by Sarah Rayne
He sat down on the floor and began to riffle the pages of both books. The first was of no help, but the second had a whole section on Romania. Theo began to read, working his way through various aspects of the country: its folklore, which included rusalkas and mild-mannered vampires; its many invasions by Goths, Bulgars and Turks and assorted marauding armies, and the complexities of its royal dynasties and rulers which he found confusing, largely because most of them had names ending in ‘escu’.
There was a brief section on Elena Ceauşescu near the end. Theo read it carefully.
Elena Ceauşescu (c.1916–89), was the wife of the infamous and power-hungry Nicolae Ceauşescu, dictator and president of Romania between 1967 and 1989. Elena, also sometimes written as Ilena, rose to power when Nicolae became Secretary General of the Romanian Communist Party in 1965 and then President of the State Council in 1967. Although she styled herself at one stage as Mother of the Nation, Elena was not, in fact, particularly maternal, and was to become one of the most hated people in Romania during her husband’s 25-year reign.
She was involved in, and finally found responsible for, many of the human rights abuses in Romania between the 1960s and 1980s.
That seemed to sum up Elena fairly well and to provide all the information Theo needed, but he read to the end of the section.
She brought in many of her own reforms, one of which was the outlawing of birth control and abortion, creating a flood of unwanted babies, many of whom were housed in what can only be described as substandard, state-operated orphanages. There has been speculation since about her motives for this particular policy, but at the time of writing, the reasons have still not been satisfactorily explained.
Orphanages. Theo went back to the laptop and recovered the earlier chapter where the small Mara, trying to escape from the Black House, had accidentally stumbled on the room with babies in cages. It had horrified her, just as the newsreels of the Romanian orphanages would later horrify the Western world. It had horrified Theo when he was typing it.
After the coup that deposed Elena and Nicolae Ceauşescu in 1989, they both fled the country but were caught, arrested, tried and executed on Christmas Day in 1989.
He was about to close the book when he saw the footnote, in a typeface so minuscule he had to take it across to the table to read under the desk lamp.
There are unsupported and undocumented claims that Elena Ceauşescu, shortly before her rise to power, relied very much on a female friend who was extremely active within the Communist Party. Little is known about this woman, except that she apparently assisted Elena in tracking down a number of so-called political agitators and enemies of the state. The woman died in violent and mysterious circumstances. Elena attended the funeral and paid public tribute to the work of Annaleise Simonescu.
Annaleise Simonescu. Annaleise. Theo stared at the printed name and tried to remember whether he had ever read this book, but was sure he had not – he thought he would have remembered. He turned to the front, curious to see if Guff, the sentimental old spaniel, had written in it, or even if the Ukrainian girl had done.
There was no message either to or from Guff. There was just the title page, various acknowledgements to people who had helped with research, and the date of publication: 2003. That settled the question of whether he could have read it and forgotten. He had not been to Fenn House since that half term when Helen had caught him and Charmery together. It had been the autumn of 2001, two years before this book was even published, which meant he could not possibly have read it. And yet he had chosen the unusual name of Annaleise, and had described how she and Elena Ceauşescu had worked together to hunt down Elisabeth Valk.
He put the book back, frowning and wondering where he went from here. Back into the plot, he said to himself at once. Just dive back in and don’t worry about where any of it’s coming from. Don’t worry, either, about how a young boy, mixed up in Ceauşescu’s bleak Romania, could have drawn scenes in Melbray, as well as that remarkable portrait of Charmery. Theo looked across at the sketch. Matthew had lived in the grim Romania of Ceauşescu’s rule, somewhere between 1960 and 1989 and Charmery had not been born until the mid-1980s, and had died at the age of twenty-six earlier this year. Theo supposed it was possible they had met, but it did not seem very likely.
But even if they had met, it was still curious the way that Romania and its troubled history was tumbling so insistently and so consistently into Theo’s mind.
Romania, early 1960s
As the car with Elena, Annaleise and Zoia drove across the countryside, the cold monochrome morning gave way to a watery sunlight.
