House of the Lost

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Romania, early 1970s

Mara was shivering and icy-cold with fear and shock. She no longer fought against Zoia when the woman dragged her out of the well-house. They started up the track towards the Black House, but they had only gone a few yards when two guards came through the trees towards them.

‘Oh, thank God you came down here,’ said Zoia. ‘We need help – quickly.’

‘Routine evening patrol,’ said the man. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Miss Simonescu. She’s fallen… she’s dreadfully injured, perhaps even dying—’ She broke off, then, in a stronger voice, said, ‘Fetch ladders and ropes – long ladders. We must get her out, we must get her out now.’

‘Where is she?’ said the man, preparing to go back to the house.

‘In the well-house. We need ropes and ladders, fast. And keep hold of this child.’ She thrust Mara at the second guard. ‘She’s to be locked up eventually, but there isn’t time to do it now. Just make sure she doesn’t get away.’

The hours that followed blurred in Mara’s mind. She sat on the ground, which was cold and damp and added to the misery of everything, and wondered if she would ever stop being frightened or ever feel warm again. She wondered if she would see her grandmother’s cottage or her brother, and then she wished the screaming from the well-house would stop. This was a dreadful wish to have about someone who was lying broken and blinded and in agony, but Mara could not help it. The force drove her eyes from their sockets, Zoia had said. Mara kept hearing these words over and over, and seeing the terrible thing lying at the bottom of the old well. Bones and blood and eyes…

She thought the guards felt the same about the screams. As they carried the ladders towards the well-house, she heard one of them say, ‘Jesus Christ, I can’t stand that row much longer. It’s like a bloody animal in a snare.’

‘Don’t let that one hear you,’ said the other, nodding to where Zoia was standing at the open door, wringing her hands, calling to Annaleise that they would get her out, just to wait a very little longer.

‘Simonescu will likely be brought out a piece at a time if she fell all the way down,’ said the guard. ‘Any takers on how many pieces she’ll be in?’

‘No. Let’s get on with it.’

When one of the guards came back outside a bit later to pick up a length of new rope, he passed the tree where Mara was curled up, and she plucked up courage to ask him what was happening.

‘No idea. They can’t get the ladders down,’ he said. ‘There’s not enough space to manoeuvre. They need very long ladders because the well’s so deep, but the well-house is too small for them to tilt the ladders and drop them into the shaft.’

‘She’s very badly hurt, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ He picked up the coil of rope and went back.

Zoia and the guards did not exactly forget Mara, but they did not take much notice of her. At one point the ladders became stuck in the doorway, and shortly after this men came with pickaxes and massive hammers and began to break through the roof. They carried the ladders onto the roof, and lowered them into the shaft.

While they were intent on this, Mara cautiously stood up, hoping to tiptoe away into the trees without being noticed, but one of the men saw and pounced on her, dragging her back. ‘None of that,’ he said. ‘We don’t let children run away from us. You try that again and I’ll tie you up and leave you for the wolves to eat.’

‘There are no such things as wolves any more,’ said Mara, clinging to defiance for as long as possible.

‘Aren’t there? You stay in this forest on your own after dark, and you’ll change your mind,’ said the man nastily.

The screaming stopped eventually and Mara thought they had finally been able to reach Annaleise. After a time, something swathed in blankets was carried out. Mara tried not to look at it, but could not help herself. The face was covered but one hand, smeared with dried blood, hung down. She’s dead, thought Mara. They wouldn’t have covered her face if she wasn’t. I killed her.

Zoia came out. Her face was smeared with grime, her hands bloodied and torn, and she looked as if something inside her had shrivelled and died. She beckoned to one of the guards.

‘Take a couple of the other men and bring Andrei Valk to the Black House. You know where he lives? After that go to the convent school.’

The guard had not looked surprised at the mention of Matthew’s father, but he did look surprised when Zoia said this. ‘The convent? At this hour of the night?’

‘I don’t care what hour of the night – or day – it is. Just do as you’re told. Go to the convent and ask for Sister Teresa. The nuns – all of them, mind – are to be assembled for questioning in an hour’s time.’

The guard nodded. Zoia walked across to where Mara was still sitting by the tree, her arms wrapped round her knees, trying to get warm. She bent down so her face was level with Mara’s, and in a voice that made Mara shiver, she said, ‘You’re an evil little cat, and you’re bound for hell. All murderers go to hell, and once they get there, they burn for eternity. That’s what will happen to you.’ She paused, then said, ‘But I’ll see you live in hell for the rest of your life on earth. I’ll make sure you’re shut away and never see the world again.’

