Mary started to say no. She had a great deal of work to do, and it seemed a pointless invitation. Still, Mike Slade was not a man given to wasting time. Her curiosity got the better of her.
“All right.”
They drove to the airfield, and on the way discussed various embassy problems that had to be dealt with. The conversation was kept on a cool, impersonal level.
When they arrived at the airport, an armed marine sergeant opened a gate to allow the limousine to pass through. Ten minutes later, they watched the C-130 land.
Behind the fence, on the boundary of the airport, hundreds of Romanians had gathered. They watched hungrily as the crew began unloading the aircraft.
“What is that crowd doing here?”
“Dreaming. They’re looking at some of the things they can never have. They know we’re getting steak and soap and perfume. A crowd is always here when the plane lands. It’s some kind of mysterious underground telegraph.”
Mary studied the avid faces behind the fence. “It’s unbelievable.”
“That plane is a symbol to them. It’s not just the cargo—it represents a free country that takes care of its citizens.” Mary turned to look at him. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Because I don’t want you to get carried away by President Ionescu’s sweet talk. This is the real Romania.”
Every morning when Mary rode to work she noticed long lines of people outside the gates waiting to get into the consular section of the embassy. She had taken it for granted that they were people with minor problems they hoped the consul could solve. But on this particular morning she went to the window to take a closer look and the expressions she saw on their faces compelled her to go into Mike’s office.
“Who are all those people waiting in line outside?”
Mike walked with her to the window. “They’re mostly Romanian Jews. They’re waiting to file applications for visas.”
“But there’s an Israeli embassy in Bucharest. Why don’t they go there?”
“Two reasons,” Mike explained. “First of all, they think the United States government has a greater chance of assisting them to get to Israel than the Israeli government. And secondly, they think there’s less of a chance of the Romanian security people finding out their intention if they come to us. They’re wrong, of course.” He pointed out the window. “There’s an apartment house directly across from the embassy that has several flats filled with agents using telescopic lenses, photographing everybody who goes in and out of the embassy.”
“That’s terrible!”
“That’s the way they play the game. When a Jewish family applies for a visa to emigrate, they lose their green job cards and they’re thrown out of their apartments. Their neighbors are instructed to turn their backs on them. Then it takes three to four years before the government will tell them whether they’ll even get their exit papers, and the answer is usually no.”
“Can’t we do something about it?”
“We try all the time. But Ionescu enjoys playing a cat-and-mouse game with the Jews. Very few of them are ever allowed to leave the country.”
Mary looked out at the expressions of hopelessness on their faces. “There has to be a way,” Mary said.
“Don’t break your heart,” Mike told her.
The time-zone problem was exhausting. When it was daylight in Washington, it was the middle of the night in Bucharest, and Mary was constantly being awakened by telegrams and telephone calls at three and four in the morning. Every time a night cable came in, the marine on duty at the embassy would call the day officer, who would send a staff assistant to the residence to awaken Mary. After that, she would be too keyed up to go back to sleep.
It’s exciting, darling. I really think I can make a difference here. Anyway, I’m trying. I couldn’t bear to fail. Everyone is counting on me. I wish you were here to say, “You can do it, old girl.” I miss you so much. Can you hear me, Edward? Are you here somewhere where I can’t see you? Sometimes not knowing the answer to that makes me crazy…