Destinies - Chapter II

Baba Tinca

Motto

Today, as I sit alone and write,

Weary footsteps on the paving stones,

Pairs with living blood pass by

From the other realm.

—Denis Buican, “From Beyond”

It was a bitterly cold winter night, when the chill penetrated your bones and the snow creaked ominously beneath your feet. The moon shone commandingly over the white expanses, while the stars glittered like diamonds.

Catinca lay in bed beneath white sheets and a soft quilt, looking first at Margareta, who had only just been born, and then at the fire burning in the stove. The house was pleasant in that gentle, warm atmosphere, but her thoughts flew anxiously to her husband, who had not come home for two days. At last, overcome by exhaustion and warmth, she fell asleep thinking of him.

A man in the prime of life, Ianis Graminopol had remained unmarried until the age of thirty-eight. Catinca, the beautiful and hardworking servant whose father had brought her to seek employment as a housekeeper, had caught his attention. His mother had scrutinized her sternly, as was her custom, and eventually accepted her.

Many people visited their home on the outskirts of Bârlad. It was a large manor, with a grand parlor, many rooms, an upper floor, and balconies, illuminated by lamps and numerous candles. They received prominent guests from Bârlad, accompanied by their wives and daughters. They danced and drank coffee; the men enjoyed fine liquors, chatted, and discussed politics. Yet none of the young women who came to visit appealed to Ianis. Instead, the servant girl from the small downstairs room captured his heart.

Catinca was neat, clean, and breathtakingly beautiful. Whenever guests were present, he watched her carry in the tray of coffees or a platter of sandwiches. She moved lightly, like a breeze, careful not to disturb anyone, yet with confidence at the same time. Her hair, gathered into two thick braids, framed the oval of her face. Her eyes were black and deep as the sea; her nose was straight, and her lips were perfectly drawn against the whiteness of her youthful face.

When they were alone, he would call her to bring him tea or his morning coffee, or to help fasten his cuff links or the collar of his shirt, always freshly washed and ironed by her. Her presence at such moments stirred him pleasantly and kept him in high spirits throughout the day.

When he could resist no longer, Ianis told his mother:

“Mother, I am going to marry Catinca!”

“Have you lost your mind? I have chosen the daughter of Zafirudis, the landowner next door, so that we can unite our estates. I...”

“Do not even think of it, mother! I want to marry the woman I love, not somebody’s estate. I want Catinca, and that is final!”

He stormed out, slamming the door so as not to prolong an argument that would never lead to the outcome he desired.

He went straight to Catinca’s room. She had her back to him and was folding white sheets. Startled, she turned around. He took her work-worn hands and kissed them passionately, making her tremble all over. She did not know what had come over her master. She remained guarded, fully determined to reject any improper proposal. But he spoke gently and decisively:

“Catinca, I love you. Will you be my wife?”

The young woman was completely overwhelmed, struck speechless by amazement and fear. But she quickly recovered and asked:

“And your mother, my master—does she agree?”

“Dear Catinca, that does not matter. You are marrying me, not her.”

“In a way, I would be marrying her too, because we shall all live together.”

“You are right. But in the end, for my sake, my mother will accept you.”

And so he did. Graminopol did not make empty promises. He knew what he knew; he knew how deeply his mother loved him. They arranged the wedding and dressed Catinca so splendidly that she shone like a queen. No one could take their eyes off her. Happiness made her even more beautiful. She felt as though she were living in a dream. Ianis Graminopol was both admired and envied at his wedding, which lasted three days, just as in the fairy tales.

Their life followed a peaceful course, with celebrations, visits to friends, and walks through town. Catinca proved sensible and well-behaved, devoted to her husband and attentive to her mother-in-law.

Then the children began to arrive, the fruit of their love. First came Giorgiu, then another boy, Iorgu, and now a little girl had been born, whom they named Margareta.

Catinca waited longingly for her husband to come home so that she could show him the newborn baby girl who looked like him—but he did not return. He had gone away before to meet friends for card games, but he had never stayed away so long. Three days had already passed.

On the fourth day, she awoke to her mother-in-law’s screams and wailing. The servant rushed wildly into the room and cried:

“The master is dead!”

Catinca ran to the carriage that had brought him home. He was dead, shot in the chest. What had happened? No one knew anything. Ianis had a large bloodstain over his heart. His mother, his wife Catinca, and both boys wept and mourned together. They would lead Catinca away from his body and take her to the baby so that her milk would not dry up. His mother, Lamandula, was utterly devastated. She had no tears left with which to mourn him; she could only lament.

At the funeral, Catinca looked at the people gathered around them, at his friends, and wondered: Which one is the criminal who shot my husband and destroyed my beautiful life? She would have killed the murderer with a glance.

