Shadow of a Hero

AUGUST 1990

LETTA WAS ESCAPING up a mountainside. Her companion was a bandit. Somebody had told her she mustn’t trust him. The Turks were spread out below, tiny with distance. They hadn’t seen her yet. Her heart was hammering. People were shouting, running around on the now dark hillside, calling for her . . .

‘Letta! Letta!’

She jerked awake and sat up, her heart still hammering.

‘Letta! It’s Parvla!’

It was still dark, but people really seemed to be running about, and shouting.

‘Oh, do shut up. What’s going on?’

That was Janine, in English, groaningly, on the other side of the tent. It had been a hot night, so Letta had slept on her bag rather than in it. She crawled out through the flaps and stood up. Parvla was there in the folky cotton nightgown which Letta was going to try and find one like before she went home, only they didn’t sell them in shops – they were something you made for yourself. She’d met Parvla at a camp sing-song a couple of nights before. She lived near a village about twenty miles out of Potok. She was two years older than Letta and seemed older still in some ways but younger in others. In spite of that they’d got on at once, looked for each other next morning, spent time together, and agreed to meet again today. But not this early, with stars still out and only a faint grey line to the east, behind Mount Athur.

‘They’ve taken him away!’ gasped Parvla. ‘They came in the middle of the night, two long black cars, and rushed into the hotel and took him from his bed, wrapped in a blanket, and drove away.’

‘Grandad! Restaur Vax?’

‘Yes.’

Letta was dopey, unable to think or feel. This seemed to be still part of her dream, with the dark hillside and the people moving around with angry cries, and her heart still uselessly hammering.

‘What’s everybody doing?’ she said.

‘We’re all going up to the Square, I think.’

Letta pulled herself together.

‘Oh. Right. Thanks. I’d better find Nigel. You go and get dressed.’

While she was groping for her clothes she told Janine what had happened, but Janine simply groaned and turned over. She pulled her jeans and shirt on over her pyjamas and started down the hill, but before she’d gone more than a few yards she heard Nigel’s voice, calling for her as he climbed.

‘Here!’ she shouted, and found him.

‘What’s happened?’ he said. ‘Something to do with Grandad, I gather. Is he all right?’

‘I don’t know. Somebody came and took him away. They’re all going up to the Square.’

‘Us too? We’d better check in with Mum and Dad. They’ll be worried sick.’

Blundering among tents they made their way down to the main path. People were already streaming along it towards the town. Their voices were mostly low, but Letta could feel their anger like a thickening of the air. The crowd grew denser and slower, but then she and Nigel were able to branch off towards the University, where a lot of lights were on and yet more people were pouring away towards the town. Mollie was in her room with a knapsack packed and Donna ready and dressed but fast asleep, waiting for them.

‘Well done,’ she said. ‘Steff’s gone up to the hotel. He called the office here five minutes ago and said he’s arranged for us to be let in at that back entrance. Apparently you can’t get to the front at all. Ready?’

Even by the back way they barely made it. All the streets in the centre of Potok were jammed with furious Varinians. At one place they passed there were crashings of glass and yells of rage from a courtyard. In the thin dawn light, Letta saw a man run forward and hurl something. Another crash, and more yells. She heard a bystander ask what was up and somebody tell him that Romanians lived there. The bystander immediately rushed into the courtyard, yelling and looking for a missile of his own.

Letta and Nigel had paused to watch, and Mollie had gone ahead. In a moment of panic, Letta thought they’d lost her, but then she spotted her, craning back to see where they’d got to. When they caught up she said, ‘For God’s sake don’t get separated. Keep with me.’ There was a snap in her voice, which Letta had never heard before. As they struggled on, Letta realized that Mollie, too, was afraid.

Steff was waiting for them at the kitchen doors. He was obviously extremely relieved to see them. He took Donna onto his shoulder, still totally sogged out with sleep, and as he led them towards the front of the hotel he talked over his shoulder to Mollie.

‘Not as bad as we thought. Kronin’s brother – you remember, the guy in the Ministry of Culture – says it’s all a mistake and he’s furious about it.’

‘Are they going to send him back?’ said Mollie.

‘If they’ve got any sense, but nobody’s in their office yet. We got Kronin’s brother out of bed.’

‘It’s really nasty out there, Steff. We saw a gang of people breaking windows. Does anyone know where they’ve taken him?’

‘Timisoara, I should think. Bucharest in the end. They may just shove him on a plane and send him home.’

He led the way into the entrance hall, where groups of people were standing around talking in low voices. From beyond the doors rose a dull, deep roar, not much louder than the noise the crowd had made the opening day, but quite different. They didn’t wait but went straight upstairs to what had been Grandad’s room. Momma was coming out of the bathroom with a sponge-bag. She’d been crying.

‘Oh, darlings!’ she said in English. ‘Isn’t this too awful. I’m so relieved to see you. Has anyone seen Van?’

At that moment the telephone in the little den rang, and stopped. Poppa appeared in the doorway with the receiver to his ear, beckoning them over.

