Dan Simmons: Children of The Night

The AIDS ward was behind four sets of locked doors. There were no nurses there, no doctors . . . no adults of any kind. Neither were there cribs; the infants and small children sat on the tile floor or competed to find space on one of half a dozen bare and excrementstained mattresses thrown against the far wall. They were naked and their heads had been shaved. The windowless room was illuminated by a few naked 40watt bulbs set thirty or forty feet apart. Some children congregated there in the pools of murky light, raising swollen eyes to them as if to the sun, but most lay in the deep shadows. Older children scuttled on all fours to escape the light as we opened the steel doors.

It was obvious that the floors were hosed down every few daysthere were rivulets and streaks along the cracked tilesand it was just as obvious that no other hygienic efforts had been made. Donna Wexler, Dr. Paxley, and Mr. Berry turned and fled from the stench. Dr. Aimslea cursed and pounded his fist against a stone wall. Father O'Rourke first stared, his Irish face mottling with rage, and then moved from infant to infant, touching their heads, whispering softly to them in a language they did not understand, lifting them. I had the distinct impression as I watched that most of these children had never been held, perhaps never been touched.

Radu Fortuna followed us into the room. He was not smiling. “Comrade Ceausescu told us that AIDS is a capitalist disease,” he whispered. “Romania has no official cases of AIDS. None.”

“My God, my God,” Dr. Aimslea was muttering as he moved from child to child. “Most of these are in advanced stages of AIDSrelated complexes. And suffering from malnutrition and vitamin deficiencies.” He looked up and there were tears gleaming behind his glasses. “How long have they been here?”

Fortuna shrugged. “Most maybe since little babies. Parents put here. Babies not go out of this room, that why so few know to walk. No one to hold them up when they try.”

Dr. Aimslea unleashed a series of curses that seemed to smoke in the chill air. Fortuna nodded.

“But hasn't anyone documented these . . . this . . . tragedy?” said Dr. Aimslea in a constricted voice.

Now Fortuna smiled. “Oh, yes, yes. Doctor Patrascu from Stefan S. Nicolau Institute of Virology, he say this happening three . . . maybe four years ago. First child he test, was infected. I think six out of next fourteen also sick from AIDS. All cities, all state homes he went to, many, many sick childrens. “

Dr. Aimslea rose from shining his penlight in a comatose infant's eyes. Aimslea grabbed Fortuna by the coat, and for a second I was sure that he was going to strike the little guide in the face. “For Christ's sake, man, didn't he tell anyone?”

Fortuna stared impassively at the doctor. “Oh, yes. Doctor Patrascu, he tell Ministry of Health. They say for him to stop immediately. They cancel AIDS seminar Doctor schedule . . . then they burn his minutes and . . . how do you say it? Like little guides for meeting . . . programs. They confiscate printed programs and burn them.”

Father O'Rourke set down a child. The twoyearolds thin arms strained toward the priest as she made vague, imploring noisesa plea to be lifted again. He lifted her, laying her bald and scabrous head tight against his cheek. “Goddamn them,” whispered the priest in a tone of benediction. “Goddamn the Ministry. Goddamn that sonofabitch downstairs Goddamn Ceausescu forever. May they all burn in Hell.”

Dr. Aimslea stood from where he crouched near a toddler who seemed all ribs and extended belly. “This child is dead. “ He turned to Fortuna again. “How in the hell can this happen? There can't be that many cases of AIDS among the general population yet, can there? Or are these children of drug addicts?”

I could see the other question in the doctor's eyes: in a nation where the average family could not afford to buy food and where possession of a narcotic was punishable by death, how could there be so many children of drug users?

“Come,” said Fortuna, and led the doctor and me out of that ward of death. Father O'Rourke remained, lifting and touching child after child.

In the “healthy ward” downstairs, differing from the Sebes orphanage only in sizethere must have been a thousand or more children in the endless sea of steel cribsnurses were moving stolidly from child to child, giving them glass bottles of what looked to be formulized milk, and then, as each child sucked noisily, injecting him or her with a syringe. Then the nurse would wipe the syringe with a rag she carried on her belt, reinsert it in a large vial from her tray, and inject the next child.

“Mother of Christ,” whispered Dr. Aimslea. “You don't. have disposable syringes?”

Fortuna made a gesture with his hands. “A capitalist luxury.”

Aimslea's face was so red that I thought capillaries were bursting there. “Then what about fucking autoclaves!”

Fortuna shrugged and asked the nearest nurse something. She snapped a reply and went back to her injections. “She say, the autoclave is broken. Has been broken. Sent to Ministry of Health to be fixed,” translated Fortuna.

“How long?” grated Aimslea.

“It broken four years,” said Fortuna after calling the question to the busy woman. She had not bothered to turn around while replying. “She say, that was four years before it sent to the Ministry for repair last year.”

Dr. Aimslea stepped closer to a six or sevenyearold lying in his crib, sucking on his bottle. The formula looked like gray water. “And these are vitamin shots they're administering?”

“Oh, no,” said Fortuna. “Blood.”

Dr. Aimslea froze, then turned slowly. “Blood?”

“Yes, yes. Adult's blood. It make little babies strong. Ministry of Health approve . . . they say it is very . . . how do you say . . . advanced medicine.”

Aimslea took a step toward the nurse, then a step toward Fortuna, and then wheeled toward me as if he would kill either of the first two if he got close to them. “Adult's blood, Trent. Jesus H. Christ. That was a theory that went out with gaslights and spats. My God, don't they realize . . .” He suddenly turned back toward our guide. “Fortuna, where do they get this . . . adult blood?”

“It donated . . . no, wrong word. Not donated, bought. Those peoples in big cities who have no money at all, they sell blood for babies. Fifteen lei each time.”

Dr. Aimslea made a rough sound in his throat, a noise that soon turned to chuckles. He shaded his eyes with his hand and staggered backward, leaning against a tray filled with bottles of dark liquid. “Paid blood donors,” he whispered to himself. “Street people . . . drug addicts . . . prostitutes . . . and they administer it to infants in the state homes with reusable, non-sterile needles.” The chuckles continued, grew louder. Dr. Aimslea lowered himself to a sitting position on the dirty towels, the hand still over his eyes, laughter coming from deep in his throat. “How many . . .” he started to ask Fortuna. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How many did this Doctor Patrascu estimate were infected with AIDS?”

Fortuna frowned as he tried to remember. “I think maybe he find eight hundred of the first two thousand. More higher number after that. “

From beneath the visor of his hand, Dr. Aimslea said, “Forty percent. And how many . . . orphanage children . . . are there?”

Our guide shrugged. “Ministry of Health say maybe two hundred thousands. I think more . . . maybe a million. Maybe more. “

Dr. Aimslea did not look up or speak again. The deep chuckles grew louder and deeper, and I realized then that they were not chuckles at all, but sobs.

Six of us took the train north through lateafternoon light toward Sighisoara. Father O'Rourke stayed behind in the Sibiu orphanage. Fortuna had planned one stop in a small town along the way.