After Ianis Graminopol’s tragic death, nothing was ever the same. Catinca carried the entire burden of the household. His mother was no longer capable of doing anything. She wandered aimlessly through the house, wept, went to the cemetery, and arranged memorial meals. Only when her grandchildren appeared before her did her tearful eyes brighten for a moment. Then, overcome by grief, she became bedridden, adding another responsibility to Catinca’s burden. Catinca cared for her devotedly until the poor old woman died.

In order to survive, they sold the household belongings, especially the valuables: furniture, silverware, dinner services, and jewelry. The servants began to leave one by one because there was no longer any money to pay them. Tax collectors came to collect what was owed and placed liens on whatever remained. Graminopol’s friends began taking possession of the lands he had lost in gambling. Even the manor and the livestock had been lost in the same way.

One evening, Catinca went over the accounts and saw that everything was a disaster. She took what was most precious to her—her children—made a small bundle, and left everything behind, with sorrow in her heart but also with the hope that somehow she would prevail.

In the town of Tecuci she boarded a train with the children, and her money carried them only as far as Brăila. She had heard people say that the city was prosperous and filled with merchants. Surely she would find work somewhere, Catinca thought hopefully.

On Călărași Street, she stopped in front of a tavern. She and the children were hungry and exhausted. Resolutely, she removed the gold earrings from her ears, entered the tavern, sat at a table, and ordered food. The tavern keeper saw her pale, tired face and noticed the determined gesture with which she had removed her earrings. He approached the table where she sat with her children. He liked her from the first moment and spoke to her kindly and protectively. Catinca was in no mood for conversation. In a few words, she told him:

“I am a widow. I have come from Bârlad and am looking for work, although I doubt that anyone will hire me with three children.”

The tavern keeper, whose name was Mr. Anghel, reassured her:

“I will give you something to eat. Then I will take you to an old woman who has a room for rent, and after that we shall see what can be done.”

It sounded encouraging, and for the moment it was all she could have wished for.

After they had eaten, the tavern keeper gave her the address, and they found the house on Roșiori Street. Once she had put the children to bed, Catinca set out through the streets of Brăila. The city was shaped like a fan, with three boulevards beginning at the Danube and eventually returning to it. She understood this only later, when she began walking through the city.

For now, she was searching for a finer, more prosperous-looking house. She carried little Margareta in her arms. When she found a house she liked, she entered the courtyard and placed the baby on the doorstep. Then she hid behind the corner of a house across the street and waited until someone came outside after hearing the baby cry. The person bent down, picked up the little girl, looked everywhere, and, seeing no one, carried her into the house. It was apparent that the couple had no children, and this gift brought them immeasurable joy.

Catinca wandered the streets in a daze, weeping uncontrollably, but she believed that no one would employ her with three children clinging to her skirts. The next day, she returned to the kind tavern keeper. They talked, and he said:

“Would you like to work for me? I badly need a woman to clean, wash, prepare food, and serve the customers.”

“Yes, of course I would.”

Anghel soon saw how skilled and hardworking she was, and he grew increasingly fond of her. During quiet moments, Catinca would withdraw to a corner of the tavern and weep with longing for the child she had left on a doorstep. The tavern keeper saw her and asked:

“What is wrong? Why are you crying? Do you miss your husband and your former life?”

With difficulty, she answered:

“I also had a little girl, whom I abandoned at the home of a Christian family. I miss her terribly.”

“Then let us go and bring her back. I will help you.”

They went together that evening after closing the tavern. But the house was deserted. The neighbors told them that the owners had left and moved abroad, apparently to France.

Catinca was heartbroken. She wept and lamented, but the tavern keeper comforted her and proposed that she marry him, for the sake of the boys, who needed a father.

“Mr. Anghel, you are too kind. I will think about it.”

She could not so easily forget Ianis or little Margareta, who had disappeared from her life along different paths.

She continued working and was respected, even loved. Now all her thoughts and concerns centered on her two boys, George and Iorgu. They greatly needed a man’s support because school had begun and there were many expenses and demands. At last, she made her decision.

“Yes, Mr. Anghel, I accept your proposal.”

“How happy I am!” he replied. He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately and longingly on her face, eyes, and lips.

“And from now on, call me Costea,” he added.

They married in a simple civil ceremony, without fanfare, because both were widowed and neither had many relatives. Their marriage went very well, and Catinca had two more daughters: Sorica—my mother’s mother, my grandmother—and Maria, so named because Catinca had prayed to the Holy Mother Mary to help her escape her troubles. The girls helped ease her longing for little Margareta.

Anghel treated Catinca and her sons well, and he loved his two daughters beyond measure.