Mara stared up at the thin white face and thought, She’s going to put me back inside the well-house, but Zoia did not. She straightened up, and called to two of the guards. ‘Take her back to the house. See to it that she’s locked up.’ The guards nodded, and half-carried Mara back to the cold, sour-smelling room with the black stove. This time, the door was locked.

Mara huddled miserably on the bed, crying at intervals, wondering whether Zoia would tell her grandmother and brother that she had killed Annaleise. It was still night, but she had no idea what time of night it was. She sat by the window hoping to hear the church clock chiming the hour; it would make her feel she was not so very far away from her home and she would be able to count the chimes and know the time. But either the Black House was too far away or the windows were too tightly closed, because although she sat there until she was cramped and frozen through, she did not hear the familiar friendly chimes.

Eventually there were footsteps in the passage outside, the door was unlocked, and Zoia and Sister Teresa came in. Mara had not expected this.

She wiped her eyes on a corner of the scratchy sheet and sat up because Sister Teresa always made people sit up straight; she said a sloppy posture meant a sloppy mind. She was quite strict which meant no one ever dared play around in her class and, although she looked strict now, she did not punish people unless they really deserved it. She and Zoia sat together at the narrow table under one window. Mara knew it was important to listen to what they said, but she was frightened and exhausted and found it difficult to follow.

Sister Teresa took control of the discussion at once, by asking why Mara had been shut inside the well-house in the first place.

‘A harsh penance for such a small child, surely, no matter the sin?’

Zoia mumbled a bit and for a moment there were two scarlet patches on her pale cheeks. ‘Mara had been wilful and unruly,’ she said at length. ‘The rules here are strict, but I have to do what my masters say.’

Sister Teresa did not look as if she entirely believed this, but before she could say anything, Zoia said, ‘The question of the child can wait, Sister. You know we’re holding two of your nuns on suspicion of plotting the escape of a prisoner?’

‘I do know and it’s a ridiculous idea. None of the sisters know anything about Elisabeth Valk or any other prisoner. None of us even have any idea where she is.’

‘The child was clear about it, though.’

‘The child was mistaken,’ said Sister Teresa at once. ‘Frightened and confused. She’d have said anything to get back to her home. Can I take her with me now?’

‘No. She’s not going home for a very long time.’

Mara was so sick with disappointment at this, she had to will herself not to cry, and did not hear what was said next. By the time she had fought the tears down, Sister Teresa and Zoia were talking about appropriate treatment for a child, and whether a doctor should be called for an examination. This was worrying in a whole new way because nobody went to doctors if they could help it. Mara had never been to one in her life. Doctors, always supposing you knew where to find one, were for rich people, her grandmother said.

Sister Teresa said they were in a situation that had probably never arisen before. In some countries there were special places for such children, she said – hostels and institutions, but out here… She gave the bony-shouldered shrug she gave in class when people had not done their homework. It usually meant she was annoyed but puzzled at such bad behaviour.

She was annoyed and puzzled now, Mara could see that.

‘I should like to hear what Mara has to say,’ she said, and without waiting for an answer, went over to the bed. ‘Well, Mara? What have you to say for yourself? Miss Simonescu is dead and I’m told you were responsible. You know that killing someone is a very grave sin. A mortal sin. God is good and merciful and loves all children, but He will find it difficult to love you if you’ve killed another human being.’

‘I didn’t mean to kill her,’ said Mara, not knowing whether to be relieved that this was not about the lie, or frightened that God might not love her any longer. ‘I was trying to get out of that place – the well-house, because it’s got a face and I thought it might be a troll turned into stone.’ She started crying again, but Sister Teresa waited and after a few moments, Mara was able to say, ‘Truly, Sister, I was fighting them to get away. I didn’t mean Ann – I didn’t mean Miss Simonescu to fall into the well.’ This sounded a bit ridiculous, like the nursery rhyme about the cat in the well.

But Sister Teresa gave a small nod as if this was enough, and went back to the table. ‘I believe there was no malice,’ she said. ‘No serious intent.’

‘You didn’t see it,’ said Zoia, her lips folded into a thin hard line like a steel ruler in a pencil-box. ‘The child flew at Miss Simonescu and pushed her very hard. I saw the malice and the intent all right – it blazed in her eyes. If you won’t take steps to have her shut away, I’ll hand her over to the Securitate.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ said Sister Teresa at once. ‘I have a suggestion.’ She looked across at Mara and then back to Zoia. ‘We have a convent just outside Debreczen.’

