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Chapter 1

Treasure! She thought aloud..  
“If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
    Absent thee from felicity awhile,
    And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
    To tell my story.”  

Tony reflected wistfully...Yes! “The detriment must be settled.

“The time is out of joint. O cursed spite

That ever I was born to set it right!”

“Where can your mother's ghost be these past years when we need her?

If one needs proof of an afterlife, justice, retribution, the law's delay, and his stupid rules who wait that time shall unfold merely, that Truth is truth To th' end of reck'ning.

only when the rules are followed.

“Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure;

Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure.”

We shall tell the story for those that follow, that the criminals may yet eat and choke on their gains, and forever know they live a life; and afterlife if there be such, burdened with cognitive dissonance, guilt and always wonder why they may not hold their heads high with that clear conscience that eludes Hamlet the usurper when he reflects that;

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.

    Words without thoughts never to heaven go.  

.

Comment: if you wish to see the context of the coloured texts, then, highlight the phrases, copy, and paste them into the Pico fast search engine on the home front page, (between quotes) as in “Like doth quit like” and see that it comes from Isabella's almost lost pleading to the Duke for justice against Angelo. Measure for Measure. Direct links will be provided later, and the search bar brought to this page.

To the Sanatorium.

[ The year was nineteen hundred and sixty five, Gara De Nord station, Bucharest, capital of Romania, otherwise known as ‘Little Paris’. An exceedingly dusty hot afternoon about thirty nine degrees Celcius, a little over one hundred and two Fahrenheit. ]

Paula was just short of her thirty ninth birthday. At five feet six inches she had some time ago lost the finer edge of her magnificent svelte beauty to an increasing waistline, and becoming a workaholic at the hospital. A hastily pinned up mass of long hair, loosely held together several long plaits. As if in a retinue, trailing immediately behind her, there were several very sick children suffering from various forms of weak heart conditions. She was taking them to the Sanatorium at Mangalia, the other side of the country.

Six years ago she passed her doctorate with the highest results and had been rewarded with the top post of Chief of Section at The children’s hospital (Spitalul de Copii) located at the former U.D.R. which had been built as a palace, in Oravita town (Orashul) in the Banat region, to the extreme West of Romania, just where the Danube, runs along the borders of Yugoslavia and would be émigré’s would try the short swim across the river under frailly camouflaged straw hats only to be turned back by the border guards for a nice eight years stretch. Locally known as “Te baga la opti ani”

Her journey had been a marathon, accompanied by the Danube most of the way until it forks north at Silistra. The departure from Moldova Noua at the southernmost point of West Romania, close to the Danube, would move North, North West to Oravita and thence to Timisoara. Her departure required stamina that will have anticipated fatigue at every point of conjunction. First she gathered the children from the hospital, and walked to the bus stop at Central Moldova Noua, where rumour had it that a once weekly coach may be waiting. The only indication of truth in that proposition was a growing small band of people with like minded intentions of travel, some having already traveled twenty miles or so by any means, even on foot. If this was one's first ever trip, the appearance of this ghost of a former bus, could only justify and predict the tragic end of this part of the story. You had to be middle aged to remember when these buses were condemned and taken out of circulation. To see one actually in use, for the young, seemed a nightmare, were it not for the elders clearly being relieved as it came into view.

A loud misfiring engine; announced this arrival of a post war coach, that appeared from nowhere with its suspension in tatters. After it stopped in the middle of the square, one could guess there was an nasty struggle taking place inside, to open the door which had a jammed handle. After a few moments, it burst open with the full force of the driver's foot from inside. Cursing! “Catea nerusinata, vaca Spaniola, bou cu tita, o sa te arangej!!!” (“insensitive bitch, Spanish cow, bull with tits, I'll fix you!!!”)

The gaping door discharged a yawning scarecrow of a man, with a dog-end of a roll-up cigarette permanently extinguished, yet with the happy exception of being lit from time to time for a puff that would be almost immediately snuffed out by his suffocating beard. Our driver bellowed at this stunned but relieved party, that departure would be “when I am ready.” A further waiting period would ensue during which all the people had scrambled for the best seats, leaving only those either without cushions or with broken frames in an interior décor that was unimaginably worse than the exterior. Eventually departing after the driver, whose sixth sense instructed him the situation had reached that state of satiety with which he judged they could set off; leaving behind this calm, beautiful and unspoiled mountainous oasis of peace, towards an uncertain destination.