This was the longest journey Zoia had ever made – she had been born in the little village on the east side of Resita, and had only ever travelled to the university town some thirty miles distant. That had seemed a huge undertaking, filled with terrifying prospects and unknown horizons, but it had been a journey she had wanted to make because it represented escape. This jolting drive across unfamiliar countryside, with dark forests and brooding mountain ranges, represented the opposite of escape: it represented imprisonment for Elisabeth Valk. Zoia stared out of the window and thought how Elisabeth must have made this journey many times. Had she been planning the things she would say on the wireless as she travelled, or had she been wondering if her husband was all right at home without her? Did they have any children?
It was a lonely road to travel – presumably Elisabeth had made the journey by car. Not many people had cars and very few could actually drive, but Elisabeth was the kind of privileged creature who might actually own a car.
They stopped in a small market town just beyond Pescari for coffee and food. ‘A delayed breakfast,’ Elena called it. Both Elena and Annaleise were disdainful about the primitive lavatories behind the cafe, and Zoia wondered what they would have thought of the privy in the garden of her childhood home.
As they went on again a distant church clock struck ten – Zoia counted the chimes – and Elena said, ‘There’s the Yugoslav border,’ and indicated a checkpoint a few miles ahead. Zoia knew a moment of panic because she had no papers of any kind with her – nobody had told her to bring anything – but Elena simply showed the soldier some kind of document, and he sketched a respectful half salute and they were through. At Zoia’s side, Annaleise murmured something about the power of the Party, and Zoia nodded.
The mountain smudge had moved round to the west and the sun streamed down making it uncomfortably hot in the car. But presently they drove through a cluster of narrow streets, not unlike the streets of the university town, and this seemed to be their destination. The driver stopped to consult a map with Elena, stabbing a finger questioningly at it. Elena studied the map then nodded, and the car moved off again. Ten minutes later they drew up in front of a tall narrow house, four stories high, with a chipped and peeling facade and long windows, most of which were shuttered. Annaleise touched Zoia’s arm and indicated the thin metal structure on one of the roofs.
‘Wireless transmitter,’ she said. ‘This is it, all right.’
‘Are we sure she’s there?’ asked Elena.
‘Yes. Our people on the ground here were very clear. She’s here for these two days – working out the filthy treason she intends to broadcast, I suppose. She goes home, then comes back for the evening broadcast twice a week.’
‘Will anyone else be in the house?’ asked Zoia, eyeing it doubtfully.
‘Our people said not. There’s only ever one – at most two others – with her, and that’s for the actual broadcast. Even if they’re here now, Vasile is armed.’
Zoia had not been prepared for that. She asked if they were all going in.
‘No. Elena and I will go in with Vasile. If we need you, we’ll call.’
So Zoia waited in the car, the strong winter sunlight shining down on the quiet street, making the wireless transmitter glint like the betrayer of secrets it was. Nothing much stirred. Once a black-scarfed woman went hurrying along, her head bowed, a
basket over one arm, and once a couple of youths on bicycles clattered along. They looked curiously at Zoia, but continued on their way. The church clock chimed the half hour, then the hour and Zoia wondered if she should go into the house in case they needed help. But as she reached over to open the door Elena appeared. She looked up and down the street, then looked back into the house and nodded. Zoia sat up straighter, anticipating a struggle, because Elisabeth would surely not give in without a fight.
But she did not fight. She came out between Vasile and Annaleise, both of them holding her arms, and they pushed her into the back of the car, wedging her between Zoia and Annaleise. Vasile got back into the driver’s seat and the car moved off.
For a while Elisabeth did not speak, then she said, ‘I suppose you’re going to lock me up somewhere. Well, you can imprison me, but you won’t imprison the cause I’m fighting for. There are others who will keep fighting.’
‘Your husband, d’you mean?’
‘My husband knows nothing of this,’ she said at once, and Zoia heard the sudden fear in her voice, and guessed she was lying to protect him.
