‘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!’