Windmills of the Gods (20 page)

No matter what time in the morning Mary arrived at the embassy, Mike Slade was always there ahead of her. She saw him at very few of the embassy parties, and she had a feeling he had his own private entertainment every night.

He was a constant surprise. One afternoon Mary agreed to let Florian take Beth and Tim ice skating at Floreasca Park. Mary left the embassy early to join them, and when she arrived, she saw that Mike Slade was with them. The three of them were skating together, obviously having a wonderful time. He was patiently teaching them figure eights.
I must warn the children about him,
Mary thought. But she was not sure exactly what the warning should be.

The following morning when Mary arrived at her office, Mike walked in. “A codel is arriving in two hours. I thought—”

“A codel?”

“That’s diplomatese for a congressional delegation. Four senators with their wives and aides. They’ll expect you to meet with them. I’ll set up an appointment with President
Ionescu and have Harriet see that their shopping and sight-seeing are taken care of.”

“Thank you.”

“Some of my home-brewed coffee?”

“Fine.”

She watched him as he walked through the connecting door into his office. A strange man. Rough, rude. And yet, there was his patience with Beth and Tim.

When he returned with two cups of coffee, Mary said, “Do you have children?”

The question caught Mike Slade off guard. “I have two boys.”

“Where—?”

“They’re in the custody of my ex-wife.” He abruptly changed the subject. “Let’s see if I can set up that appointment with Ionescu.”

The coffee was delicious. Mary was later to remember that this was the day she realized that having coffee with Mike Slade had become a morning ritual.

Angel picked her up in the evening at La Boca, near the waterfront, where she was standing with the other
putas,
dressed in a tight-fitting blouse and jeans that were cut off at the thighs, showing off her wares. She looked no older than fifteen. She was not pretty, but that did not bother Angel.

“Vámanos, querida.
We will entertain each other.”

The girl lived in a cheap walk-up apartment nearby, consisting of one dirty room with a bed, two chairs, a lamp, and a sink.

“Get undressed,
estrellita.
I want to see you naked.”

The girl hesitated. There was something about Angel that frightened her. But it had been a slow day, and she had to bring money to Pepe or she knew she would be beaten. Slowly, she began to undress.

Angel stood watching. Off came the blouse and then the
jeans. The girl was wearing nothing underneath. Her body was pale and thin.

“Keep your shoes on. Come over here and kneel down.”

The girl obeyed.

“Now here is what I want you to do.”

She listened and looked up with frightened eyes. “I’ve never done—”

Angel kicked her in the head. She lay on the floor, moaning. Angel picked her up by the hair and threw her on the bed. As the girl started to scream, Angel punched her hard across the face. She moaned.

“Good,” Angel said. “I want to hear you moan.”

A huge fist slammed into her nose and broke it. When Angel was finished with her thirty minutes later, the girl lay on the bed, unconscious.

Angel smiled down at the battered figure of the girl and threw a few pesos on the bed. “Gracias.” Angel smiled.

Mary spent every possible moment she could with the children. They did a lot of sight-seeing. There were dozens of museums and old churches to visit, but for the children, the highlight was the trip to Dracula’s castle in Brasov, located in the heart of Transylvania, a hundred miles from Bucharest.

“The count was really a prince,” Florian explained on the drive up. “Prince Vlad Tepes. He was a great hero who stopped the Turkish invasion.”

“I thought he just liked to suck blood and kill people,” Tim said.

Florian nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately, after the war Vlad’s power went to his head. He became a dictator and he impaled his enemies on stakes. The legend grew that he was a vampire. An Irishman named Bram Stoker wrote a book based on the legend. A silly book, but it has done wonders for tourism.”

Bran Castle was a huge stone monument high in the mountains. They were all exhausted by the time they climbed the steep stone stairs leading to the castle. They went into a low-ceilinged room containing guns and ancient artifacts.

“This is where Count Dracula murdered his victims and drank their blood,” the guide said in a sepulchral voice.

The room was damp and eerie. A spiderweb brushed across Tim’s face. “I’m not scared of anything,” he said to his mother, “but can we get out of here?”

