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It is the way of dreams that sometimes they become your waking reality. Thus it was for me on this occasion. For uncounted hours I had revelled in joys past, dancing in the spume of the Black Sea, young and carefree, with Mama and Nicolae and, of course, dear Papa.
But, as all good things must come to an end so, eventually it was time for us to go home. As I relived our return, boarding the train, relishing the excitement of the station, the flush of steam, the screech of locomotive wheels against the rails, dream mingled with reality and suddenly the slamming carriage doors in distant Constanta were slamming carriage doors in war-torn Bucharest.
It took a few seconds for me to shake the remnants of dream from my mind and as I did so I saw Mama’s face before me, smiling as she spoke, although her words were not yet audible.
Suddenly I was being shaken by the shoulder and I sat up in an instant, banishing all but reality from my mind as I realized it was Nicolae, anxious to rouse me.
“Wake up Anca! Wake up! We have to get off now!”
We quickly joined the crowds gathering on the station concourse, fearful that we might miss vital instructions and be left stranded at Bucharest.
Uniformed officers barked orders in German, Romanian and other languages I could not identify. We were told to form a line to one side of the square, where it appeared we were being grouped either by nationality or language. Those slow to respond were angrily harassed by Nazi officers impatient of the very young, the elderly or the infirm, and I was shocked to witness people struck with rifle butts if they were tardy.
Satisfying myself that Mama had Nicolae secure beneath her coat I remembered Chaim’s advice and resolved to look down, clasping my mother’s arm with one hand, dragging our trunk with the other.
Joining a group of our countrymen we stood and waited, anxiously watching the crowds divide. The Gestapo officers became increasingly irritated with those still unplaced, shouting violently in German as if raising their voices might transcend the barrier of language, but I could no more make sense of their orders than the confused civilians receiving them.
A gun shot rang out beneath the canopy. I heard a scream and the station at once fell silent, all attention upon a Gestapo officer in the centre of the square, a still smoking pistol in his hand, standing over the prostrate form of a man.
The body lay as it had fallen, a pool of blood forming around the head. As my eyes took in the scene my legs felt weak and nausea began to rise from my stomach. A sobbing woman broke away from the civilians restraining her and threw herself upon the dead man, shouting hysterically at the officer who had fired the shot. It was not a language I recognized, though I heard someone behind me mutter quietly that she was a Magyar, from Hungary.
I turned to Mama in confusion, surprised to find her facing away, comforting Nicolae beneath her coat, shielding him from the obscenity that was taking place nearby.
“Turn away, Anca,” I heard Mama say. “Do not let them see you stare. Just stand quietly. It will be over soon.”
With Mama and Nicolae safe beside me my thoughts turned to Chaim, his wife Golda and the sweet child Elone, whom Nicolae had so recently befriended. I scanned the concourse for any sign of them, aware for the first time there were no Jews anywhere to be seen.
Before I could gather my thought there was a commotion once more where the dead man lay and I watched in horror as two Iron Guard officers took the feet of the victim and unceremoniously dragged away the body, leaving a trail of smeared blood in its wake.
The chaos and noise of the concourse had been replaced by sober order and sombre silence, broken only by the woman’s hysterical sobs. For the rest of us, we merely stood and watched, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what we could have done to help.
Fear hung over us, tangible as a dense smog.