For six hours of what should have been a four hour journey across empty rugged terrain. It was not unusual that he had imbibed a few drinks; instead of shaving and washing, as he was unlikely to encounter any other vehicles along this otherwise exceedingly hazardous route.

With the high mountain on the right, and the valley to the left, the road had been rough hewn at a camber that coincided with the slope, so that a constant counter force was required on the steering wheel to merely hold it in a straight line. The road was wide enough for only one vehicle so any collision along the route was plausible and almost expected. However one would normally cross ones heart and say a few prayers before setting off on such a life threatening journey, until with one look at some of the exhausted, elderly passengers already fast asleep one concluded that should he lose his grip on the wheel, cascading towards the valley, nobody would be the wiser. For those still awake it was comforting to hold each other’s hands to avoid falling off the seats.

After about an hourly punctuation of driving, by the coach drawing up, and the driver announcing “Attention please we are stopping for a smoke.” A few people would step down, relieve themselves in their own ways, and twenty five minutes later be on their way again. The stops proved more an ordeal for some, who neither smoked nor suffered from calls of nature other than a despairing hope to get to the destination in one piece.

The party arrived seriously tested and shaken at the market place in the town of Oravita, North North West heading towards Timisoara. Unlike the only means of transport of a coach at Moldova Noua this town was on the junction train line, that took you anywhere else in the Country. As they helped each other from the bus, the small group awaiting the next departure were swallowed in the same instant frenzy of procuring a viable seat. The driver immediately announced, with a despairing homing instinct they were leaving, since they were already late.

The beautiful valley town looked much like the inverse of Harrow on the Hill, where the best part was the main eight mile road uphill towards two lakes, Lakul mic and Lakul Mare, (small and large.) The lesser part being the lower station, straddled with the town itself in between, marked out by the town hall, cinema and local school.

                                                       It might be left to the imagination, that the worst part was over, Oh NO! Here began the real nightmare, of how to reach the station, that was four miles downward, without any conveyance. Again rumour had it that there was a bus service, twice daily at working peak hours. No bus stop signs gave any indication of this and the compelling desire combined with the force of gravity sent our travelers onwards and downwards. What might occasionally happen, as a result of waiving a five Leu note, could enable one to join the manure, and livestock of some half empty farm vehicle.

So the day progressed, with a fragmented arrival of all those weary travelers at the station, joined by the as yet un-traumatised few newcomers. The station was the smallest kind of stop for a train where the total staffing requirements were carried out by a single multi functionary individual, that would have been the cause a strike in a western country. His absence, marked by a 'back in five minutes sign,' was the clearest signal of no impending train whatsoever, for hours to come. This would be the foundation of a violent inner struggle of disappointment and relief since one was gladly compelled to rest. The waiting room, was filled with more people than expected until one realised upon those now awaking, that some had slept through the previous train's departure and had calmly resigned themselves to wait an indeterminate period to catch any train that made enough noise to awake them from exhaustion the next time round. The usual luggage of bundles and live chickens, ducks, turkeys and occasionally a piglet was mostly very quiet as the animals had all become aware by this time, that they did not have very long to live. Not to say that had one piglet decided he was going to make a run for it, the nose ensuing would wake the dead, but on this occasion it did not happen One elderly gentleman protested, when asked how on earth he had missed the last departure, by saying he was unable to open the toilet door in time to run after it. In those days a Romanian toilet was more of a life threatening hazard than a place of convenience, being a miracle if you managed to get out before catching anything. To be fair there was a graffiti sign of the skull and crossbones, peering through a Swastika with the Soviet Hammer and Scythe warning you to have the requisite ideals before entering. If one didn't get you the other should.

                                                                                                                      He had missed two by this time, the last being due to failure of buying a ticket when he was ready to mount the train, but our benign questioner had tried to help by making sure this does not happen the next time, and said he would accompany him to make sure he got a ticket, with the rejoinder that he had just perceived to his dismay, his wallet was still at home, and should he return to retrieve it, he may well decide to forgo the trip this time around, since he had enough adventure with his three day stay at the station already. After several hours both train and station master appeared almost with perfect timing, and this spontaneous punctuality was eagerly explained by the knowledgeable officer in charge that he would put his best musical ear to the train lines, and could predict from long years of study, precisely when the train would arrive, and set off to meet it.

To be continued.....................