‘Right,’ he was saying. ‘We’ll do that . . . Not a hope – it’ll never get near the hotel. No, it’ll have to be somewhere right outside the town . . . All right, Min and Letta . . . They’ll have to have an escort – I’ll see if anyone here can fix anything. But listen. Do they realize what they’ve stirred up here? If they don’t let you come back . . . I’m sure you are . . . If they don’t see that, then they’re crazy . . . Kronin’s called his brother. He says it’s a mistake. So . . . Right, here she is.’

He passed the telephone to Momma, who listened and murmured her answers, crying again now. Poppa moved the others aside so as not to interrupt.

‘He seems all right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘They’ve stopped at Paçel, just over the border. They’re giving him breakfast. They haven’t told him anything except that he is to ask for some clothes and two members of his family to escort him, so it looks pretty certain they’re going to put him on a plane . . .’

He broke off and went over as Momma beckoned, but she seemed to change her mind and started talking in a language Letta didn’t know – Romanian, probably. She asked questions, but mostly listened. At last she gave a heavy sigh and just stood there, shaking her head. Poppa took the telephone out of her hand and put it back in the den.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘That was a Captain, army, I think, not police. As far as I can make out – it’s a terrible line and my Romanian’s rusty – he wasn’t in charge of the people who took Grandad away, but he’s somehow taken over. He says he’s got to wait for orders. They’re taking him to Timisoara. They want me and one other to go with him. Letta . . .’

‘I want to stay here,’ said Letta.

It was all she knew. The nightmare from which she’d woken kept lurching back round her, swallowing her, drowning her, and then ebbing away. Had she really struggled along through the furious crowd, watched the men hurling stones in the courtyard, almost lost Mollie? Yes, of course, but still it all seemed full of the shapeless terror of dream. Even here, in the big, lit room, watching Momma stand shaking her head and saying she didn’t understand . . . All she was certain of was that she must stay and face whatever danger Varina faced. Parvla was out there, somewhere among the roaring crowd . . .

‘You’ll do what you’re told,’ snapped Momma, and then, ‘I’m sorry, darling. I don’t want him worrying about you. Don’t you see?’

Letta pulled herself together.

‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to say. ‘Whatever you want . . . It’s just . . .’

Then Van came rushing through the doors, hair tousled, a smear of dirt down one cheek, but with glittering eyes and a fizz and fever in his movements.

‘Oh, there you are!’ cried Momma. ‘That’s wonderful! How did you get in?’

‘Climbed,’ he said. ‘Some of the gang gave me a leg-up to a bedroom window round at the side. Isn’t this terrific? Isn’t this just what we wanted! They couldn’t have done it better for us if we’d asked them!’

Quite unaware of the appalled hush that filled the room, he rushed to the window and stared out. It was almost light now, with the stars gone and the topmost points of the ridges on either side of the valley tipped with the first rays of the sun. Below them stretched the shadowy slopes and lower still came the tiles and stone of the cathedral, not warm red and gold as they would be at noon but dull brownish and grey. And then, below everything, the immense, dark, roaring crowd.

‘You’re not going to ask if we know anything about what’s happened to Grandad?’ said Poppa quietly.

Van turned, making at least a pretence of shame.

‘Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry. Anyone know where they’ve taken the old boy?’

Poppa told him the news.

‘That sounds all right,’ he said. ‘Provided they haven’t beaten him up or anything. If they just ship him out.’

‘If they’ve got any sense at all they’ll send him straight back,’ said Poppa.

‘Well, let’s hope they haven’t got any sense at all,’ said Van. ‘This is just what we wanted. Otto Vasa’s going to make a speech to them in a bit. They asked me downstairs to check that was OK with you. He’ll need the balcony.’

There was another silence. Momma and Poppa and Steff looked at each other. Letta could see they didn’t like it at all, but it was difficult for them to say anything. They’d always kept out of Varinian politics, partly not to make things difficult for Grandad and partly because it wasn’t their sort of thing.

‘What’s going on?’ whispered Mollie, who hadn’t been able to follow Van’s rapid Field. Letta told her.

‘Is this a committee decision?’ she said. She was talking about the main Festival Committee, who’d run everything so far.

‘No time for that,’ said Van. ‘Anyway, it’s not just culture any more. And we’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot.’

There was a knock on the door and two men came in with the podium Grandad had used, and microphones. The loudspeaker system was still in place because there was going to be a closing ceremony in the Square before they all went home. Again Momma, Poppa and Steff looked at each other. Poppa shrugged unhappily and stood aside to let the men through. They opened the central windows, and when the crowd outside saw the podium going into place, their steady angry roar swelled up and rose in pitch. Van strode across to one of the side-windows to watch, but the rest of the family moved to an inside corner of the room.

‘I want no part of this,’ said Poppa.

‘I think we’re stuck,’ said Momma.

‘What do you think Grandad would like us to do?’ said Steff. ‘You met this Vasa chap, didn’t you, Poppa?’

(They’d all seen him, of course. He’d seemed to be everywhere throughout the festival, always with the same big, benevolent smile and booming voice. Sometimes his wife had been there too, looking like a film star, with a fixed, winsome smile on her lips.)

