The Voices of Silence

by Bel Mooney

  When you’ve grown up with queues – waiting in line for absolutely everything – they become a part of your life, like the electricity supply going off and on, the lift not being finished, the roads having big holes in them, and so on. But now that I was taking my mother’s place in the early morning, I noticed things I hadn’t seen before. Like the silence of people. There’s a long line of women (mostly women, but some men too) waiting outside a shop, their faces lit only by the pale blue light from the window, their shoulders hunched against the cold and their breath frosting in white clouds before their faces. They’re all carrying shopping bags. And none of them are talking, even though they see each other every day. It’s so strange, so unreal – this intense silence between neighbours, acquaintances – even friends.

  But why?

  It’s more than people just being tired and gloomy, I thought one morning, as I stood there; conscious that Alys’s mother stood two people in front of me, that she had seen me quite clearly, and turned her back. It’s because nobody trusts anybody. If you’re seen being friendly, it could be to the wrong person – and noticed by the wrong person. Or maybe it’s just that people have forgotten the art of speech.

  I would get to school more tired than ever, and it was twice as hard to concentrate on the lessons. Then, after school, I would start making supper, waiting for my father to come home, when he would take over.

  My mother lay on the couch, her eyes big and shadowy in her white face. She called me over, and patted the place beside her. “Come and talk to me, Flora,” she said. I did as she asked, and looked down at her, worried. I suddenly imaged her not getting better, tried to picture life without her, but the thought was too terrible and I thrust it away.

  As if she read my mind she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll soon be better. I don’t ache so much as I did yesterday. Tomorrow you can stay in bed and I’ll go out for the bread.”

  I shook my head. “You will not,” I said.

  “It’s hard for you, darling,” she sighed.

  “That’s OK. We’re all in it together!” I said, sounding as cheerful as possible.

  She smiled. “In what?” she asked.

  “The mud!” I joked. But it wasn’t funny.

  “Tell me about school,” she said.

  “Well, I came top in history, and …”

  “Good girl! My clever girl …” She stroked my arm, and I felt very pleased.

  But then she started to cough – a dry, hacking sound, that made her face go red and her eyes stand out. She couldn’t stop; her whole body was racked.

  She was fighting for breath, her hands flapping at the air like flippers – and I felt frightened. I ran to the kitchen to get her some water, but she couldn’t swallow. So I just held her head and shoulders tightly, supporting her, until the attack stopped.

  Then my father came home. I told him what had happened; he sat down where I had been and fussed over her, smoothing her forehead gently.

  “I tried to get you some aspirins. But no luck,” he said. “Still, look what Stefan sent you …” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in brown paper. He shook it excitedly, then pulled off the wrapping to reveal a small unlabelled bottle filled with golden-brown liquid.

  “Smell!” he said, unscrewing the top.

  She pulled a face.

  “It’s brandy!” he said.

  “Smells like paraffin!” she wheezed.

  “No – it’ll make you feel better. Take a swig.”

  She did so, made an even worse face as it went down, coughed a little, then lay back smiling. “Strong stuff,” she said. “You have some, Constantin. It’ll do you good. I think you need it more than I do!”

  That was when I stalked off into the kitchen feeling so irritated with my father. It was the same old story – she was thinking about him, even though she was ill, and he was making all this fuss and pretending to worry about her, when all the time he was going to leave us. It was all very well for that man Stefan to send some precious brandy, but he was going to take my father away – whether Mama was ill or not.

  At last Tata came into the kitchen, humming as he took potatoes and salami out of his bag. I could smell the brandy on his breath. “I think that cheered her up,” he said, in a quietly satisfied way.

  Suddenly I couldn’t bear it. I felt something give way inside me, and a sort of roaring in my head as my real feelings took control. I turned to him. “There’s only one thing that would make her happy,” I said angrily. “And that’s for you to show you really care. It’s no good just shoving a bottle of brandy under her nose. That won’t last long – especially if you drink it! No – what about showing you really love her by staying with her? What about letting your friends get out on their own, and you staying to look after us? What about THAT then?”

