was obvious that her coldness had taken him by surprise. Well, she was no longer the sweet, passive girl he remembered. And he was certainly not the dazzling young man he used to be.

  His smooth black hair was streaked slightly wi
th gray at the temples, and he looked thinner, somehow smaller than she remembered, even though he still towered over her. Even in her heels now, she barely reached the top of his chest. His angular features, which once used to make her think of a Roman gladiator, had softened a little, but his eyes were unchanged, despite the soft lines threading underneath them. They were still piercing and sharp, like uncut emerald.

  “I thought . . . I hoped it was you,” Victor said quietly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Yes, well, it is me. Natalia, remember? And do you recall my parents? Anton, who you once said was like a father to you? Who needed you most when you vanished?”

  He watched her wordlessly, stunned, as though she had thrown cold water in his face.

  “Ah,” she went on bitterly. “What difference does it make to you? Why would you care what’s happened to us since we last saw your face almost a decade ago?”

  In his long stare, Natalia saw a trace of sadness and something she had never glimpsed before: fear. Perhaps he had always feared this moment, this exact moment when he would have to reckon with his past and be forced to make amends, excuses. But she would not be the one to give him redemption.

  “Yes, my father . . . my father hasn’t worked since the time he was imprisoned. Did you know that? Since that time that you were kind enough to secure his freedom. For what? Freedom to lose it all, to be discarded like he never mattered, to pass his days wondering when he will be released from the hell that his life has become? While you dine in expensive restaurants without a care in the world? Places like that will not hire my father even to wash dishes or mop floors. Did you know that, Victor?”

  She couldn’t go on. She was breathless. Tears were choking her throat, and she swallowed hard against them, for she would not let him see her cry. For a moment, she thought she’d been too direct, too brutal, and that he would lash back at her. But he just stood there, not saying a word. His silence fueled her fury, spurring her on.

  “I didn’t think so, Victor. You do not know me, you do not know us, any longer. Why don’t you go back to your friend? No doubt, she’s waiting for you.”

  He seized her arm then, unexpectedly and so forcefully that she almost lost her footing. Don’t touch me! she wanted to scream. Instead, she turned to face him, squaring her shoulders, rising to her maximum height. Her eyes went up to meet his, unafraid. He was squeezing her arm so hard that she was certain his fingers would leave an imprint on her skin.

  “You—you do not know,” he stammered. “You do not understand. You were so young, and I . . . I did all that I could.” He released her and ran both hands through his hair, then sat heavily on the low concrete wall behind them. “You do not know what it has cost me.”

  “I know what it’s cost my father. Not having you there anymore.”

  He inhaled sharply, held in the air as he looked in the distance. Good. She hoped it hurt. She hoped he felt a mere fraction of her anguish. The same way she had felt when he walked out of their home and she quivered for a last glance from him, for a wave good-bye. Those moments, that schoolgirl crush, belonged to another world. That girl had perished long ago, together with her last image of him rounding the corner after leaving their house.

  All of a sudden, she felt deeply tired, as though all her strength had poured out of her body, leaving her a hollow shell. Slowly, she lowered herself onto the wall next to him.

  “Look what’s become of us, Victor. Look what your beloved Party has made of us.”

  Those words, Natalia knew, could secure her a lifetime in a Gulag camp when spoken to a man like him, but she didn’t care if he turned her in, if the Security Police took her away right now and blindfolded her against the wall. Her life had stopped being hers a long time ago.

  “Natalia, what do you know of my life?” he said now, his own voice on the edge of breaking. “What do you know of the things I’ve seen, that I’ve had to do, since we parted?”

  She looked at him then as if seeing him for the first time, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, in anguish, in longing. She touched the spot on her arm where his fingers had been just moments ago, like a branding iron.

  “I died, Talia. The young man you knew died a long time ago. I am only a ghost.”

  She wanted to ask him what he meant, to explain what had happened to him, but she did not have the chance. The click of high heels interrupted her, and when Natalia looked up, she saw the young woman from the restaurant coming toward them, her blond waves bouncing in the breeze. She stopped right in front of them and smiled unsurely at Natalia.

  “Victor?” she said in a perplexed tone, her gaze shifting between them.

  Her feet were spaced slightly apart, and Natalia could not help but notice her exquisite leather pumps. Her mother, she recalled, had shoes like that once. An awkward moment stretched interminably before Victor scrambled up to his feet and took a few steps toward the woman.

