Windmills of the Gods

up. nnce Vlad Tepes. He was the great hero who stopped the Turkish invasion.”

“I thought he just sucked blood and killed people,” Tim said.

Florian nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately, after the war Vlad’s power went to his head. He became a dictator, and he impaled his enemies on stakes. The legend grew that he was a vampire. An Irishman named Bram Stoker wrote a book based on the legend. A silly book, but it has done wonders for tourism.”

Bran Castle was a huge stone monument high in the mountains. They climbed the steep stone steps leading to the castle and went into a low-ceilinged room containing guns and ancient artifacts.

“This is where Count Dracula murdered his victims and drank their blood,” the guide said in a sepulchral voice.

The room was damp and eerie. A spiderweb brushed across Tim’s face. “I’m not scared or anything,” he said to his mother, “but can we get out of here?”

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 one 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 his window. “They’re mostly Romanian Jews. They’re waiting to file applications for visas.”

“But there’s an Israeli embassy in Bucharest.”

“They think there’s less of a chance of the Remanian security people finding out their intention if they come to us. They’re wrong, of course.” He pointed out the window. “That apartment house 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. 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-andmouse 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,” she said.

“Don’t break your heart,” Mike told her, handing her a mug of coffee.

What a cold man, Mary thought. I wonder if anything ever touches him. I’m going to do something to help the Jews, she promised herself.

Mike sat down at his desk. “There’s a Remanian folk dance company opening tonight. They’re supposed to be pretty good. Would you like to go?”

Mary was taken by surprise. The last thing she had expected was for Mike to invite her out.

And now, even more incredibly, she found herself saying yes.

“Good.” Mike handed her a small envelope. “Here are three tickets. You can take Beth and Tim, courtesy of the Romaniari government. We get tickets to most of their openings.”

Mary stood there, her face flushed, feeling like a fool. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“I’ll have Florian pick ypu up at eight o’clock.”

BETH and Tim were not interested in going to the theater. Beth had invited a schoolmate for dinner. “It’s my Italian friend,” she said.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve never really cared much for folk dancing,” Tim added.

Mary laughed. “I’ll let you two off the hook this time.”

She wondered if the children were as lonely as she was. She thought about whom she could invite to go with her, mentally running down the list: Colonel McKinney, jerry Davis, Harriet Kruger. There was no one she really wanted to be with. I’ll go alone, she decided.

The folk theater, anornate relic of more tranquil times, was on Rasodia Roman, a bustling street filled with small stands selling flowers, plastic slippers, blouses, and pens. The entertainment was boring, the costumes tawdry, and the dancers awkward. The show seemed interminable, and when it was finally over, Mary was glad to escape into the fresh night air. Florian was standing by the limousine, in front of the theater.

“I’m afraid there will be a delay, Madam Ambassador. A flat tire. And a thief has stolen the spare. I have sent for one. It should be here in the next hour. Would you like to wait in the car?”

Mary looked up at the full moon. The evening was crisp and clear. She realized she had not taken a walk in the month since she had arrived in Bucharest. “I think I’ll walk back.”

She turned and started down the street toward the central square. Bucharest was a fascinating, exotic city. Even at this late hour most of the shops were open, and there were queues at all of them. Coffee shops were serving gogoage, the delicious Romanian doughnuts. The sidewalks were crowded with late-night shoppers carrying pungi, the string shopping bags. It seemed to Mary that the people were ominously quiet. They were staring at her, the women avidly eyeing her clothes. She began to walk faster. When she reached a street called Calea Victorier, she stopped, unsure of which direction to take. She said to a passerby, “Excuse me-” He gave her a quick, frightened look and hurried off.

How was she, going to get back? It seemed to her that the residence was somewhere to the east. She began walking in that direction. Soon she was on a small, dimly lit side street. In the fat distance she could see a broad, well-lit boulevard. I can get a taxi there, Mary thought with relief.