Shadows of the Past

‘I’ll give you $20 000 if you come to visit me. Travel expenses on top of that.’

Clara was pacing the shabby apartment in downtown Detroit. She looked at the pile of laundry, at dirty dishes, and sighed. She hadn’t had the mind for household chores recently. How have I even ended up here? This isn’t me.

When she saw her step-gran’s number she didn’t pick up the phone. But she couldn’t stop herself from listening to the message she left. Damn. She was so tempted to disregard it. If things were at least a bit easier for her right now, she would’ve. It was many years since, at her step-dad’s funeral, she decided never to go back to her home town again.

As it happened though, Clara was not in a position to refuse. Mike just got a sentence. And whilst he didn’t mind her staying in his house, even though their relationship had been in agony for the last six months, it wasn’t safe for her to be there. Her drug-dealing and alcoholic ex - she already dubbed him that in her head - had now a debt to pay off to his colleagues. They wouldn’t care she wasn’t involved in business. They’d try to collect it anyway.

Damn, damn, damn. $20 000… that would be more than enough to get me into a new town. Forget this s***-hole. Start again. She was good at starting again. First time when she was 16 and her mother suddenly disappeared from her life. Or maybe the first was already when father died? There were many times later, too. Long procession of cities, boyfriends, careers. Some shitty, some quite good. Except she’d always mess it up eventually.

In her thirties, she tried seeing a shrink. The woman explained to her how plenty of stuff that was troubling her came from neglect she suffered as a kid. Of course when she was a kid, nobody called it that. People just said life was hard. Her dad spent most of his days staring at the walls. Her mother was always working. Clara knew there was some shadow hanging over their immigrant past, but they never spoke of it. As a teenager she decided she wanted nothing to do with it anyway, and steadfastly held onto that.

She was now dreaming of New York. She still had dreams. While some of her friends were giving up, at 48 Clara believed life had yet things to offer her. It better did. I haven’t got my share yet. There just has to be more.

*

‘I wanted to give you this.’

The grey-haired woman hadn’t changed much. Nor did their home. Clara looked away from the old photographs scattered across the room. She felt nervous tingling in her body. She wanted to be out, go back to the hotel room, jump into the shower and change her clothes. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood made her nauseous. More than anything, it brought up memories. It was the smell of her longing, for everything she never got as a child.

She stared blankly at a black notebook her step-grandmother was holding out to her.

‘What? This? Why haven’t you just sent it to me?’ The whole thing was getting more annoying by the minute. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her. It was her gran who always had the most time for her, when her mother remarried. Clara just didn’t want to be reminded of her family. She studied her wrinkles. The woman was ancient. She survived them all. Now she was alone in the world. Except for her.

‘Because I need to explain to you why. Why you should take it seriously, and not toss it into a corner.’

Clara took it, her touch light, as if the thing could explode in her hands. Her lips were a tight line.

‘What’s in it?’ Her fingers examined the cracked surface.

‘It was a journal your father kept.’ Clara felt an electric shock run through her.

‘I don’t want to hear anything about it.’ She rushed in. Gran Emma smiled sadly.

‘I thought you’d say so. But please, hear me out. There are things in there that you should know. About their past. About your past.’

Clara was unwittingly clutching the sofa cushions.

‘No, this has nothing to do with me anymore. If my parents wanted me to know any of this, they would’ve told me. They never spoke to me about life before they came here.’

‘They couldn’t.’ She whispered.

An image of her father, who never spoke to her, except with one bland sentence here and there. Always staying in the house, sitting for whole days in his room.

‘That may be true of dad. But my mother, she was fierce. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t talk about it.’

Emma shook her head.

‘Your mother was fierce to cover up her heartbreak. Many of them. She thought you’d be better of not knowing, not thinking about it.’ She paused. ‘I thought so, too. She asked me at some point not to tell you. Except, when my last son died, last month… It make me think a lot about the importance of family. I don’t have anyone in this world anymore - except for you. But I won’t be here for long. I just couldn’t die being the last one knowing and close the door for you.’

‘What if my mother was right? What if I’m better off not knowing?’

‘Are you? Are you well?’

Clara looked away.

‘I don’t see how poking in the past could help. As far as I’m aware, there’s only pain there.’ She pointed the notebook towards her grandmother, like an accusation. The old woman was growing weary. A shadow of embarrassment touched Clara. She put all this effort into convincing me to listen. Too bad it’s pointless.