‘In Hungary?’

‘Yes, but only just over the border. It’s not too difficult a journey – I go there two or three times each year. But it’s a very poor House in a remote area and if Mara went there, she would be expected to help with the running of the convent – cleaning and cooking. She would be given teaching as well, of course, as she must have at her age.’

‘Why should I hand her over to you? The Securitate will deal with her very satisfactorily.’

Sister Teresa thought for a moment, then said, ‘There are rumours in the village that this house is to be closed.’

Zoia looked up. ‘How do you know that?’

‘People get to hear things. We get told some of those things. Is it true?’

‘It’s been considered for some time,’ said Zoia, ‘and after tonight it’s very probable. I shall leave anyway – Miss Simonescu was a very dear friend and I don’t think I shall want to stay in the place where…’

‘I understand.’

‘They probably won’t replace me if I go. What has this to do with Mara?’

‘Am I right in thinking you have some very young children here?’

‘Yes,’ said Zoia after a moment. ‘A dozen or so. It’s difficult to provide care for them – we aren’t given the money or the facilities.’

‘I understand.’

‘There never was enough money in the first place,’ said Zoia with sudden anger. ‘The ruling made by Elena Ceauşescu – the ruling intended to increase the birth rate – forced an impossible situation on this country. People had babies without being able to feed or clothe them.’ She stopped and looked scared. ‘I shouldn’t have said that—’

‘It won’t go beyond this room. It was in confidence between us.’

‘And will the two nuns being held by the Securitate keep what they know in confidence?’ said Zoia.

‘I’ve already told you they know nothing,’ said Sister Teresa.

‘The Church keeps its own counsel?’ said Zoia a bit sneeringly.

‘It always has done,’ said Sister Teresa. She frowned, then said, ‘Miss Calciu, if the Black House is to be closed, what will happen to the children in your care? Will they be sent to another orphanage?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Will that be your responsibility? Won’t it be difficult to find places for them?’

‘Yes. Most of the other orphanages are overcrowded.’

‘You would have to – to hawk the children around the countryside like a pedlar,’ said Sister Teresa, nodding. ‘Very unpleasant and exhausting. But I have a proposal that might make that unnecessary. I sometimes visit another House within our Order – a convent in England.’

Zoia looked interested; Mara guessed it was the mention of England which everyone said was a marvellous place, a place where everyone was rich and you could walk into shops and buy anything you wanted.

‘We have strong links with the English House,’ said Sister Teresa. ‘It’s in a tiny place, it’s not a school as we have here, but the sisters are hospitable and generous and if I were to approach them it’s possible they would take in some children for a while. They might find them homes with English families – at worst places in good children’s homes. Papers would have to be in order – visas and so on, however.’

‘Papers could be arranged,’ said Zoia at once. ‘I know people who would help with that.’

‘It would mean you could leave this place much sooner,’ said Sister Teresa. ‘You could put the sadness behind you much quicker.’

There was another silence and Mara saw that Zoia was thinking about what Sister Teresa had said. ‘This place in Debreczen,’ she said at last, ‘is it a house of correction?’

‘No, but if Mara went there she would have to keep to a strict regime. No distractions. Prayer and study and work.’

‘Would there be other children?’

‘There might be. The sisters sometimes take one or two in for various reasons. If parents die, for instance.’

‘If I were to agree to your suggestion,’ said Zoia, not sounding as if she was yet convinced, ‘how long could Mara stay there?’

‘A few years, certainly. Say until she reaches young adulthood – sixteen, seventeen. It’s possible that by then she will have become imbued with the way of life – with the outlook of the sisters – and decide to take her vows.’ Sister Teresa sent another of the quick glances towards the listening Mara. ‘We wouldn’t force that if there’s no real vocation, but if she did join the Order it would indicate full contrition. An atonement for her sin.’

Zoia said slowly, ‘I might find that acceptable.’

‘And in turn, we would also be solving the problem of the Black House orphans for you.’ Sister Teresa stood up, as if she considered the matter settled. She stood up. ‘I’ll collect Mara early tomorrow morning,’ she said and went out.

Mara thought it might be a bit scary to be on her own with Sister Teresa, but it was not, although the journey was longer than Mara had imagined any journey could be. She had never been outside the village before, and had no idea how they would travel. Did Sister Teresa have a car? Mara had been in a car twice but only for very short distances. They might go on a train, of course. She had never been on a train, in fact she had never even seen a train, except for pictures in books.

