A Family Of No Consequence

A FAMILY OF NO CONSEQUENCE

A Novel

Thomas M. Toler

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Thomas Toler

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The dragon is by the side of

the road, watching those who

pass. Beware, lest he devour

` you. We go to the father of souls,

but it is necessary to pass by

the dragon.

St. Cyril of Jerusalem

Table of Contents

A FAMILY OF NO CONSEQUENCE

Tolnici 1944

Vatra Dornel Romania, 1942

Southern Romania (Galati)

Vienna 1945

Sidi-Bel-Abbes Algeria, North Africa

Indochina l946

Sidi-Bel-Abbes 1947

Tolnici Village 1947

A FAMILY OF NO CONSEQUENCE

The Ludovic road sought whatever flat surface it could find. The Hungarian engineers who build it three hundred years earlier avoided any ridge or saddle in its path. The result was a switchback pattern through the Carpathian lowlands, as if the road led to no certain destination. The month was May and the sun had already drawn all the moisture from the road surface, leaving a ribbon of dry white earth for those travelers in no apparent haste. The two boys turned onto a footpath that ran in parallel with the road and continued for some three kilometers from the village.

Cyprian was as exuberant as ever. When I'm with girls, I can tell. I talked to her yesterday for only a couple of minutes, but I could see it in her eyes, she fancies me.

You—and Irina? Ethan swallowed twice to suppress his laughter.

She tells me you and Ana are planning a little outing. This I like. Cyprian stood with his feet splayed like those of an expert horseman. His face, an oval of anticipation, suggested to Ethan that Cyprian regarded his knowledge of females as universal. Ah, you know Ana, Ethan said. "One day I mention the clouds are lifting and suddenly she comes up with the idea of a picnic. A surprise! Now nothing will stop her until the hamper's filled."

Cyprian thought for a moment. So here's what we do. You have Ana make lemonade, and my mother can put together some tongue sandwiches. I'll ask Irina. We can spend the day up in the orchard.

"A day in the orchard? My father has the north pasture ready for planting, and guess who he needs to help him? Besides, what does Irina think about this plan of yours?

What does it matter? She won't say no. And let's—

Ethan raised his hand. Listen, he whispered.

A low wail filled the air, instantly followed by another burst. Seconds later the sound fell to a wet wheezing before beginning again, this time at a higher pitch. They moved in its direction, stopping every few steps to orient themselves.

Cyprian labored to keep pace with Ethan. "I know that sound. Grabeste-te! Hurry!" The cart path swung to the northwest and took them in the direction of the Cosbus homestead. The anguished sound grew more distinct. The sound had become a bellows, sucking in the moist air and expelling it at a fevered pace. It seemed impossible that it could continue much longer. They found the animal near a copse of young beech trees. The ox lay on its side, a wooden yoke holding its head firmly in place. A puddle of saliva gathered beneath the head. A Roma boy or nine or ten struggled to release the traces to a field plow. Each repetition of the animal's breathing brought a burst of cries from the boy. Once the chains were slackened and the plow set back on its blade, the boy knelt near the animal's front legs. At first hesitantly, he ran his hand along the ruptured skin and paused for a moment before fingering the wet femur that now bent back on itself. He began beating his closed fist against his chest and glancing upward, imploring the heavens in a dialect Ethan found almost unintelligible. Blood began to pool around the boy's knees. The cry of the ox grew fainter.

The Gypsy boy appeared unaware of Ethan and Cyprian's presence and only lifted his head when he heard a man's voice beckoning. The figure closed the distance across the pasture in seconds and pulled himself to a stop beside the boy. He peered at the animal for only a moment. Arriving at some resolution known only to him, he raised his head as if refreshed at that moment. He lifted his tunic. A thick cord served as his belt, and between it and his trousers rested a pistol. Decision point now reached, he offered the weapon to the boy. The man barked a command and stood back. The ox began its lament again. The boy's chest convulsed at the command of his elder. He collapsed to a sitting position. His hands fell to the earth and the revolver came to rest beside his thigh. He turned and beckoned to Ethan. The boy grasped the gun by the barrel and reached for Ethan's hand.