  My voice was loud in the silence. He said nothing, just stared at me with a frozen, shocked expression. Then I heard my mother’s horrified voice from next door. “Shhhh,” she hissed, then called in a loud whisper, “Flora! I want you to come here.”

  I went back into the living room, and he followed me, his head hanging, saying nothing. Mama was sitting up, looking gravely at us both. Then she pointed to the bed beside her, and spoke in that way which allows for no argument. “Sit down here again, Flora. And Constantin, you sit in the chair. It’s obviously time we had a talk. Put the radio on.”

  When I sat down beside her she took my hand. It was trembling, and I wanted to cry. She saw it, and stroked me gently. “Now, come on, little one. You obviously overheard us talking, didn’t you. When was it?”

  “A long time ago. I don’t remember,” I whispered.

  “You shouldn’t eavesdrop. It’s wrong,” said my father quietly.

  “Lots of things are wrong,” I said bitterly.

  On the radio, a woman’s voice was whining about love to the sound of a guitar.

  Mama’s hands went on stroking mine, regular and comforting. “Shhh, shhhh,” she said, as if soothing a baby, “I think it’s time I had my say here. So you’ve both got to listen. Understand?”

  I nodded, and so did he.

  “Good. Now, Flora, when you get older and you meet someone you love, and want to marry, do you know what that means? What it really means?” I shook my head. “Well, when you love someone you love the whole person. Because of what they are. You don’t want to change them. If you wanted to change them you might as well be with somebody else. Do you follow that?” I nodded. “Well, I know your father’s been unhappy for some time. He’s been like somebody wanting to – to – burst with unhappiness. When we first met I so admired him for the things he believed in. You remember, Constantin?”

  We both looked across at him, and he nodded, looking very unhappy.

  “Tata always dreamed of freedom, Flora. Of living in a country where people’s minds are free. It’s not about having things, like nice food and nice clothes. It’s about what you are – who you are – in here.” She tapped her own chest. “So, let’s just get it clear. I want you to understand. Your father wants to live the life he used to dream of. That’s the kind of man he is. And I love the kind of man he is. Flora, I have to want him to find his dream, mustn’t I?”

  I had to nod.

  “Listen, Flora,” she said, speaking more urgently. “There are a lot of things you’re too young to understand, but I want you to try. Yes – I was against the plan at first. But now I know that Tata has to do it. Otherwise he’ll die inside. So we just have to be very brave.”

  “But what … what will happen to us?” I gasped.

  “When he gets to Germany he’ll become a refugee. Then we apply to follow him. They’ll ask us lots of questions, and (she gripped my hand very tightly) it will be horrible, Flora. I’m not going to lie to you. Life will be worse for us, because they’ll punish us because he’s got out.”

  My father groaned at that, and buried his head in his hands.

  She went on, “But you know something? I know
it will be all right. In the end they’ll let us go. And in five or six years’ time, when you are leaving school in Germany – or maybe somewhere else, who knows – and living in the kind of society we all want, then you’ll be glad. You will, Flora!”

  I hung my head. They were both looking at me and I didn’t know what to say. My mother had been so strong and wise: I felt I couldn’t match her.

  They were waiting. At last I said, very quietly, “I felt left out – because you hadn’t told me. It was horrible.”

  My father came over and stood by me, one hand resting gently on my head. “I’m sorry, little Flora – we probably should have talked it through as a family. But people never do, you know? Men have escaped without telling their wives even. And boys without telling their parents.”

  “I heard of a woman who sent her only son away, with a friend,” said Mama, shaking her head, “because she loved him so much she was prepared to lose him – to give him a better life. Can you imagine that?”

  I shook my head.

  “Funnily enough, I can, because once you start thinking about these things, you hate this country more and more – everything it stands for.”