They did not go in a car, but on trains and buses. Sister Teresa had made the journey before so she knew what they had to do and was able to tell Mara where they were, and how this was the border between Romania and Hungary they were crossing.

Mara was fearful about what was ahead and worried about her grandmother and brother, but it was pretty exciting to be going on this journey, seeing places she had never heard of. She looked out of the windows for most of the time, seeing how the countryside became wilder and how the mountains were different.

‘They’re dangerous, of course, those mountains,’ said Sister Teresa. ‘There are bears and wolves in them. But there’s also some of the most beautiful plant life you can imagine. Potentilla and gentian and things you’ll never see in the towns. You’ll have lessons at Debreczen, of course, and you’ll have to work hard. There were a couple of English sisters there last time I went: if they’re still there, you might try to learn a little English. It’s a very widely spoken language and it might one day be useful for you.’

Later, when they were at the back of the jolting bus, winding its way up a steep mountain path, she talked about what had happened at the Black House.

‘I’m as sure as I can be that you didn’t kill Annaleise Simonescu with deliberate intent,’ she said and Mara looked at her gratefully. ‘But I can’t be completely sure because no one can see inside another person’s mind. You were responsible for her death, but if you remember your catechism, for a sin to be mortal there has to be full knowledge, free will and grave matter. I don’t think you had any of those. But that woman – Zoia – thinks you meant to kill and she wants you punished very severely.’

‘Am I going to be?’

Sister Teresa hesitated. ‘It won’t be a life of luxury,’ she said. ‘The Debreczen House is a poor one. But it isn’t a punishment place and they’ll be kind to you. What I said about you helping with the cleaning and cooking was true, though.’

‘I don’t mind cleaning and cooking. Would I be allowed to go home sometimes?’

‘I don’t know. I wish you could simply have gone home to your grandmother and Mikhail – if I could have taken you, I would. But it was too dangerous. I made a kind of bargain with Miss Calciu, you see. I have to honour that.’

‘Why couldn’t I say goodbye to them?’ Mara had cried all over again at discovering she was not allowed to do this. Sister Teresa had brought a hastily packed bag from the convent, with a nightdress and a clean jumper and skirt and underthings. Mara had no idea who they belonged to.

‘I couldn’t risk it,’ said Sister Teresa. ‘If either of us had gone to your grandmother’s house, Zoia would have known about it. Her people would have been ordered to watch us, and she would have seen it as a trick. She might have taken you back into the Black House, and I’m not sure if I could have got you out a second time.’

‘She’d have shut me inside the well-house again,’ said Mara in a scared whisper. ‘She hated me because of what happened. Sister, I told them a lie.’ There it was, admitted to at last. ‘I said I heard some of the sisters talking about Matthew’s father, and how he was trying to find Matthew’s mother and rescue her. But really it was my grandmother who told me about it.’

She waited for Sister Teresa to be angry, but Sister Teresa said, ‘Lies are very bad things indeed, Mara, but I understand you told that lie to protect your family.’

‘Yes,’ said Mara in a very small voice. ‘Um, Sister, did anything happen because of it?’

‘To the nuns, you mean? There are always consequences from a lie, and there were consequences this time. Two of the sisters are with the Securitate at the moment. We think they will be allowed home, though.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mara again. ‘I’ll confess the lie. But I’m glad my grandmother and Mikhail are all right.’ This seemed to go down well, so feeling a bit braver she said, ‘Sister Teresa, why did Zoia hate me so very much? I didn’t understand that. I know what happened to Annaleise – Miss Simonescu – was bad, but it wasn’t as if she was Zoia’s family or anything like that.’

Sister Teresa took a moment to reply, and when she did her voice sounded awkward, as if she was not sure if she was using the right words. She said, ‘God makes people differently, Mara. Sometimes people – ladies – form very deep attachments to one another. Sometimes men do so, as well. Zoia had a deep attachment for Miss Simonescu. That’s all we need to know.’

‘Oh. Yes, I see. Sister – do you know about the children in the Black House?’

‘I know there are children there.’

Mara saw Sister Teresa’s lips tighten. ‘They’re in cages!’ It came out in an angry explosion, and Mara bit her lip. ‘I saw them by mistake,’ she said. ‘I think that’s part of why they put me in the well-house. Sister, they were crying – they were only little babies…’

Sister Teresa turned her head to look down at Mara. ‘I did know about them,’ she said. ‘That was why I made the bargain.’

