They slapped the door closed and reset the hatchet blade into the handle, restoring the makeshift lock.
Voda leaned against the door. For a moment, he despaired. The dankness of the root cellar reminded him of the prison he'd been locked in the first time he played the piano in defiance of the old regime. The thick, musty scent choked him, paralyzing his will, just as it had the first few months he was in jail.
His younger self had been steadied by music. One by one Mozart's strong notes had returned to his imagination and steeled him for the struggle. But that was long ago. He'd left music behind, rarely played now, either in real life or in his daydreams, contrary to what those around him thought.
What would save him now?
"Papa, what will we do?" asked Julian.
Voda saw his son's face across the room, lit by the dim reflection from the flashlight. It was filled with fear, and it was that fear that brought him back from the abyss. In worrying about his son, he remembered how to act.
"You are going to hide with Mama," he said, springing from the door and moving to the metal trapdoor covering the cistern. "Down into this hole. Both of you."
"But it's a well," said the boy.
"You can hide down there," said Voda.
"Alin, what if it's too deep?" asked his wife.
"Come on. Shine the light." He pushed the metal covering fully aside, then squeezed down. The sides of the hole were slimy, but the stones were spaced far enough apart to let him get a good grip.
There was water four feet down, but it was shallow, less than an inch. The tunnel was wider than the hole, and nearly tall enough for him to stand.
"Mircea, the flashlight!"
She handed it to him. Voda shone it down the tunnel. He couldn't see the end of the passage.
Did it lead out? Or was it simply a trap?
Where would you collect rainwater from?
The roof maybe. Gutters. This might just be a reservoir, with no opening big enough to escape through.
Voda tucked the flashlight into his pants and climbed back up.
"Come on," he told his wife. "Let's go."
"I don't want to die like a rat in a hole," she said.
There was a burst of gunfire from somewhere above. Voda turned the flashlight back on and saw his son's eyes puffing up, on the verge of tears.
"We're not dying." He picked up the boy. "Come on. Out this way. I'll be with you."
Even though it was only four feet, it was difficult to climb down with Julian in his arms. Voda slipped about halfway down. Fortunately, he was able to land on his feet, his back and head slapping against the wall.
Julian began to cry. "That hurt," he wailed.
"Come on, now," Voda told his son. "No tears. And we must be quiet. We're only playing hide and seek until the army comes."
Mircea came down behind him, then reached back and started pulling at the metal top to the hole. "I was going back up," he told her. "No. We stay together."
Voda handed her the flashlight, then reached up and put his fingers against the metal strip that ran along the back of the cistern's metal top. He could hear, or thought he could hear, voices in the basement.
"Come on," he said, turning to get into the tunnel, but the others were ahead of him. His pants were soaked. He pushed ahead, slipping occasionally on the slime and mud, trying not to think that this was a perfect place for rats.
Lined with stone, the tunnel ran straight for about fifteen feet, then made a sharp turn to the left and began sloping upward. It narrowed as it turned, then the ceiling lowered to two feet. They began to crawl.
"I can stand!" shouted Julian suddenly.
"Wait," said Voda. Then, as the sound echoed through the chamber, he added, "Talk in whispers. Or better, don't talk."
Mircea played the light through the black space before them. They were in a round room about the size of the one they had come down to from the basement. At the far end they found another hole leading upward, similar to the one they had used to enter, though it was about eight feet deep and a little wider. There was a piece of metal on top, again similar to what they'd found in the root cellar.
"Maybe they're waiting above," said Mircea.
"Maybe." Voda climbed up the sides of the well. He thought he knew where he was — the barn about thirty feet from the eastern end of the house, used by the security people as a headquarters so they didn't disturb the family.
Centuries before, water would have been collected from the roofs of the building, piped down somehow, then stored so it could be distributed from these wells, both in the house and in the barn. The gutters or whatever had fed them were long gone, but the reservoir system remained.
Would they be safer in the tunnel or in the barn?
He wasn't sure.
It might be a moot question — the metal panel seemed impossible to move.
He braced himself by planting his shoes into the lips between the stones, then put his hand against the metal, pushing.
Nothing.
"Mama, I need the light!" yelled Julian below.
"Hush. Papa needs it."
"I think there is another tunnel this way!"
Voda climbed back down. Again he slipped the last few feet. This time he landed on his butt, but at least didn't hit his head again.
"Let's see this tunnel," he told his son.
It was narrower than the others, but also ended in an upward passage, only four feet off the ground. It too had a metal panel at its end, and Voda levered himself into position, putting his shoulder against it and pushing.
It moved, but just barely — so little in fact that at first he wasn't sure if it actually had moved or if he was imagining it. He braced himself again, and this time Mircea helped. Suddenly, it gave way, and they both slipped and fell together, bashing each other as they tumbled down.
The pain stunned him; the hard smack froze his brain. He found himself trapped in silence.
"Papa?" said Julian.
"Are you all right, Mircea?" he said.
"Yes. You?"
He rose instead of answering. "Up we go," he said, his voice the croak of a frog. "Up, up."
Gripping the edge of the trapdoor, he levered it open. He pulled himself up into darkness. It took a few moments to realize that he wasn't in the garage at all.
"Give me the flashlight," he hissed down to his wife.
"Voda, we can't stay down here."
"Just wait," he said, taking the light. He held it downward, hoping the beam wouldn't be too obvious if someone outside were watching.
The well had a stone foundation, and came up in the middle of a stone floor. Rotted timbers were nearby, some on the ground, others against the wall. But the ceiling and parts of the wall beyond the wood seemed to be stone. He got up, then saw casks against the wall, covered with dirt. Now he could guess where he was: an abandoned cave about seventy-five feet from the house, at the start of a sharp rise. It had once been used as a storehouse for wine or beer.
And probably for making it, if the cistern was here, though that was not important now.
"Alin?"
He went back to the hole and whispered to his wife. "Come up."
"I can't lift Julian."
Voda clambered back down. He had his son climb onto his shoulders, and from there into the cave. Voda turned back to help his wife, but she was already climbing up.
They slipped the metal cover back on the hole. Did they hear voices coming from the tunnel behind them? Voda didn't trust his imagination anymore.
"We're in the cave, aren't we?" said Julian, using their name for the structure.
"Yes."
"How do we get out?" asked Mircea. The cave door was locked from the outside. There was a small opening at the top of the rounded door, blocked by three iron bars. The space between the bars was barely enough to put a hand through.
Voda went to it and looked out into the night. Compared to the darkness of the tunnel and the cave, the outside was bright with moonlight. He saw figures in the distance, near the driveway and the garage.