  There was a part of me that still didn’t understand properly. Not this hatred of our country. It was all I knew, and so how could I want to leave it, as they did. Yet I knew they were right. They had to be right – because they were my parents.

  “I want you to be free, Flora,” said Mama. “I dream of getting you out.”

  “Not without you, Mama,” I said, quickly, squeezing her hand.

  “We’ll be together – don’t worry,” she smiled.

  “All of us,” said Tata.

  Then he squatted down beside me. I studied his face from close up. He was handsome, my father – dark, like Mama, with high cheekbones and piercing brown eyes. Those eyes stared deeply into mine, as if they could read my soul.

  “I think we should have trusted you, my darling,” he said softly. “We should have talked to you more. Will you forgive us?” I nodded and he smiled. “I’m glad. And now we can spend the next week trying to be happy … Yes, it’ll be just about a week, so be strong for your Mama, little Flora. We can be really close now, can’t we? But it’s just us three – you understand? Nobody else in the world must know – are you really clear about that? Not a soul!”

  I nodded, avoiding his eyes.

  EIGHT

  The next day Alys was absent from school, but it wasn’t that which bothered me. It was Daniel Ghiban. He was deep in conversation with Mariana, and when I went up to say hello, he greeted me absentmindedly, as though I were a stranger. Then he seemed to turn his back, although it could have been my imagination. That’s what I made myself think.

  I tried to look carefree, but I was deeply hurt. All through the day it was the same. There was a wall of glass all round Daniel, setting him apart from me. He hung around with Mariana and Luminitsa and one or two of the boys, and (in truth) I felt very left out – and jealous.

  I remembered the taste of the Swiss milk chocolate, and the sense of him beside me, listening so sympathetically … and I could not believe the change. It worried me, for at the back of my mind my father’s voice chimed: “Nobody else in the world must know.” I tried to forget it, but could not.

  I tried to get through school as if nothing was wrong. My mother always used to tell me to hide my feelings in public: “Never let them know,” she used to say. It was good advice and served me well that unhappy day.

  When I got home, letting myself quietly into the flat, Mama was fast asleep. She looked better though, sleeping peacefully. I stood looking down at her for a few minutes, imagining what it would be like if she were to die, and feeling that inevitable choking inside. I don’t know why I do that – deliberately making myself miserable. Maybe it’s a way of testing your love for your parents: just imagining them not there is like looking into a terrible dark chasm. Imagine being that alone …

  “Love you, Mama,” I whispered. She stirred, but went on sleeping.

  I sat down to make a start on my homework. The flat seemed very quiet, and I found myself looking forward to my father’s arrival. I didn’t have much time left with him and wanted to make the most of it.

  A little later, there was a rap on the front door – a sharp, urgent sound. Afraid it would wake my mother, I darted quickly into the hall, shutting the door behind me. The rap came again. For a second I wondered if Tata had forgotten his key, but that never happened. Then I realized that it might be a stranger, and since Mama was so sound asleep it was as if I was alone. So I certainly shouldn’t open the door. Another rap, then another, even louder.

  I opened the door a crack, peering out into the gloom of the landing.

  “Quick!” said a voice I knew well.

  Alys stepped forward, pushing past me, and closing the door. I stared. Her chest heaved, as though she had run up the stairs two at a time. With blonde hair stuck to her forehead, and a wild, drawn face, she looked exhausted and terrified.

  “Alys! What …?” I began.

  “Oh my God, Flora! Oh God!” she panted.

  “What’s wrong?” I cried, putting out a hand to steady myself against the wall, as if I knew in advance that what she had to say would make the whole place spin.

  “We have to warn him … your father! We have to find him – now!”

  She put out a hand and gripped my arm tightly. For a second or two I wasn’t able to speak. I simply stared at her, my mouth open. Then I croaked, “Tell me!”