At the end of George’s fourth year of school, Catinca attended the awards ceremony. Great was her amazement when her George won first prize. She was overcome by a kind of happiness mingled with pain, a bitter mixture of laughter and tears that was difficult to bear.

Yet she also felt protected, fulfilled, strong, happy, and proud. The Holy Mother had indeed watched over and protected her. After the ceremony, she and her husband took the boys for a walk along the Danube quay. They watched the bustle of dockworkers and merchants carrying goods, buying, and bargaining. There was so much life there, while the Danube flowed gently and indifferently. On the opposite bank, the willows swayed their drooping branches as though beckoning. Catinca now had the time and inclination to look at the world around her. Life, she felt, was worth living as it was. The girls were well-behaved and hardworking; they filled her life.

To continue his education, George tutored the children of wealthy families so that he could pay his school expenses. He studied relentlessly and learned to speak Greek, Turkish, and French. He often went to the port and spoke with sailors arriving on foreign ships in order to perfect his knowledge of those languages. He was the best student, even in high school.

His brother Iorgu attended the gendarmerie school and afterward rode a handsome horse through Brăila, maintaining public order. The girls were wild about him.

At some point, George—Giorgiu, as Catinca liked to call him affectionately—disappeared. They learned nothing about him until much later, when someone reportedly said that he had been seen in Paris. They received no word from him.

The girls grew up as well, and Catinca was very proud of them. Sorica was the first to marry. Her husband, a wealthy man from Ialomița named Ion Mușat, bought a property in Brăila’s Hippodrome neighborhood. There he built his house, had children, and later grandchildren.

More and more houses were built in Brăila. Time passed; springs and autumns came and went, and the winters grew increasingly cold. Catinca was eventually left alone and ill. She found shelter in the homes of her daughters.

Sorica and her husband, Ion Mușat, had three children: Marin, whom his nephews Adrian and Ovidiu called Nea Babei; Tudorița, also called Dorina, who was my mother; and Marioara.

I know all this from Nana—Maria—who baptized my sister, Maricica. I used to go to Gării Street in Brăila, where my sister and her family lived in an apartment building. Nana cared for my sister’s children, Adrian and Ovidiu. She washed their clothes, prepared their meals, and defended them whenever they got into mischief and my sister wanted to punish them. Nana would stand in front of the boys, stop my sister in her tracks, and say:

“Oh, leave them alone, may their granny eat them up! Have you lost your mind? How could you hit them?”

Then Roșcata—‘the Redhead,’ so called because her hair was red as fire—would become even angrier. The boys hid more securely behind Nana’s skirts, sometimes crawling beneath the table, and that was how they escaped a spanking. Nana was their shield.

Whenever I went to Gării Street and found Nana alone in the kitchen, I asked her to tell me about her mother, Catinca. One day, I asked:

“Were you ever married, Nana? Did you have children?”

“Yes, I was married to a handsome sailor, a ship’s captain. But after a time, he left on a voyage and never returned, just like our brother George.”

“Sailors—especially handsome ones—have wives in several ports. Perhaps he settled down with one of them. What do you think, Nana?”

“I have thought of that too. But so that I do not break my own heart, I prefer to believe that he became ill or had an accident. Many things can happen at sea.”

“Yes, I think you are right.”

“During the war, I worked at the hospital as a nurse’s aide and cook, and I helped my family. I would bring them a piece of meat or some prepared food to help them through their troubles. I had no children of my own, but I was fortunate enough to help raise Dorina’s children—my niece’s children—and the children of Maricica, my grandniece.”

“And you loved us just as we were. I remember that you told us stories and helped us with our lessons—especially me. Now I understand why the food you prepare is always so good.”

“I am glad you appreciate it. Your sister Maricica is also very skilled in the kitchen, but she has a great deal of work, and I feel useful here in their home.”

“Nana, I have one more question. Why could Father and Great-Grandmother Catinca not stand each other? Was she truly a bad woman?”

“In old age, people become more demanding and irritable. Aurică sometimes called her Baba Tinca. And above all, he had married her beautiful granddaughter, so naturally she disliked him for that as well. She also felt that he was not tender enough with your mother. They argued sometimes, and Catinca did not forgive him; she told him plainly whatever she had to say. That was the source of their conflict. And there was also the illness that kept her confined to bed.”

“What beautiful and true stories you tell me, Nana!”

“Yes, they are stories of life. You must know where you come from and the roots of your family.”

“Many things have happened since then,” I said. “You cannot tell everything, but what matters is that ours was a united family.”

“Yes. What is important to remember is that Mama Tinca—the young Catinca—and her spirit kept us united here, at number 72 in the Hippodrome neighborhood, until, one by one, the children spread their wings and flew toward other horizons. Maricica, my grandniece, was the same: she kept all of you close around her like a mother hen.”