No! Ethan's hands flew away from him, palms exposed.

The boy rolled to his knees, closed his eyes, and lifted his head for a moment. He placed the pistol within reach and clasped both hands in prayer. His head then fell to his knees as he moved the pistol inch by inch toward Ethan. It was a gesture of complete submission and Ethan was somehow moved by it. All will be well, he wanted to say to the boy. I'll comfort you. Here...see this? I have the pistol now. Stop your sobbing.

Ethan was not prepared for the elder stepping toward him, now gesturing that the pistol should be returned, that it had no business in the hands of a stranger. A calloused hand with two broken fingernails reached out. Cyprian immediately stepped in front of the man. Ethan circled around the pair and nodded to the boy. He closed his fingers around the trigger and stepped closer to the animal. A yellow eye rolled in his direction and attempted to focus on him. The revolver was a primitive firearm, a rusty cylinder with two cartridges in it. Ethan found it much heavier than he expected. He drew back several paces, grasped the pistol with both hands and attempted to raise it. The animal sensed the moment and began to bellow. The weight of the pistol seemed to draw Ethan's thin arms to the ground. His fingers became thick and leaden. The head of the ox floated in and out of his vision. He stood motionless, questioning for an instant if his fingers had somehow become trapped in the trigger housing. Cyprian's hand fell on his forearm, slipped over Ethan's inert fingers, and delicately withdrew the pistol.

Only one shot to the head was required. For some days afterward, Ethan cursed himself for believing that all living things harbored the spirit of God.

Tolnici

1944

Usually by mid-afternoon the bombers appeared. No sound came from their engines. A soft contrail streamed in their wake. They flew at the top of the world.

At night he heard the chuffing of locomotives—faint for a moment—then growing louder when the wind shifted. He heard no human voices. Only the echo of iron upon iron. Despite the murmurs at midnight from his parents' bedroom or what Sandu said the wireless was reporting, Ethan continued to believe that no harm could find its way across an entire continent, seize upon Romania, then thread its way to Tolnici and the Itzkavitz homestead.

For his part, Cyprian appeared unaffected by the undertow of events. They stood on a small elevation on the eastern side of the village. Ethan turned once again to face the profile of the Carpathians.

There.

Ethan pointed to a cluster of linden trees lifting their branches in the east wind, and then lowering them as if exhaling. A pause, and then the branches would lift again, undulating as the air passed beneath them.

Somewhere inside of him a pinpoint of joy erupted.

Cyprian laughed. You're telling me the trees are sighing? Then I'll wait here until they sigh again—or raise their branches to eat or go piss in the corner. Cyprian shifted his hands to his hips, his customary stance of belligerence, and tapped his head with a finger. "What's that Yiddish word you use? Goyishke kopf." He turned and began making his way down the trail, arms akimbo.

Ethan turned to the mountains again. A symphony. He could think of no other word to describe it. It was a composition of complete notes without sound. To hear it, to fully experience the breathing and the sighing of the trees, one had to rely on memory, on Sunday afternoons when there were no bombers, when the family sitting room filled with the sounds of the symphony house in Bucharest.

Of course he had never traveled to Romania's capitol. He would be the first to correct this impression in the minds of others, if anyone cared or had the time to think about any such things in the midst of war.

His village sat 200 kilometers north of Bucharest. A raw collection of wooden buildings and green cement, a place eroded by the passage of time. The small plot of harsh yellow grass where he stood gave no indication of centuries of invasion and subjugation. Armies of Turks, Hungarians and Bulgarians had once violated this ground, but he couldn't sense the imprint of these events upon his time and place. He saw only the insistent layers of mud, brown syrup on the road surfaces where rain and animal waste collected in small pools of water. Debris from the cart path painted each dwelling in a uniform layer of tobacco-colored residue. But as if to deny all this, the trees inhaled and the earth beneath them exhaled. Cyprian could not understand this because he could not hear the music.