  Alys was panting less; maybe the sight of my fear and confusion calmed her down, and she realized she had to take charge. “Listen carefully,” she said in a low, intense voice, “They’re going to pick your father up. There’s a man downstairs already, waiting for him – and another one in a black car out on the road. So somehow or other we have to get to him before he reaches the estate. You know the way he comes?”

  I nodded. “But … but … why? I don’t understand! What’s happened?”

  Alys’s face was hard. “Oh, Flora, it’s partly my fault. I tried to warn you but … oh, it’s too much to go into now. I’ll explain everything later … if I can. But … oh Flora, you were such a fool. Daniel Ghiban …”

  When she said that name I really did feel sick and faint. I knew (as if it had been written in a book I had had in front of me for weeks but been unable to read) what she was about to say. As if from a distance I heard my own voice whisper, “What?”

  “All that stuff about his mother and the British Embassy! He’s bad, Flora! I knew he was. His father’s no porter – he’s Securitate!”

  “How … how do you know?” I gasped.

  “Too long to tell … Just believe me, Flora!”

  “Mr Paroan? And Maryon?”

  She nodded.

  “Never mind about all that now … We’ve got to save your father. If we get to him when he comes out of the Underground …”

  “Did the man downstairs see you come in?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s dark, and I had my hood up. Some other people were coming in, and anyway, he wasn’t looking out for me. Oh, come on!”

  I grabbed my dark jacket, reached for my light blue knitted hat, hesitated – then chose the old black woollen hat that hung in the hall for anyone to use. We closed the door gently behind us and, treading very quietly, began the long walk downstairs. In the dim light from the low bulbs on every half-landing, I could see Alys ahead of me, dark and shapeless with her hood covering her hair once more. Once she looked back, as if to check I was following, and gave me a small smile of encouragement. Just like the old Alys.

  When we reached the bottom, she took my arm and drew me into the shadows.

  “He’ll probably know what you look like,” she whispered.

  “But how?” I breathed.

  “They know everything. Well … almost everything,” she replied.

  “What shall we do?” I asked.

  “Didn’t some people move
out from this floor last week?”

  “Yes …”

  “Come on then!”

  There were four flats on the ground floor. I had forgotten that one of them was newly empty. It didn’t occur to me to worry about the door being locked.

  We crept along the corridor, and halted outside the end flat, Number Four. Alys put her shoulder to the door and pushed. She was very strong, and the doors to all the flats were cheap and flimsy. A man, attacking the door with his shoulder, would certainly break the lock – but not a thirteen-year-old girl.

  “It’s hopeless,” I groaned.

  “Wait!”

  I had underestimated Alys all along, and this was no exception. She was fumbling in her pocket; in the poor light I couldn’t see what she brought out, but heard a regular clicking and scraping. Then I realized. It was the precious old penknife she carried everywhere, and which we all used to borrow in school to sharpen our pencils.

  That is until Daniel Ghiban arrived, with his smart metal pencil sharpener. I began to shiver.

  “Hurry, Alys!”

  She was pushing and prising, putting all her weight to the small blade as she slid it down between the doorpost and the door, again and again. At last there was a small splintering sound, and she heaved, and the knife blade broke – just as the lock gave way.

  Inside it was pitch dark, but that didn’t matter, because all the flats had a similar layout. We groped with our hands, searching for a door into the living room. Once inside we could see a little, in the glimmer of light from the window that opened onto the side of the block.

  Alys was across the room in a minute, tugging at the window catch. Once she’d got it open, she held out her hand to me. “Quick – you go first. I’ll hold your hands and lower you down.”

  Because of the steps at the entrance, the ground floor was raised: about a three metre drop to the hard earth. I clambered up and turned round so that I was kneeling with my back to the outside. Then I started to lower myself down, Alys taking both my hands at last – and my full weight – so that I was suspended by her until I dropped. She followed quickly, swinging from the sill easily before letting herself go.