Every six weeks an American Air Force C-130 plane landed at a small airfield on the outskirts of Bucharest. The plane was loaded with food and luxuries unavailable in Bucharest that had been ordered by members of the American embassy through the military commissary in Frankfurt.

One morning, while Mary and Mike Slade were having coffee, Mike said, “Our commissary plane is due in today. Why don’t you take a ride out to the airport with me?”

Mary started to say no. She had a great deal of work to do, and it seemed a pointless invitation. Still, Mike Slade was not a man given to wasting time. Her curiosity got the better of her.

“All right.”

They drove to the airfield, and on the way discussed various embassy problems that had to be dealt with. The conversation was kept on a cool, impersonal level.

When they arrived at the airport, an armed marine sergeant opened a gate to allow the limousine to pass through. Ten minutes later, they watched the C-130 land.

Behind the fence, on the boundary of the airport, hundreds of Romanians had gathered. They watched hungrily as the crew began unloading the aircraft.

“What is that crowd doing here?”

“Dreaming. They’re looking at some of the things they can never have. They know we’re getting steak and soap and perfume. A crowd is always here when the plane lands. It’s
some kind of mysterious underground telegraph.”

Mary studied the avid faces behind the fence. “It’s unbelievable.”

“That plane is a symbol to them. It’s not just the cargo—it represents a free country that takes care of its citizens.” Mary turned to look at him. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I don’t want you to get carried away by President Ionescu’s sweet talk. This is the real Romania.”

Every morning when Mary rode to work she noticed long lines of people outside the gates waiting to get into the consular section of the embassy. She had taken it for granted that they were people with minor problems they hoped the consul could solve. But on this particular morning she went to the window to take a closer look and the expressions she saw on their faces compelled her to go into Mike’s office.

“Who are all those people waiting in line outside?”

Mike walked with her to the window. “They’re mostly Romanian Jews. They’re waiting to file applications for visas.”

“But there’s an Israeli embassy in Bucharest. Why don’t they go there?”

“Two reasons,” Mike explained. “First of all, they think the United States government has a greater chance of assisting them to get to Israel than the Israeli government. And secondly, they think there’s less of a chance of the Romanian security people finding out their intention if they come to us. They’re wrong, of course.” He pointed out the window. “There’s an apartment house directly across from the embassy that has several flats filled with agents using telescopic lenses, photographing everybody who goes in and out of the embassy.”

“That’s terrible!”

“That’s the way they play the game. When a Jewish family applies for a visa to emigrate, they lose their green job cards and they’re thrown out of their apartments. Their
neighbors are instructed to turn their backs on them. Then it takes three to four years before the government will tell them whether they’ll even get their exit papers, and the answer is usually no.”

“Can’t we do something about it?”

“We try all the time. But Ionescu enjoys playing a cat-and-mouse game with the Jews. Very few of them are ever allowed to leave the country.”

Mary looked out at the expressions of hopelessness on their faces. “There has to be a way,” Mary said.

“Don’t break your heart,” Mike told her.

The time-zone problem was exhausting. When it was daylight in Washington, it was the middle of the night in Bucharest, and Mary was constantly being awakened by telegrams and telephone calls at three and four in the morning. Every time a night cable came in, the marine on duty at the embassy would call the day officer, who would send a staff assistant to the residence to awaken Mary. After that, she would be too keyed up to go back to sleep.

It’s exciting, darling. I really think I can make a difference here. Anyway, I’m trying. I couldn’t bear to fail. Everyone is counting on me. I wish you were here to say, “You can do it, old girl.” I miss you so much. Can you hear me, Edward? Are you here somewhere where I can’t see you? Sometimes not knowing the answer to that makes me crazy…

They were having their morning coffee.

“We have a problem,” Mike Slade began.

“Yes?”

“A delegation of a dozen Romanian church officials wants to see you. A church in Utah has invited them for a visit. The Romanian government won’t issue them an exit visa.”

“Why not?”

