House of the Lost

by Sarah Rayne

  Zoia would admit that ending the Black House’s reign had been unexpectedly easy. Sister Teresa had been partly responsible for that of course, taking the children away and sending them to England. The arrangement had been a quid pro quo, Zoia knew that. What Sister Teresa had really been saying was, Let me take Mara Ionescu and I’ll deal with the children for you. But at the time it had suited Zoia to agree to the bargain, even though it had cheated her of her revenge.

  But that could wait. Planning Mara’s punishment was something to cling to during the long lonely nights – the nights without Annaleise.

  And so the snivelling children went off to England, and everyone working in the Black House was paid off and sent back to wherever they lived. Zoia did not enquire into that. She was not in the business of giving charity to anyone, especially when she might shortly need charity herself. The Black House was suddenly empty of people, and most of its furniture removed so that Zoia’s footsteps echoed eerily when she walked through the high-ceilinged rooms. As far as she had been able to make out, the house and land had been sold to some nameless department within the Party and would probably be torn down.

  The Politburo man, Gheorghe Pauker came to help her close the place down and deal with the final formalities, and on the last night Zoia cooked supper for the two of them. Afterwards they sat at the big scrubbed table in the main kitchen, with the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Zoia had not much minded cooking because they both had to eat, but she did not see why she should wash up as well. Pauker had found the small stock of wine, and had already downed one bottle while they ate. Now he was making inroads on a second.

  He told her Ceauşescu was no longer as popular as he had been, at least not in his own country.

  ‘It’s the debt,’ he said slurrily. ‘Romania’s massively in debt. Billions of dollars to Western banks for all that industrialization in the 1970s.’ He tapped the side of his nose in a knowing gesture. ‘It was bound to catch up with him in the end,’ he said.

  ‘With Ceauşescu, d’you mean?’

  ‘Yes. He’s det— determined to pay it back though, an’ thass honourable of him. You have to ’dmit it’s honourable.’

  ‘Yes. How will he pay it?’ Zoia did not care if Ceauşescu paid off Romania’s debt honourably or was thrown into a debtors’ prison and left to rot, but the habit of gleaning information, however small, persisted.

  ‘Tighten the country’s belt,’ said Pauker. ‘Tha’s his plan. Starve the people. There’ll be more food rationing before we’re all much older, see if there isn’t. You’ll all be fighting each other for a loaf of bread. Cuts in electricity supplies as well, I shouldn’t wonder. Sad, I call it.’ He reached for the wine again and Zoia silently pushed the bottle nearer. ‘The rest of the world doesn’t much like Ceauşescu or his wife. Not s’posed to say that.’ He laid a finger on his lips, in an exaggerated gesture of silence.

  ‘I didn’t know that – about the rest of the world not liking Ceauşescu.’

  ‘’s true. Other countries don’ like his policies or what’s happening to the people here. Television cameras get sneaked in, you know, and things get shown to other countries. England. America.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Well, places like this one. Orphan – ornof – children’s homes.’

  ‘There’s no money to run these places,’ said Zoia defensively. ‘I did the best I could.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no money for anything any more,’ he said. ‘All a damn shame. Course,’ he downed another glass, ‘Elena pushed Nicolae into things. You know that, I ’spect. Gave orders about who could be given posts in the Party and who couldn’t. ’strordin’ry woman, Elena. D’you ever meet her?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Quite ’strordin’ry. An’ now she’s first deputy premier. They made her that in 1980.’ He tried to count years on his fingers and gave up. ‘It was Nicolae’s doing, of course, ev’rybody knew that. Case of nep— netop—’

  ‘Nepotism?’

  ‘Sssh. Shouldn’t say things like that. Never know who might be listening. But I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said, suddenly more alert, ‘she’s absolutely ruthless, that woman.’ He was so pleased with himself for having pronounced this without a slur, he said it again, ‘Abso-fucking-lutely ruthless.’

  ‘So everyone says.’ Zoia opened another bottle of wine in case Pauker was going to be indiscreet about Elena. Indiscretions could be very useful at times. And the wine might as well be drunk as left here to gather mildew or be stolen by vandals.

  ‘Automaton, that’s what Elena is,’ said Pauker. ‘No heart. Call her the Mother of the Nation – pshaw, load of bollocks. Not a motherly bone in her body. Set the Securitate to spy on her own children, can you b’live that? Perfeckly true, though. Cold-hearted bitch, she is. As for all those grand qualifications she says she’s got – d’you want to know something?’ He drew nearer, his tone confidential.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Zoia.

  ‘Bought half of them,’ he said. ‘Paid for them in sordid coinage. An’ the ones she didn’t buy, she invented.’

  ‘But I’ve seen her speak at meetings,’ said Zoia. ‘She seemed very learned.’ She had, in fact, only heard Elena speak in public on two occasions, both times in company with Annaleise, but she had been quite impressed by Elena’s public manner.