  “Darling, this is Natalia, an old friend. I was close to her family once. We haven’t seen each other in years.” Then, turning to Natalia with visible discomfort, he said, “Talia, this is my wife, Katia.”

  38

  THERE HAD BEEN NO NOTICEABLE change in the weather that year, no gradual blend into the colors of fall, and if Natalia had missed the turn of the seasons, it was because time was passing over her like a cloud. One evening, she emerged from the produce hall a little late and was stunned to see that it was already dark. Wrapping her raincoat tightly around her, she began walking briskly, realizing that it was early November and that judging from the chill, snow might soon arrive. At the corner, she waited along with a few other pedestrians, watching her breath billow out in trails of vapor, when suddenly she heard her name.

  “Talia.”

  She paused but did not turn. Perhaps I should run, she thought. If I was smart, if I knew what was best, that’s what I would do. But then she did turn, slowly, deliberately, and he was there right beside her in a fraction of a second. His coat collar was turned up, shielding most of his face. Only his eyes were visible, acute, filled with unrest. Natalia glanced past him to see if he was alone, if anyone had followed him, but she saw no one who looked suspicious. There were no men in trench coats hiding in the shadows of buildings, only a few civilians buried underneath mountains of clothing, passing them by in a hurry.

  “Can I walk you home, Talia?” he asked softly.

  “No, thank you. I was on my way to the bus stop.”

  “Would you like a ride? I can—”

  “No, Victor,” she interrupted, shaking her head sternly. “I don’t want you to give me a ride or to walk with me. Whatever it is you intended to say, you’ve already said it.”

  Tilting his head to one side, he measured her, narrowing his eyes a little. “Are you afraid of me, Natalia?”

  It took her aback, the directness of his question. Perhaps that was what he thought, that she wouldn’t speak to him because she was afraid. Well, after all, he was a man to be feared. If she had any sense, she certainly would be.

  “Victor, I am grateful for all that you’ve done for my family. My father loved you once like a son, so it isn’t my place to judge. But you don’t know me, you don’t know us anymore. That was a lifetime ago.”

  It was simply a statement, honest and final, not requiring a reply. She hoped it would be enough to make him go. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Why was he still standing there as though he expected her to go on, to say something more? She knew it wasn’t the first time he’d waited for her. She’d seen his car before, parked at the curb some distance away, far enough where it would blend in with the rest of the traffic. But it wasn’t until a few days ago that he approached her, came up to her like this in the open. Still, she didn’t have anything to say to him. What was there to say after all this time? It angered her, the image of him on that terrace, sipping his brandy, laughing with that woman. That woman who was his wife.

  “I don’t know what you want, Victor. To pick up where we lef
t off? You want to come over for supper like you used to? I’m afraid you wouldn’t like our food, even though my mother does all she can to make the best of a few potatoes and some pork fat. We haven’t been able to get fresh bread in weeks. I can’t remember the last time I had some meat.”

  A shadow passed over his face, something that might have been pity or remorse, and she wondered for the first time if it was forgiveness that he wanted from her. Well, she wouldn’t be the one to give it to him. The choices he’d made, the life he’d built on victims and corpses and fear, was of his own doing. It was his to own.

  “You can’t come here anymore, Victor. It’s isn’t wise. Isn’t that why you went away in the first place? Why you disappeared from our lives all those years ago?” She paused, swallowed hard. “Please leave, Victor. Turn around and go. Whatever you think you know about us, about me, you do not.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said then.

  Ah, he did have a voice. It was raspy and strangled and entirely strange to her.

  “I do know you, Talia. I’ve known you since you were a little girl. I used to listen to you play piano so beautifully, do you remember? I thought, she is gifted. She will be a great pianist someday. Who else knows that about you?”

  He might as well have reached out and slapped her. Yes, her piano had been the most precious thing in her life until it was ripped out of her hands. Her solace and her gift had been stolen from her. By people like him.

  “Yes, I played beautifully once,” she said sadly. “Before my piano was taken away from me, along with everything else we had.”

  He sighed then and looked at the ground as if he might cry. It was then that she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the tiny brackets around his crooked, sad smile. The years had matured his face, embroidered it with some sort of a majestic quality, yet turned back the clock at the same time. There was an air about him that reminded her of the Victor of her childhood days, when he still lived in the loft above her father’s store.