‘And your small son?’ said Annaleise, and Zoia half turned her head, hearing a menacing note in Annaleise’s voice.
‘How do you know I have a son?’
‘We make it our business to know.’
‘You’ll never imprison my son,’ said Elisabeth, glaring at Annaleise like a small feral cat. ‘Andrei will kill you all first.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Annaleise softly, and this time Elisabeth flinched visibly.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Pitesti Gaol. We’re driving there now.’
Zoia felt as if something had struck her across the eyes. Pitesti Gaol, she thought. Oh God, is that really where we’re going? An old, deeply buried memory stirred uneasily.
Elisabeth was staring at Annaleise, and for the first time there was fear in her eyes. ‘Pitesti,’ she said. ‘Pitesti means “to hide” because the town is hidden between hills. And it’s as well it does hide, because it’s said to be the worst place in the world – the place where people become lost for ever. It’s where gaolers brainwash the prisoners until they have no memories of their real lives.’
‘It’s called re-education,’ said Elena at once, glaring. ‘Brainwashing was outlawed years ago.’
‘Whatever you call it, you know as well as I do that it’s a very particular kind of mental torture,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I know what goes on inside Pitesti.’ Huddled next to her, Zoia thought, Oh no you don’t. Not everything.
‘But one day the prison walls will be torn down,’ said Elisabeth, her voice full of anger and contempt. ‘And then the world will see all your cruel secrets.’
Elena said, ‘Pitesti’s a useful place. It’s where troublesome cats like you are put. Once inside, you’ll be forgotten by the world.’
‘You’re so naive, aren’t you?’ said Elisabeth. ‘Don’t you know there is no such thing as ultimate forgetting – that traces, once impressed on the memory, are indestructible.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said Elena tersely. Elisabeth shrugged and turned up the deep collar of her coat as if to shut them all out. In the strong sunlight her profile was fragile and her skin like ivory. Zoia could not help staring at her, because she had forgotten how small and fragile Elisabeth was, and how extremely lovely. She glanced at Elena and knew a moment of doubt. Was this really right? Shouldn’t people be allowed to speak out against what they believed to be injustices? Zoia knew, of course, that nothing really unjust was going on – Annaleise would not ally herself with anything wrong or unfair – but it was not so long since people had fought wars for the right to speak their minds. Wasn’t that all Elisabeth had been doing? And what about her husband and her little boy who would be left without a mother? The boy could not be much more than a baby.
Then Annaleise, who had been looking out of the car’s window, turned her head and sent Zoia a smile. It was their own private smile, and Zoia relaxed because, of course, this was all right. The Valk creature was dangerous and rallies and protests against the government and the Party could not be allowed. Elisabeth’s husband would have to get on without his wife. He would look after the child like other men had to look after children.
The car sped down the lonely road with the thick forests and smudgy mountains beyond. Bright winter sunshine still flooded the road, bathing the trees in emerald brightness. Zoia’s head began to ache from the glare and from the knowledge that they were approaching Pitesti with its dreadful history. She closed her eyes against the dazzle, but the headache increased and she started to feel sick from the jolting of the car. As they rounded a sharp curve, nausea rolled over her in such insistent waves that she sat upright and cried out in panic that they must stop and let her get out.
Stumbling to the roadside, she bent over, retching miserably, sobbing with humiliation because it was dreadful, degrading, to be sick like a drunken beggar with Elena and Annaleise watching. But after a few minutes the spasms ceased and she mopped her face as well as she could with her sleeve and climbed back into the car, saying she was sorry, so sorry, but the journey had been such a long one.
She sank into an uncomfortable half slumber, only dimly aware that they had reached Pitesti itself, although she roused sufficiently to notice that it was clean and attractive and there were churches and pleasingly laid-out parks. Elena’s voice said, ‘We are here,’ and Zoia opened her eyes and saw the rearing bulk of the gaol in front of them.