  ‘Smoke and mirrors,’ he said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘If you listen properly she always defers to a “Comrade Engineer” or some such, for the real answers. Smoke and mirrors, tha’s what she is.’ He nodded solemnly into his wine glass, and Zoia surreptitiously topped it up.

  ‘This is all very interesting,’ she said.

  ‘I tell you, Elena Ceauşescu’s never written a thesish – pardon, thesis – in her life. My opinion she couldn’t. Mind you, neither could I, but I’m not the Mother of the Nation – bloody good joke that, don’cha think? Where’s the wine gone? An’ why aren’t you drinkin’ with me? Got to drink with me. Friendly. Here.’

  Zoia gave a mental shrug and drank the wine he poured almost in one go. Here’s to you, Annaleise, she said silently, as she almost always did when she took a drink.

  When her companion re-filled her glass, she drank that straight down as well, and followed it with a third. He was very fuddled by this time and his eyes were unfocused, but he was not too unfocused to suddenly thrust a hand into the bodice of her dress, and prod her small breasts. Zoia felt the familiar revulsion and was instantly plunged back to the small shabby cottage and the feel of her father’s rough labourer’s hands on her skin. But she controlled her disgust.

  ‘Bit of comfort tonight,’ he said. ‘S’all right, isn’t it? Sad day closing down one of our houses. Bit of comfort.’

  Zoia said flatly, ‘You want to fuck me?’

  ‘Doan’ need to pretend, do we?’ he said. ‘Romance, all that stuff, lot of balls. See you don’t lose by it, though.’

  ‘How much?’ said Zoia coldly.

  ‘Don’t mess about, do you? Much as you like. Here…’ he pulled out his wallet and tipped the contents onto the table, ‘have it all. No use to me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Zoia, scooping up the notes, not bothering to apologize or explain that tomorrow she would be homeless and jobless. ‘D’you want to go upstairs or do it here?’

  There had been quite a lot of money in the wallet. She put it safely in her own bag, and then, because you never knew what might come in useful, took his Politburo card as well. There was an address just outside Resita. Zoia was careful to note this down, because there might be a time in the future when she needed to make use of that encounter.

  If it had not been for Gheorghe Pauker’s cash she would have had nowhere to live in the weeks that followed, but she was able to take a small room in a lodging house. The days were shapeless, the nights filled with lonely agony. Several times over the dreary years she thought about suicide – a bottle of pills, a jump into the river. Easy. But then the hatred of Mara and the desire for reven
ge burned up again warming Zoia’s cold heart, and she knew she would keep on living. Annaleise would have wanted it.

  Eventually she found work in a library in a town near Mara’s own village and a room in a slightly better house. It was not really what she wanted, but she needed to remain near enough to Mara’s home to pick up news of what Mara was doing and to know when the creature finally came home from the Debreczen convent. She counted the years, hardly noticing when the 1970s slid into the 1980s, only really recognizing the years of Mara’s life. She would be fourteen, fifteen, nearing the age when the convent would send her home. Zoia did not go as far as disguising herself during those years, because it would have been melodramatic and probably would not have worked anyway, but she did not think anyone would recognize her from her time at the Black House. Her hair had turned grey after Annaleise’s death – it had gone what people called pepper and salt grey, and Zoia had it cut very short, pudding-basin style. It was remarkable how it altered her appearance. She lost weight as well – she had always been thin but now she became bony because she could not be bothered to eat much. Her skin grew dry and leathery-looking. It did not really matter how she looked – Zoia did not think it would ever matter again – but it was one more thing to lay at the door of that evil spiteful child.

  Gheorghe Pauker’s drunken prophecies were turning out to be true. You had to queue for food – sometimes for hours. There was bread rationing. People said it was a sick joke, because you could hardly ever find a loaf of bread anyway and as for sugar for baking or sweetening coffee, forget it. In any case, you could not get coffee any more than you could get sugar or flour. A scientific diet, Ceauşescu was apparently calling it. And what was happening to the money saved by starving everyone, they would like to know? Was it paying off Romania’s debts? More likely it was going towards the grand palace he was said to be building for himself and his wife.

  Standing in food queues, Zoia sensed the anger in other shoppers, but it was a strange, slightly frightening anger, as if something was gradually but inexorably coming to boiling point. Once Elena and Nicolae Ceauşescu had been seen as glittering and untouchable, but Zoia had the increasing sense that the glitter was starting to be perceived as pinchbeck.

  Living in obscurity, she heard a number of things, some of which might one day be useful, others which were too trivial to bother with. Matthew Valk was studying art in Budapest. That was one of the things worth knowing and Zoia tucked the information away in her mind. She wondered where the money for it had come from. It might be worth finding out about that, as well, if she could.

  And then, one day towards the end of 1982, midway through a long dull afternoon at the library, she heard the news she had been waiting to hear for so long. Mara Ionescu was finally leaving Debreczen and coming home.

  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.