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I learned of the resettlement plans when I arrived home that evening.
It had not been an easy day for me. There were no easy days any more.
My teacher, whom once I might have confided in, now treated me as if I had personally wronged her.
My friends – as I once considered them, and as I tried, desperately, still to do – were also distant, my family ostracised.
They made no accusation. How could they? I had done nothing.
But from the day of Papa’s arrest their attitudes had changed.
I received no explanation.
Nor, in truth, could I expect one.
Their stance was not new to me. Only their target.
I was not a gypsy. Nor a Jew. Nor even a Slav.
My crime... My crime was that of my father. Dear Papa.
I reached our door, pushing against the splintered wood. Rusting hinges announced their objection. I peered into the gloom, stepping over the threshold, pausing while my eyes adjusted to the light.
“Anca?”
“Mama.”
I perceived my mother, seated on a wooden stool by the unlit fire. Nicolae lay asleep on the floor beside her, a sack-cloth providing a little warmth on this cool spring evening. I rushed to hug my mother and we embraced as though our parting had been of weeks, months, not the few hours that had passed for day.
The ensuing silence warned me all was not well. I relaxed my hold, looking into her eyes, searching for a clue.
I could see she had been crying, and felt tears moisten my own eyes in empathy, but I fought them back, conscious of some vague sense of responsibility.
“What is it, Mama? What has happened?”
My mother clutched me gently to her breast. I felt her chest rise as she took a deep breath while she composed her response. The words, when they finally came, were not unexpected, but no less unwelcome for that.
“We are to move, Anca.”
I remained motionless, allowing the news to sink slowly into my mind. Mama turned away, unable to meet my gaze.
After Papa’s execution we were told we might be moved to another town. To ease the ill-feeling, they had told us. The officer had seemed a kindly man, soft spoken, his concern for our welfare apparently sincere. Yet he wore the uniform of those who had killed Papa. How could we trust him? Believe him?
“Where to?”
I asked the question only to break the silence. The destination was of no importance, the reply unfamiliar and instantly forgotten. I had already prepared a more relevant question.
“When are we to leave, Mama?”
“Tomorrow. Noon.”
The answer stunned me. “Tomorrow? But...”
My words faded as I realised my objections were unsound. We had so little to pack. Such belongings that had not been punitively seized by the Nazis had been quickly sold. Our furnishings – those which we had not bartered for food – had been broken up to keep a fire at night for Nicolae. Our clothes were few beyond those we now wore. And now we... I... Had no friends even to bid goodbye. I became conscious that Mama was speaking again.
“First we must go to Bucharest. There we will be given further directions. We must be at the station before noon, Anca.”
The station. Memories flooded by mind. I was on the train. Constanta. The hiss of steam. The lurch forward as the wheels struggled for grip. I was eleven. My first ever journey by train.
“Are we going somewhere, Mama?”
Nicolae had awoken. My thoughts jolted back to reality. The present. Cold reality.
Nicolae’s eyes shone bright with curiosity, as if he had been awake all the time. Perhaps he had not slept. It was not easy to sleep anymore. I could shut my eyes, but events would not allow rest. They followed even into my dreams.
Perhaps Nicolae shared the same experiences, I did not know. He was only six. Soon to be seven. I was not even sure when.
Time meant little to me. To anyone.
An unknown future.
A present ridden by fear.
Only the past held happiness.
Certainty.
Nicolae’s little fingers clutched my own. His face came into focus, his eyes on mine.
“Anca?”
Mama had moved to the parlour, preparing a meal. I realized Nicolae was looking to me for the answer. I had none to offer.
“Rest, little one. It is late.” I took his hand, offering a smile and the reassurance of a firm grip. He smiled back, gripping my hand tight. That special bond between brother and sister.
Mama shortly brought our meal to us and we consumed it with grateful thanks. Long past was the time when we might pick and choose from the bowl, leaving anything that had no appeal. Now every morsel was relished, for we never knew how long might pass before the next.
As we scraped our platters clean, Mama said, “Dear Nicolae, please try to sleep now. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
I echoed her sentiments, pulling my brother’s frail body to my own, hugging him, savouring him. My other hand stretched to meet Mama’s, but I could not bring myself to look into her eyes. Instead I turned again to my sibling.
“Tomorrow, Nicolae, Mama and I are taking you on a special journey. On the train.”
“The train?” Nicolae’s face broke into a smile. “Oh, Mama, can I sit closest to the window? Please, Mama? I will be good! Are we going to the seaside? Anca, where is it we are going?” His voice bubbled with the excitement that only small children, unburdened by life’s harsh reality, can extol. I found myself wishing I too was six years old again.
“Hush, little one, hush,” I reproached him. “Our destination is a surprise for you and me both. Only Mama knows where we are bound. But you must rest now, or you will be too tired in the morning to enjoy yourself.”
“We must all rest now, Anca. You too,” Mama urged. “Tomorrow will be a tiring day, of that I am quite certain.” I felt her grip on my hand strengthen before reluctantly letting go. She gestured to Nicolae. “Anca, would you? My back troubles me tonight.” She bent over Nicolae and kissed him gently.
“Good night, Nicolae. God bless you.”
“Good night, Mama. Please let us go to the seaside tomorrow.”
I stood up, lifting Nicolae, stooping to kiss Mama. Our eyes met. “Good night, Mama. I love you.”
She tried to reply but the words would not come. Myriad emotions swam in her eyes. Then, at last, “God bless, Anca.”
I carried Nicolae through to our room and lay him prostrate on his bunk.
“Do you think we will be going to the seaside, Anca?” he demanded, as I pulled his shoes from his feet.
“I cannot say, Nicolae. Only that if you do not sleep soon then Mama may change her mind and we will go nowhere at all.”
A startled expression crossed his face. “I am asleep, Anca. Look!” He held his eyes tightly shut, simulating slumber, fighting to restrain a smile.
“Good night, little one.” I kissed his forehead before crossing to my own bed, slowly undressing, hesitantly slipping beneath the cover.
Across the room Nicolae’s breathing eased as act became reality and sleep took its inevitable hold. I was not to be so fortunate, shifting restlessly through the evening, feigning sleep when Mama pushed open the door to check on us.
Eventually I must have dozed, for I awoke some while later to the sound of crying. At first I thought it was Nicolae, but as my mind cleared itself of a cobweb of dreams I realised the sound came from Mama’s room.
I quietly rose and crossed to the door to offer comfort, but seeing her at the table, gently sobbing before a tiny candle which desperately parried the encroaching night, I hesitated. She had a quill in her hand and was, I presumed, attending her diary, for I knew she kept one.
I paused at the doorway a while, before returning to my bed unannounced. Sometimes it was best to be left alone, I knew. Mama believed us both to be in slumber and so it would remain. I slipped once again beneath my covers and cried myself gently to sleep.