Debreczen, when they finally reached it, was small and old and felt somehow secretive. The streets were shadowy because the buildings were of thick old stone – Mara pressed against the windows of the trundly little bus to see better. The convent was a few kilometres outside the town: it was much nearer to the mountains than Mara had expected, and it almost seemed to be built into them.

Once inside, it was cool and dim; there were stone corridors and small cell-like rooms. Mara was shown a dormitory where she would sleep with four other girls who were living there. They were all older than Mara and she felt a bit scared of them.

‘They will be your friends,’ said Sister Teresa, when she left Debreczen two days later. ‘You will come to know and love them.’

But Mara knew she would never love anyone as much as she loved her grandmother and brother. She would not let herself believe she would never see them again. She could not bear that. She could not bear, either, to think she would never see Matthew again.

Even though Matthew did not know where Mara was, every time he thought about her being taken away, he had a dreadful picture of her locked in a stone cell with iron bars at the windows, beating her hands on those bars to get out.

Two days after Mara vanished a jeep came snarling down the lane. Matthew had been getting ready for bed, but he ran to the window when he heard it. His father opened the door as the men walked up to the house and Matthew’s heart began to race. He tried to think it would be one of the men’s ordinary visits, that they would come into the house and talk to his father, then go away again, that it would be all right.

But it was not. The men did not come inside; they grabbed his father there on the doorstep and half dragged him to the waiting jeep. He protested and struggled, but the men had him in a tight hold. The one who had talked to Matthew about art school, said, ‘No use in struggling, Andrei. We’ve finally got the evidence we need. One of the local children heard talk and repeated it to us – no, not your precious son,’ he said, in a sneery voice. ‘And we’ve got all the pieces of the jigsaw at last.’

Matthew’s father hardly seemed to hear. He was fighting the men for all he was worth. Matthew was astonished to see him like that, fighting and hitting out, his hair tumbling over his forehead, his collar loosened. They would overcome him, because there were too many of them. Matthew ran downstairs, skidding on the last few and almost falling over, then pelted across the hall to the open door. He snatched up the ash walking-stick in the coatstand to beat off the men. But when he got to the door he saw it would make no difference if he had all the weapons of an army, because the jeep was already driving off and it was too late.

His father was seated in the back, one of the men keeping firm hold of his arm. He turned round and shouted above the growl of the engine, ‘Matthew – everything will be all right. I’ll be back very soon. Almost certainly tomorrow. So stay here – and whatever happens, remember I love you very much…’

Matthew watched the jeep drive away, then went back up to his room, curled into a miserable huddle on the bed and cried into the pillow until it was soaked through.

His father did not come back the next day. Nor the next day nor the day after that. A whole lot of days went by, and Matthew ran home from school every afternoon, imagining that his father would be there and the men would somehow have been dealt with, and how Matthew himself would be able to feel safe again. But each time there was the sick stab of disappointment at finding only Wilma in the house. Each evening, he ate his supper – he did not want it but Wilma said he had to keep up his strength – and then did his homework.

He concentrated fiercely on this, because it stopped him thinking about what might be happening to his father, but when there was arithmetic homework, the memory of his father saying how he used to write stories about the troublesome figures was too much to bear. Matthew would walk about the bedroom very fast, hoping to fool the memories into going away, but they would not be fooled. He could not stop thinking about the comic story they had planned to write, with Matthew drawing the figures and his father making up the story. It would have been a good story because his father always had good ideas about these things. He had said they might try selling it to a newspaper – comic strips they called them. You could make quite a lot of money from comic strips, he had said, with the sudden narrow-eyed thoughtful look he wore when he was thinking up plots. Matthew loved that look. He could not bear to think he might never see it again.

Each night he sat in the window-seat of his bedroom, watching the lane, so he could see his father’s thin figure the minute it appeared. When it got dark he placed the little lamp by the window where it would shine out into the lane, so that when his father did come he would see the light like travellers in stories.

He wanted to find out where his father had been taken, but he had no idea where to start. Those typed words in the article he had found went through and through his mind. ‘They vanish as abruptly and as completely as if by sorcery,’ his father had written.

Had his father been taken to one of the nameless prisons described in the article? Was he shut away in one of those stone cells Matthew still sometimes dreamed about?

‘He’ll come back,’ said Wilma, wrapping her fat arms round Matthew and hugging him. Matthew found this comforting because Wilma always smelt of clean hair and soap and occasionally of baking. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘You’ll see. We’ll keep a watch and he’ll come home very soon.’

But although Matthew watched faithfully every night from his bedroom window, his father did not come home.

And Mara did not come home either.