‘It’s not only about the past. Your father, he also put in the details of all your family, and his friends in Moldova. Addresses, too. Clara, there are people back there who are your blood. Maybe you should talk to them. And read your father’s notes. It would help you understand what happened to them. How it was.’

‘But I wasn’t seeking it,’ anger raised in her voice. ‘I’m American. After all, isn’t it what my parents wanted?!’ She was shocked to notice her body shaking. I don’t care, I never did. I never wanted anything to do with Moldova. It was nothing but a name for her. A place her parents escaped, when her father’s life was threatened, because he was a member of National Patriotic Front, secret opposition to the communist government.

‘Clara, you had two siblings.’ It was as if a giant rock hit against her body. Every muscle contracted, her jaw clenched, she even thought she heard a crack. Her mind went blank, and everything around slowed down. She didn’t know how much time passed, or if Emma said anything more. When she came to her senses, she just asked.

‘How?’ Her numbness was now transforming into hot rage against her parents. How could they do that?

‘You have to understand, it was hard to get out. Your father had to leave, your mother wanted to support him. Plus she was pregnant. They had to pay for the passports, on black market. And the tickets. They only had enough money for themselves. Your aunt and uncle took care of your brother and sister.’

She cracked. She could no longer hold back her tears. She didn’t want to hear anything else. The past she was avoiding all her life came now after her, and it was even worse than she expected. I have nothing to do with that country. I'm American. I was born here. Those people, they’re not my family. If they’re even alive. We’re worlds apart.

The litany running in her head turned into incoherent noise. All she could see in her mind was a dark tunnel, and she was spinning fast into the abyss.

*

It was two hours later when she left her gran’s house. Emma made sure she recovered enough. They didn’t talk anymore about the past. Clara took the notebook with her. What else could I do? There was no one else left, she was right about that. As to whether she was going to toss it into a corner or not - she didn’t know. It was now resting in her bag, next to two big wads of cash she received, as promised.

She checked out the same evening and took a night bus to Detroit. After a quick visit to Mike’s house and bagging some essential belongings, she got on a plane to New York. The relief at leaving her past behind almost swept her off her feet. Then the search for a new flat and a job absorbed her.

It was her third day of looking and she was viewing a small but neat apartment, overlooking a park. The rays of sun dazed her as she entered the living room, she had to shield her eyes with her hand.

‘The are no blinds, but we can get them fitted for you.’ The agent winked at her.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘And here is a spare bedroom. This is really a good price, you’re basically getting an extra room for free.’

I could make a darkroom there. Photography was one of the dreams she wanted to follow. $2500. She never paid so much for a place. She had some interviews lined up though. Before Mike, she used to work in advertising. She was hopeful. She wanted to get her future right. She thought she should be excited.

And yet, something didn’t feel right. This isn’t me, either.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out to the agent, ‘I forgot about something. I really love this apartment. I’ll be in touch!’ Once she started talking, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She waved a cab and got to her hotel, tapping impatiently on the window all the way through. Driver’s disapproving look followed her to the entrance.

Once in her room, Clara got herself some water, splashed more on her face, and then pulled out the black notebook from her bag. She sat down on the floor by the bed and stared at it for a while. Then she finally opened it. She stroked her father’s handwriting, much more elegant than she expected. She opened a page at random. March 1973. A year after they arrived in the US.

That world… it’s like an open wound for all of us, who have ever lived under the shadow of communism. So much pain, grief - and nowhere to put it. No one talks. It was gaslighting on national level. They told us they were trying to engineer a better life for all. That it would take work and sacrifice.

They destroyed every evidence that things weren’t going according to their plan. And our dead - we had to bury them twice. In the earth, and deep in our hearts, so that they wouldn’t come waking us up and begging for justice. Justice that seemed only a mirage which could put us next to them.

She howled. She could feel all the pain she never knew was in her coming up. It was as if all the numbness and vague anxiety she ever felt was finally given shape. It felt surprisingly good. Like when you disinfect a cut. Clean pain that needed to happen, so that wounds could heal. When the wave rolled over and she cleaned herself up, she picked up the phone.

‘Can you book me a plane ticket?’ She was so grateful for the comfort of being able to have people do things for you. ‘To Chisinau, Moldova. Yes.’ She waited for the travel agent to reply. ‘Tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow works.’

$600. Not too bad. New York could wait. She had some shadows to confront first.