they could. At first there was no need to hide them. Ruscova had not seen a single German since the beginning of the Occupation, so these immigrants wandered the village, taking work where they could get it, sometimes sleeping in the fields or renting a room from the locals. They were always planning far-fetched escapes to Paris. When the Germans took Paris, they wept and planned for London. For New York.
Then the Germans decided they could take Russia.
This brought convoys through the countryside. Fresh troops to replace veterans, bright-eyed Wehrmacht boys stopping in Ruscova for bread and pork on the way to Kiev, to Minsk, to Stalingrad. Sometimes German officers filled the dusty main square, smoking and joking, and the Jews had to be hidden. A few families latched their gates and shook their heads, but most, once they heard stories of the Bucharest meat factories, gave what space they had.
Tne convoys filled the center with heady fumes, and the closets and basements and cupboards of Ruscova were filled with Romanian Jewry. Even the Brod dacha kept its transients, and for a single week it held the tiny Caras family-a father and daughter. Each night they were there, the eighteen-year-old girl, Ester, sneaked into his bedroom.
She was one year older, but small and slight and mute. She had not spoken, her father said, since the day she saw her mother dragged by the hair down the main street in Iasi. It was terrible, the father told them, then shook his head and said nothing more.
Ester never spoke as she slipped out of her nightshirt and drew back his sheets. During that week, she kissed him only once, on the shoulder, then clutched at him in desperation. She made grunting noises when they made love. She did not look into his face until she felt him coming, then she held his head in her hands and stared into him. Black eyes. Burgundy lips. A brown mole on her chin. Afterward, she held him close for a few seconds and, weeping, grabbed her nightshirt and ran out of the room.
Each night, the same stunning performance.
Their meals together were miserable affairs. Grandfather dominated the table, talking expansively about all his opinions on the Fascists and the Soviets, while Mr. Caras, not willing to risk his and his daughter’s safety, agreed with everything meekly. Grandfather seemed utterly unaware, and Grandmother said nothing, but Emil felt the pressure of embarrassment as he listened to those endless, useless words, and tried to get Ester to look at him, so he could show with his eyes that he was different. But she did not look anywhere but at her plate, and when, after a week, they moved on, she did not give him anything more. No words, no wishes for the future. Nothing. Then they were gone. To London. Or New York.
It was different after that. First in Helsinki, where he had gone to escape the boredom of provincial life, then back in the Capital, he noticed the change. It surprised him at first, then it offended him. He could not look at women as he had before. It was no longer enough to see that a woman was beautiful; he wanted to know how she was when she was frightened, what her face looked like in the dark. He was desperate to know what had made each woman who she was. It was perverse-he was perverse-but he was drawn to stutterers, and to women with limps; there were many after the war. Women who were injured, brutalized by life. Filia, he learned very quickly, had the basic inability to be happy. Lena Crowder was a bitter drunk. And he wanted her that much more.
He heard the engine, but didn’t look up until the soldiers stepped inside. He was going through the photographs of the two men in a nighttime street. He would not figure out anything tonight, not in this state-he knew this-but he examined them anyway: meeting, talking, shaking hands, separating. He thought of spies and secrets being traded. Propaganda mouths.
There was a noisiness about the soldiers, as though their clothes were made to announce them by rustling loudly along the thighs and arms. The farmers’ abrupt silence accentuated this effect. The three soldiers surveyed the room from the doorway, sniffed the sour air, then wandered to the bar and asked for vodkas. The barmaid shook her head and showed them the brandy. One of them-a young Russian with pimples along his cheeks-sucked on her bottle, then spat the liquor out on the counter.
The barmaid wiped spray from her arms. Her face went white as she moved back into the corner.
A second Russian continually unholstered and reholstered his sidearm-a nervous movement-and stumbled to the wall to peer closely at a poster advertising a French aperitif. He said to the others, in Russian, “You want this? For the latrine.”
He was fiercely drunk, and his friends-one still in the doorway, the other leaning back against the counter- peered around the room that was going in and out of focus. The farmers had put away their cards and stared nervously at their empty hands on the table, and into their laps.
“Hey, sweetheart,” said one of the soldiers, and Emil had to squint to realize he was being addressed. “That your car outside?”
Emil answered in Russian: “It belongs to the state.”
“And are you the state, Blondie?”
They were all looking at him. The soldiers, the farmers, the barmaid. Emil was not drunk enough to be suicidal. He said, “I’m a servant of the state.”
The locals understood none of this exchange, and the soldiers knew it. The one by the advertisement said, “You think we should fuck the woman? Use your car. You can come along if you like.” His pistol was in his hand, then it was on his hip.
He did not answer at first. The anger was spilling back into his blood. He’d seen them before, the Russian soldiers who loitered around train stations and bars. They waited for pretty women, or just women, then followed them down the street. Rape was common enough; they picked up venereal diseases and spread them like evangelists.
Emil said, “She’s got the clap. Better leave her alone.”
All three began laughing, and the short one at the bar turned to her. His language skills were surprisingly good. “Is it true you’ve got the clap?”
She didn’t need to look at Emil to know he was nodding incrementally, trying to give her the answer. “It’s very bad,” she said, then started to cry.
“Come on,” said the youngest, still standing in the doorway. “Let’s get a bottle in town. Come on? He was the weak one; he pleaded.
The one with the pistol ripped down the French poster and rolled it carefully into a tube. He tapped it on Emil’s shoulder and smiled. “Come along?” His expression lacked anything like anger or real human comprehension, just a boyish desire to share his enjoyment. “We’re going to have a good time.”
Emil shook his head no.
They sang on their way out, some Russian folk song with bawdy verses. They yelled and kicked gravel. Glass was smashed, horses whinnied nervously. They had problems starting their jeep, shouted curses, then roared off into the night.
The barmaid regained control of herself and wiped off the counter with a towel, then told them to excuse her. The farmers nodded sympathetically. Before stepping outside, she told Emil to take a bottle home if he wanted. Please.
He finished his shot and placed the glass on the counter. He didn’t want a bottle, but knew it would mean a lot to her. The farmers gave him severe, respectful nods, and the barmaid almost ran into him on his way out. She looked pleased to see the bottle in his hand. She was wearing a different skirt. He realized she had wet herself.
He started the Mercedes, but the headlights would not come on. He got out under the gazes of the nervous workhorses. The lights had been smashed to pieces.
It was still dark that morning when he arrived home, having worked his way through the rest of his first bottle and the unlit back roads of the Capital. He had kept his eye out for the Russians, wondering without decision what he’d do if he saw them again, then stumbled drowsily up the dusty steps, where the supervisor still snored in her chair. Grandfather was in a robe and slippers in the kitchen. Emil wobbled over and sat across from him. He wanted to tell the pouting old man about the soldiers and his small act of courage, but the only thing that came out was, “I’m leaving the Militia. I’ve had enough.”
Grandfather pressed his hands on his knees, standing slowly, and stepped over to Emil. Then slapped him once, sharply. The arthritic bulges struck like stones and left his cheek burning. “Don’t tell me that.”
So Emil rose, the chair scratching the floor, and left again. He edged around the supervisor and made it out the front door before the old man caught up with him. They sat together on the front steps, but did not talk for a