Surrounding the human debris of the village was the mittleland, a carpet of fruit trees, meadows and simple farm houses that unspooled toward the western horizon. The Carpathians cast a net of silence over the countryside. They absorbed the ugliness of the village and provided a curtain of protection.

He stood near the mythical setting for the castle of Count Dracula, the border region of Transylvania and Moldavia. Dracula had been one of the first books he enjoyed as a child. The land surrounding Tolnici was described as wild and unknown by Bram Stoker. That observation confused him. Tolnici was all he had ever known.

He questioned if anyone in his family sensed things as he did. Although he would confess it to no one, he knew he had the ability to peel away surface appearances, to see the skull beneath the skin, yes—even the breathing and the music. He would not admit it to Teodor and certainly not Sandu, but he also believed he could foresee events. He had become aware of this just before his bar mitzvah. Some time before the modest preparations for the event, Ethan knew his father would present him with a gift to treasure. He couldn't bring the gift itself into focus, but he sensed that something unparalleled was in the offing.

The object itself had been beyond his expectation. A brass clip now attached the pocket watch to his trouser belt. Each time he opened the silver casing he sensed a silent reassurance. The casing itself carried an ornate filigree, and embossed on it were his initials. A small silver button at the base of the watch responded to his touch each time, allowing the casing to open without a sound. Black numerals marked the hours and a small aperture just beneath the numeral XII revealed the arc of the moon. The timepiece was a work of precision and beauty, and Ethan could find no words when his father presented it to him. Irina, his eldest sister, had stood to one side; Ana, a step behind as custom dictated. They listened as Ethan repeated Teodor's words.

I wear this Tallit for the first time today. The fringe with special knots on each corner serves as a visible reminder of the commandments of the Torah...

The day had been his, but try as he might, he couldn't draw much pleasure from the ritual. He shook his father's dry white hand but found himself wondering how Teodor had come upon the hundreds and hundreds of lei required to purchase such a timepiece in wartime. The money could have been used to buy a battery and fuel for the tractor, or better yet, to travel into Iasi and buy the special salve for his mother's lower teeth.

To add to the cost, Teodor had arranged for Gamil the postman to record the event. Gamil turned up at every bar mitzvah or wedding in the village with his son in tow. He would prowl the scene like a field marshal while his helper fussed with the spider legs of the tripod.

Hours later when the wine had done its work, Gamil assembled the mitzvah guests at the side of the stone house, its western exposure providing a near perfect balance of light. Ah, you all look solemn, so serious. Squeeze closer together...now, would a smile kill you?

Ethan faced the camera and forced his dimples to appear. Irina always said they were what made him handsome.

* *

He excused himself early that evening and took to his room. He knew sleep would only come after evening prayers, and so he began with his opening ritual. He asked that God grant him more height. And more weight. And greater strength too. Little things, perhaps not as selfish as others, but worthy of attention: his blessings of faith and for a father who looked upon him as a promising scholar. And although he knew God would frown, he omitted his brother who had been indifferent to him for as long as he could remember.

I sought the Lord and he answered me and

delivered me from all my fears.

Look to him that you may be radiant with

joy and your faces may not blush with shame.

* *

The planting now complete, the longer days brought time for the men to sit, to exchange bits and pieces of the day. When the week turned to Friday prayers, Ethan's father became the leader. He prayed in the Hasidic tradition. He was not a rabbi, but his reverence for the Torah made him a figure of respect. Mihail, the tailor, would often visit and enter into emotional dialogues with his father, often at a depth Ethan could not comprehend. At other times, Mihail would sit silently and listen to the prayers, his lips opening and closing in perfect rhythm with the verse:

We praise you, Eternal God, Sovereign

Of the universe: You hallow us with your

Mitzvoth, and command us to kindle the

Lights of Shabbat...

