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We stood in silent reverence, my mother and I, before the pitiful mound that marked my father’s grave. Driving rain lashed the sodden black earth, each drop drawing another grain of soil into the murky pools that formed unbidden at its base.
At the head of the grave a crudely shaped rowan cross defied the elements, proud against the rolling clouds that had advanced afternoon into premature evening. A flash of lightning briefly cast shadows as it lit the sky, greeted by thunderous applause.
I clasped my mother’s hand tightly, fighting a losing battle to hold back tears that joined with the rain to trace the contours of my face. Instinctively I ran my tongue over my lips, the salt stimulating my taste buds, conjuring welcome, evocative memories.
The Black Sea, near Constanta. Salt spray lingering in the air as the spring wind flung the waves against the foreshore, the surf frothing, foaming, against the beach. Nearly two years had since passed, but the memories were as if it were yesterday. It had been soon after my tenth birthday. The spring of nineteen forty-two. A special holiday for his little nurse, as Papa always called me. To recuperate from some malady long since over.
“Papa, I will never forget you,” I said to the rowan cross. “Never.”
My mother glanced at me. “Anca?”
“It was nothing, Mama. Just thinking out loud. But we should be going now, for Nicolae is tired. You surely must be, too.”
To reply, to acknowledge my assertion, was pointless. Words were cumbersome, even unnecessary at times like this. A clash of thunder drowned out any reply she may have made as we turned to leave.
“The storm is receding,” I observed quietly as we found ourselves on the main road, a short distance from our home.
“It is as well, Anca,” my mother concurred. “You and Nicolae will sleep better for it. There is enough noise through the night without nature adding her own.”
I smiled agreement. These past few weeks I had hardly slept of a night, kept awake by the constant drone of passing trucks and tanks.
Behind us a vehicle’s throbbing engine spewed unseen exhaust fumes into the early night. Heads down, our eyes scanned the truck as it passed. In the tenebrous dusk their uniforms were unclear. Not that it mattered anymore. Iron Guard or Gestapo, Papa had said they were of the same breed. Whatever their nationality. Whatever their chosen name.
Only when the truck had passed into the darkness did we breathe again.
The rain had begun to ease now and by the time we reached home it had reduced to a fine drizzle, but still the smell of wet hair and sodden clothes quickly permeated every corner of our small domicile.
Nicolae, by now asleep, was laid to rest on a threadbare rug. I gently towelled his hair with a dry cloth while Mama brought a thin counterpane to lay over him. Fortunately, Mama’s coat had borne the brunt of the storm’s attack and Nicolae’s clothes were still dry. I slipped shoes from his tiny feet and made him comfortable as best I could, gently stroking his rouge cheek, a smile hovering on my own lips in the certain knowledge he, at least, was resting peacefully.