Norman Manea - The Hooligan's Return

Must I remain in the place where, at the age of nine, the magic of words had enfolded me, moored in the language in which I was born again and again, day after day? I knew by now that the process of rebirth could be abruptly halted at any time, the following morning, or even that very evening.

I had postponed the decision of departure to that limit of limits, the fiftieth anniversary of Bloomsday. Did departure actually mean a return to the “disease of the ghetto,” from which I had always tried to protect myself? Perhaps not, for no return is ever possible, not even a return to the ghetto.

The evening of celebration had become one last exercise in separation. The relation between charm and horror had shifted again. Long after midnight, after the guests had left, I looked in bewilderment at my own hands — a child’s nails, a child’s fingers, a child’s hands. They did not seem tough enough for the birth to come.

One day, Mrs. Beraru offered me some potatoes and onions,” Mother was saying. “They had four grown-up sons who worked hard and brought food home. But one can only take if one can give back, I told her. She answered in German: Wenn die Not am gröβten, ist Gott am nãcbsten , when the need is greatest, God is closest. Well, it’s too late for that, I said. Then I saw Erika Heller standing in the doorway. Sie haben Gane , she said, You have guests. It was Maria.”

The tape recording from the spring of 1986, the time of the Chernobyl explosion, tells the story: “This was how Maria reappeared, out of the blue. At the time of our deportation, she almost got shot, she was almost arrested, but she didn’t give up until she found us. One fine morning she appeared at the camp’s guardhouse. She asked for a certain Jewish man, an accountant, So-and-so by name, and they brought out Marcu. When she saw him, and when he saw her… She had brought everything — oranges, cake, chocolate.”

The orphan Maria was like a member of the family, and had acquired absolute power over all household matters, including the newborn baby. She was the Good Fairy and I adored her. In October 1941, when we were sent to the labor camp in Transnistria, the guards had a hard time getting her off the train. She tried to squeeze herself into the cattle car — it was dirty, crammed with bodies and packages — in her determination to accompany those she considered her own family. She failed, but she didn’t give up and managed to reach us a few months later.

“She had money,” Mother continued, “she wanted to open a tobacco shop next to the camp, to be nearby in order to help us. Of course, they wouldn’t let her. The Romanian administrator of the camp offered her a job as a housemaid in his own home. She was young and pretty. In Iţcani, officers and various functionaries were always swarming around her. Bartfeld the photographer even proposed to her, several times. The camp administrator was willing to pay her twenty liters of gasoline per day; even with only five liters you could buy huge amounts of food. Maria asked us what she should do. What could we tell her? To sell herself for our sakes? Finally, the administrator persuaded her to come work for him, but he didn’t keep his word. He was a mean, lying man and didn’t give her the promised gasoline. Maria went back to Romania. She promised she’d come back, and she did, loaded with suitcases. She’d been collecting money from our relatives back in Romania. She knew everyone who had not been deported, and contacted every one of them. She was well-known to them and considered them relatives. She’d bought all sorts of things, she knew what we needed. Of course, they confiscated her parcels, and then they court-martialed her for helping Jews.”

When we returned from the camp, in 1945, we took a detour through Fălticeni and Rădăuti, for two years, before returning to Suceava, to our point of departure. In 1947, the circle finally closed in Suceava, where we had a reunion with Maria — Comrade Maria now, wife of the Communist Party Secretary and future first lady of the city.

A bitter winter, December 1947. I was temporarily back in Fălticeni, where I would be spending the Christmas holiday. The town was in an uproar. The sudden abdication of King Michael had just been made public. For the Communists, this was hardly a surprise. Presumably the local Stalinists had been alerted even before the news came over the radio. There was no other way to explain the “spontaneous” eruption of popular enthusiasm that greeted the announcement.

Both our deportation in 1941 and our repatriation in 1945 had taken place during the reign of King Michael, who succeeded to the throne after his father, Carol II, the playboy king, had scandalized the Romanian political establishment with his dissolute behavior, to say nothing of his relationship with Elena Lupescu, his redheaded mistress, presumed to be Jewish. First crowned when he was three, Michael was crowned a second time as a teenager, in September 1941, following his father’s ouster at the hands of the Legionnaires in league with Marshal Antonescu. The young king had little opportunity to prove himself. During the war, he kept to his largely ceremonial role, in the shadow of his mother and under the thumb of the Conductor , the country’s dictator, Ion Antonescu.

In August 1944, after Antonescu’s arrest and the armistice with the Allies, King Michael was decorated by Stalin. Now his portrait and that of the Queen Mother hung prominently, alongside that of Joseph Stalin, in all the country’s classrooms. He had a pleasant face with an open gaze, and preferred racing cars and airplanes to the machinations of power and government. The “King’s Anthem” would open all public ceremonies, while the “Internationale” would close them. The rather insipid sentiments of “Long live the King, in peace and splendor, long live the country’s father and defender” paled beside the thunder of “Arise, ye prisoners of starvation.”

My cousins falic and Lonciu, both printers, and their father, coowner of the printing house Tipo along with his partner Tache, were among those cheering the crowds dancing in the city streets, stomping, chanting enthusiastically, “The Republic, the Republic, the People are now king, the People are now king.” The accordionist released the ample bellows of his instrument, and the dancing resumed, as did the chanting of “Long live the Republic and the People.” I stood and stared, frozen on the edge of the sidewalk. Then I made my way to the marketplace, where Uncle Aron had a small tavern.

Many things had happened in the two years since I had left Fălticeni to go back to Suceava, but the event of December 30, 1947, capped them all — the King had abdicated! I was no monarchist, but I could sense danger in the air. The change celebrated by all the chanters and dancers in the town square heralded something new, good or bad — who could tell. The fairy tale can change from one perfidious disguise to another when you least expect it. The monarchy was gone; henceforth, we would be living in the People’s Republic of Romania.

I arrived at Uncle Aron’s tavern out of breath, and told him the shocking news. He nodded without much interest, he had more urgent business to attend to. Without stopping to take off my overcoat, I went over to inform Aunt Rachel, who would surely appreciate the enormity of the event. She must also have heard about the group of Jews who not long before had left for the Holy Land, determined to break the British blockade, then in effect, that closed the gates of Palestine to Jewish immigration. They had to steal into the land, and if caught, risked detention in Cyprus. “They went on aliya , they emigrated to Palestine,” whispered the women watching from the sidewalk, as the masses continued to pour into the streets. But Aunt Rachel didn’t raise an eyebrow at the news and, with the kindness and calm that belonged to other times, only insisted that I take off my coat, warm myself, and have something to eat.