‘He was perfectly polite,’ said Poppa. ‘Momma didn’t care for him.’

‘I thought he was gruesome,’ said Momma. ‘I wouldn’t trust him an inch.’

‘That’s what Minna Alaya told me,’ said Letta.

They looked at her in surprise, and she was just about to explain when the doors burst open again and Otto Vasa himself stood there, looking huge and stern, with four or five other men behind him. After a moment’s pause he strode across to them and shook hands, first with Poppa and then with the others.

‘This is a terrible business,’ he said. ‘I grieve for you, Mrs Ozolins. My wife sends her condolences. Once again these swine have shown that they are no better than the Germans, no better than the Communists.’

‘My father’s just telephoned from Paçek,’ said Momma. ‘It looks as if they’re putting him on a plane back to England.’

‘They will say anything,’ said Mr Vasa, dismissively. ‘So great a man, so noble. After all that he has done and suffered for Varina. Now you must come with me. You must be at my side. You must show your faces to the people at this hour of their need.’

Poppa was about to say something but Mr Vasa simply gripped him by the elbow, put his other arm round Momma’s shoulders, and, without exactly dragging them, marched them towards the window. Mollie looked at Steff. He hesitated, as if he might have refused to follow, but just as Momma stepped onto the balcony she turned and gave a pleading backward glance, so they all trailed out behind.

The roar of the crowd rose still further, reached a steady, raucous pitch and stayed there. The sunlight had moved halfway down the hillsides, but as the sky brightened the mass of people below seemed darker than ever, with the white bars of the Varinian flags which they waved looking like flecks of foam on a stormy lake. Mr Vasa took up his position at the microphone and motioned the others to the places where he wanted them, Momma on his left, and then Poppa, and then Letta and Nigel; on his right Van, then Mollie, then Steff. He ran both hands through his thick blond hair, which looked like a natural, unthinking movement, but still bushed it out into a romantic, golden mane, and then held up his arms for silence. Letta remembered Grandad doing the same five days ago. Gradually the roaring died away.

‘My friends, my countrymen . . .’

He paused for the roar of voices to crash out, and waited impressively for silence.

‘Five days ago those self-same words were spoken from this balcony by our great leader, Restaur Vax . . .’

Another bellow of voices, one huge voice.

‘Five days ago it was a time of hope. After a lifetime of suffering, his suffering, our suffering, we were together again, one people.’

Again the roar, but this time changing, getting a rhythm, becoming a chant yelled defiantly from ten thousand throats.

‘Unaloxatu! Unaloxotu! Unaloxistu!’

Again, and again, and again. Ten thousand fists punching the air in rhythm to the chant. Mr Vasa with both arms raised, conducting the chant until, with a wide-sweeping gesture, he cut it short.

‘Our rulers pretend to be democrats. They hold elections. We send Varinians to their parliament. They say they will listen to us and do what we, the people, want. But these are words. What have they given us? When have they listened to us? How are they better than that swine Ceauşescu, these rulers who come like thieves in the night and snatch an old man from his bed? This is not words. This is what they do! Why? Because they are afraid!’

By now the yelling was almost continuous, but he carried on, bellowing above the din. At times Letta, though she was only a few feet away, could barely hear what he said, but it didn’t matter. He could have said almost anything, provided he’d said it in that harsh, aggressive bark, in those snapped-out sentences, with his clenched fist smashing down on the podium to hammer the points home.

Letta loathed him. She hadn’t realized it was possible to hate anyone as much as this. She glanced up at Steff and saw that his face was stern and angry, and Mollie’s too, but Van beyond them was tense and thrilled.

‘. . . in what dark prison, in what torture-cell, does Restaur Vax, that good old man, now lie? What are they doing to him, my countrymen?’

She felt sick. She was going to faint. Wasn’t there anyone in the roaring crowd below who could see what a liar he was? Momma had told him, only ten minutes ago, that Grandad was all right and they were probably going to put him on a plane to England . . .

She couldn’t bear it any more, but turned and slipped away behind the others and back into the room. A man said something to her but she simply shook her head and pointed and let him take her arm and help her to the bathroom door.

She went through and locked it and then stood gripping the basin with both hands, with her head bowed over the bowl, wondering if she really was going to be sick. After a while she decided she wasn’t, so she sat on a chair with her fingers in her ears, trying to blot out the roar. Then it struck her that Momma might miss her and be worried, and then that she was ashamed of herself for running away when the others were all sticking it out, and she didn’t want to be caught skulking in the bathroom, at least, so she unlocked the door, still not having made up her mind whether she could face going back out onto the balcony.

The question didn’t arise. As she was going through into the main room, Otto Vasa came striding in from the balcony, wearing a grand, heroic look. A small, dark man with a moustache was waiting for him. Neither of them noticed Letta. The small man made a rapid thumbs-up gesture. Mr Vasa dropped the hero mask for an instant and winked like a smug schoolboy, then turned, stern and serious, to help Momma gallantly through the door.