“Very few Romanians are allowed to leave the country.
They have a joke about the day Ionescu took power. He went to the east wing of the palace and saw the sun rising. ‘Good morning, comrade sun,’ Ionescu said. ‘Good morning,’ the sun said. ‘Everyone is so happy that you are Romania’s new President.’ That evening, Ionescu went to the west wing of the palace to watch the sun set. He said, ‘Good evening, comrade sun.’ The sun didn’t answer. ‘How is it that you spoke to me so nicely this morning, and now you won’t speak to me at all?’ ’I’m in the West now,’ the sun said. ‘You can go to hell.’ Ionescu is afraid that once they get out the church officials will tell the government to go to hell.”

“I’ll talk to the foreign minister and see what I can do.”

Mike rose. “Do you like folk dancing?” he asked.

“Why?”

“There’s a Romanian dance company opening tonight. They’re supposed to be pretty good. Would you like to go?”

Mary was taken by surprise. The last thing she had expected was for Mike to invite her out.

And now, even more incredibly, she found herself saying yes.

“Good.” Mike handed her a small envelope. “There are three tickets here. You can take Beth and Tim, courtesy of the Romanian government. We get tickets to most of their openings.”

Mary sat there, her face flushed, feeling like a fool. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“I’ll have Florian pick you up at eight o’clock.”

Beth and Tim were not interested in going to the theater. Beth had invited a schoolmate for dinner.

“It’s my Italian friend,” Beth said. “Is it okay?”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve never really cared much for folk dancing,” Tim added.

Mary laughed. “All right. I’ll let you two off the hook this time.”

She wondered if the children were as lonely as she was. She thought about whom she could invite to go with her. She mentally ran down the list: Colonel McKinney, Jerry Davis, Harriet Kruger? There was no one she really wanted to be with.
I’ll go alone,
she decided.

Florian was waiting for Mary when she stepped out the front door.

“Good evening, Madam Ambassador.” He bowed and opened the car door.

“You seem very cheerful tonight, Florian.”

He grinned. “I am always cheerful, Madam.” He closed the door and got behind the wheel. “We Romanians have a saying: ‘Kiss the hand you cannot bite.’”

Mary decided to take a chance. “Are you happy living here, Florian?”

He studied her in the rear-view mirror. “Shall I give you the official party-line answer, Madam Ambassador, or would you like the truth?”

“The truth, please.”

“I could be shot for saying this, but no Romanian is happy here. Only foreigners. You are free to come and go as you please. We are prisoners. There is not enough of anything here.” They were driving by a long line of people in front of a butcher shop. “Do you see that? They will wait in line for three or four hours to get a lamb chop or two, and half the people in line will be disappointed. It is the same for everything. But do you know how many homes Ionescu has hidden away? Twelve! I have driven many Romanian officials to them. Each one is like a palace. Meanwhile, three or four families are forced to live together in tiny apartments without heat.” Florian stopped suddenly, as though afraid he had said too much. “You will not mention this conversation, please?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank you. I would hate to have my wife become a
widow. She is young. And Jewish. There is the anti-Semitism problem here.”

Mary knew that already.

“There is a story about a store that was promised fresh eggs. At five o’clock in the morning, there was a long line waiting in the freezing cold. By eight o’clock, the eggs still had not come and the line had grown longer. The owner said, ‘There will not be enough for everyone. The Jews can leave.’ At two in the afternoon, the eggs still had not arrived and the line was even longer. The store owner said, ‘Non-party members leave.’ At midnight the line was still waiting in the freezing cold. No eggs. The owner locked the store and said, ‘Nothing’s changed. The Jews always get the best of everything.’”

Mary did not know whether to laugh or cry.
But I’m going to do something about it,
she promised herself.

The folk theater was on Rasodia Romană, a bustling street filled with small stands selling flowers and plastic slippers and blouses and pens. The theater was small and ornate, a relic of more halcyon days. The entertainment itself was boring, the costumes tawdry, and the dancers awkward. The show seemed interminable, and when it was finally over, Mary was glad to escape into the fresh night air. Florian was standing by the limousine in front of the theater.