Something black and bitter closed around her. Pitesti Gaol. The prison of the lost ones. Rearing walls and rows of small mean windows, and a massive double door at the front – an ogre’s front door, thought Zoia with dim memories of childhood fairytales. It was wreathed in a shimmering heat haze. If you were shut away behind those stone walls you would bake in this weather. You would not survive very long in this place. Sickness lurched in her stomach again, but this time she managed to fight it down.
She stayed in the car while the others got out, but she wound down the window to get some fresh air and see and hear what happened.
And now, at last, Elisabeth fought. She kicked and struggled, and clawed at Annaleise’s face. When Elena and Vasile grabbed her arms, she sank to her knees and tried to curl into a defensive ball, the dark hair falling over her face. The three of them grabbed her and hauled her to a standing position, and between them carried her towards the huge doors. She was screaming by this time, still fighting them, but Vasile had her shoulders and Elena and Annaleise her legs. Even so, she tried to kick out at them. Then, across the heat and the listening silence of the gaol, she shouted, ‘So this is your revenge because I wouldn’t have you in my bed, is it, Madame Simonescu? This is what you do to people who reject you!’
I didn’t hear right, thought Zoia, staring at Elisabeth, but the cold sickness was washing over her again, and she knew she had heard right. It was a spiteful lie, of course, Annaleise would tell her that afterwards. But she found she was clutching the windowsill of the car so tightly she had drawn blood from the palms of her hands.
Annaleise and Elena both ignored Elisabeth’s angry accusations. Annaleise released her hold on Elisabeth for long enough to reach for what Zoia thought was a bell pull. She heard a faint jangling deep inside the prison, and then a small inset door opened. Elisabeth was dragged inside and the door clanged shut.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Romania, early 1960s (continued)
The sounds of Elisabeth Valk’s screams and the clanging of Pitesti Gaol’s doors stayed with Zoia for a very long time. Sometimes she woke gasping and covered in sweat, hearing again the desperate screaming. Did she still scream from within whatever cell they had put her? Did she plead to be set free so she could be with her husband and child? But she shouldn’t have plotted against the Party, argued Zoia. She should have remembered her responsibility to her son and not taken those massive risks.
Annaleise did not refer to Elisabeth’
s accusations. At first this worried Zoia, but then she realized that, of course, Annaleise would consider it beneath her to justify anything. Annaleise was clearly delighted with Zoia for having helped track Elisabeth down and Zoia could cope with any number of nightmares about screaming revolutionaries in order to please Annaleise. She could even cope with that image of Pitesti itself, crouching between the hills.
The evening after they took Elisabeth to Pitesti, Annaleise gave Zoia an expensive and luxurious dinner at a restaurant. Zoia had done immensely well for the Party, she said, pouring the wine. Once Zoia would have said it was the purest luck that had led her to Elisabeth’s illegal broadcasts – a chance remark by a customer in the bar – but she had learned to slant the truth in her favour, so she smiled in a deprecatory way, and asked what would happen to Elisabeth.
‘She’ll be kept in Pitesti most likely,’ said Annaleise. ‘She’ll soon be forgotten.’
After the lavish dinner, they went back to Annaleise’s apartment, and lying in the big soft bed, warm and replete from the lavish dinner and the love-making, Zoia wondered if this was one of the times when Annaleise would let her stay the whole night. She loved to lie watching Annaleise sleeping, and when it grew light she liked to slip out of bed and make breakfast. Once she had picked a flower out of the window box and laid it on the tray, but Annaleise had said, Good God, were the flowers wilting and falling onto the plates, so Zoia had not done it again.
The apartment had been newly fitted out since Zoia’s last visit, and the rooms were all in shades of gunmetal grey, ebony black and soft sensual ivory. Zoia thought it very smart and sumptuous, and tried not to compare it with her own rather meagrely furnished set of rooms or to wonder how Annaleise could afford such beautiful things. Weren’t there waiting lists for quite ordinary things these days? Zoia herself had been waiting six months for a kitchen stove for which she had diligently saved almost three months’ wages from her wine-bar job.