Ethan closed his eyes in prayer and felt the familiar cloak of security. His country appeared to him unmolested by the outside world, and it was rare for anyone to travel beyond the neighboring villages. Only a fool would venture over the mountains. On the other side of the Carpathians lay a world charged in tumult and war. He often listened to Bucharest Radio with his brother. The broadcasts told of the Russian victory in Stalingrad and the mighty westward drive of the Red Army.

Sandu scowled. Let them slaughter each other.

Ethan knew nothing of the world beyond the Carpathians but he wondered if there was somewhere beyond the grey peaks in the distance where Jews were living without fear.

* *

At planting time some months earlier, Dora had gathered Ana and him side by side on the kitchen bench, Ana's tan walking shoes dangling from the top of the rough wooden surface.

I'm going to tell you about the Eye. Her voice dropped to a half whisper. St. George's Day is coming. You'll have to stay inside with the shutters latched. She pointed to the calendar suspended over the iron stove. On the twenty-third, the Eye will be very strong. It'll be looking for us. It's the stare of jealous people.

She added two spoons to the cutlery drawer and leaned towards them, her elbows settling gelatin-like on the stone countertop. They think we have more than they do. They try to put the Eye on us so that evil can enter us. For now, your father and I'll protect you. Don't look at anyone with boils or rashes on their face. They'll stare back at you because your face is unmarked. They can put the Eye on you.

She adjusted the kerosene lamp. It burned with a new intensity. Ethan watched Dora's face blossom in the fresh illumination. Don't look at priests or anyone in the streets with candles. They've given up all for God but they're still human and can be full of envy. They'll stare at you for a long time. If you meet their eyes, they'll fill you with poison, and you may die as a child, or if you don't, you'll never get married or have children.

Ethan was a disciplined reader and had concluded that overtures from the netherworld were the whimsies of field peasants, of those who knew no better. He had seen them in the village on market days. Dora said they carried the look of the fields in their faces. Maybe in cheekbones or around their mouth or you'll see it smack in the middle of the eyes.

Poverty in every province, its signature on every face. Yet, his mother believed the folklore and observed the customs. Teodor had no time for it. With a smile, Ethan recalled the day his father spit to the side of the barn as Dora explained the precautions he must take for St. George's Day.

During planting, you want us to sit inside with the windows shut? Teodor drew up before her, eyes pinched as if she had insulted him.

She chose not to reply, but clapped her hands and squeezed his cheeks. See, you spit! That means you're wet, not dry, and your substance won't attract the Eye. So when you spit, make the wet sound three times. Then envy won't dry you.

His father raised his arms towards the heavens and groaned, then strode out of the barn without a word.

For his part, Ethan thought the Eye might fulfill some ancient longing for safety. For lodgment that was secure, where fear could be held at bay. Even given that, did it have any place in a world of sleek bombers suspended in the sky and wireless broadcasts that could reach through the earth?

Still, he avoided the greeting of the village priest as he made his way to the bakery on Wednesday mornings. He looked instead at the cobblestones in front of him.

* *

For the elders gathered in the Itzkavitz home on Sabbath eves, the view was more circumspect:

Why would Germans dirty their hands on us? They only care about the oil in Ploiesti. When they look east, they see the Russians. Mihail always preferred to be the one to launch a dialogue, and then become silent.

"It's not our land they want, it's getting rid of us! That's what Antonescu wants. First they tell us that our citizenship is being 'revised.' Then came the Numerus, a fancy word I know, I know. But it all comes down to this—we don't have rights anymore, no citizenship, nothing." Isac spat to the side of the table onto the dirt floor. Ethan had heard the rumors about him. It was said he washed once a year.

That's not all, a man Ethan knew only as Leca remarked. "This school teacher, Mirea, is poisoning their minds. He puts Gentiles on one side, our people on the other, then tells lies. Who knows what the kids believe?

The