The Madonna on the Moon (33 page)

Then one morning Vera Raducanu asked for a pound of sugar, and Grandfather said nothing but “Kiss my ass!” Whereupon Vera huffed indignantly and cawed that the level in Baia Luna had
sunk to an all-time low when the village peddler greeted his customers smelling like a distillery. That was the last straw for my mother.

“Enough!” she yelled at her father-in-law in a tone that left no doubt she intended to make a clean sweep in the Botev house. She got so wrapped up in her anger that it spilled over
onto Aunt Antonia and me. Antonia spent most of her time dozing in bed, and I had also been completely neglecting my duties in the shop and tavern. We all put our tails between our legs and hung
our heads as Mother’s storm raged over us.

“Whatever has happened in the village, life must go on. And it’s you men’s duty to do your jobs, goddamnit! If you don’t crawl out of your holes right this minute
I’m leaving. I’ll move to town, I swear I will. You can go to the dogs in your misery, but count me out!”

Ilja and I had never seen my mother like this. And the shock of her anger was beneficial. We understood at once what we had to do. Just the prospect of going to Kronauburg woke me up from my
lethargy and reinvigorated the powers of resistance I so urgently needed for my mission: justice for my former teacher Angela Maria Barbulescu. I got out a notepad and helped Grandfather take
inventory of our stock. All our supplies were low. During the long winter months we’d run out of oil, sugar, and malt coffee. We only had enough salt left for the next few days. The last
bottles of Sylvaner had been drunk up weeks ago, and the glass candy jar with the American chewing gum was empty, too. A trip to the wholesaler in Kronauburg was long overdue. While Kathalina
scrubbed the floorboards and dusted the shelves, Grandfather and I got the wagon ready for the trip to Kronauburg the following morning.

Drowsy and yawning from getting up so early, we clung to the swaying wagon box and restricted our conversation to the minimum. If we spoke at all, it was about our worries that the wholesale
prices might have risen again as they did every year. I shared Granddad’s concern that our modest family reserves might not be enough to buy all the stock we needed and sensed at the same
time as we drove along that the profession of businessman and tavern owner was not a job I intended to spend the rest of my life in. But what else could I do?

At about seven we reached the Schweisch Valley. Its broad fields had once belonged to the richest landowner in Transmontania. The collectivization of the Kronauburg District had already reached
this point, and the upland farmers of Baia Luna figured that their own modest parcels of land would soon fall victim to forced expropriation. Beyond Apoldasch we passed the future cattle and hog
barns whose dimensions were as formidable as their alignment was monotonous. It followed a plan someone had laid out on a drawing board. Construction cranes loomed everywhere, bulldozers plowed up
the heavy soil, and trucks arrived with construction material. Oversize placards proclaimed the official opening of the new People’s Agro-Industrial Complex Apoldasch II, scheduled for June
1, an event even the state president Gheorghiu-Dej was expected to attend. When we reached the feedlot for the hogs, we were astonished to see twenty-two brand-new tractors lined up in pairs and
glinting orange-red in the morning light. No doubt the vehicles came from the new tractor factory Joy of the Fatherland in Stalinstadt. Grandfather pointed to the tractors. “Our Alexandru put
them together screw by screw. I bet he’ll get a written commendation for a job well done.” For the first time in many weeks, I laughed.

We reached the outskirts of Kronauburg around eleven and drove our wagon to the grocery wholesaler we’d been buying from since the days of Ilja’s father Borislav. But instead of the
old familiar sign
HOSSU BROS. IMPORT-EXPORT AND WHOLESALERS
, we found a new one that said
STATE-OWNED ENTERPRISE. KRONAUBURG CONSUMER COMPLEX AND TRADING
ORGANIZATION
. We entered the warehouse to look for the eldest Hossu brother with whom Grandfather usually discussed the list of supplies he needed and calculated their price. It looked like
the number of employees had doubled, and everyone had been given identical blue jackets. Most of them were sitting on wooden pallets and smoking. When Grandfather asked for Vasili Hossu one of the
warehouse workers uttered “Lunch break” and jerked his thumb toward an office door labeled director. Ilja knocked. Since no one answered, he pushed down the latch, and we entered. A
young woman was sitting behind a desk filing her fingernails.

“Lunch break,” she said. “Can’t you read?”

“The Hossus welcomed us at any time of day,” said Grandfather. “Where might I find those gentlemen?”

“Come back at one thirty. No information until then,” answered the secretary without looking up from her manicure. We left the warehouse and drove our wagon a bit farther on. The
Hearty Appetite was still there, thank God. It wasn’t much more than a shabby shed, but there was water and hay for exhausted horses, and the wholesaler’s customers could fortify
themselves with beer, bread, and meat patties from the grill. There were already half-a-dozen wagons parked in front of the Pofta Buna. Granddad unhitched and fed the nag and then sat down next to
me on a wooden bench. We learned from the Pofta Buna’s owner that the Hossu brothers had been dispossessed at the beginning of the year and seemed to have disappeared from the face of the
earth, but he was reluctant to say anything else. At the next table two men were talking excitedly about the pricing policies of the new trading organization. They didn’t seem particularly
dissatisfied with them. The other customers had already gone to the adjacent barn and were taking a little nap in the hay to pass the time until the warehouse reopened. At one thirty a siren
wailed. Lunch break was over.

The director of the People’s Shopping Cooperative was a short, round man in his midfifties wearing a light blue tie and a brown suit that was a bit too small for him. “New
customers?” He squinted over the top of his glasses, sat down behind an enormous desk, and began shuffling papers.

“No,” answered Grandfather, “we’ve been customers for decades. The Botev family shop. Baia Luna, Number Seven, Street of Peace. Where are the Hossu brothers?”

The director offered us a chair. “From Baia Luna? Man oh man! No wonder you don’t know what’s going on in the world. The Hossus have been relieved of their private enterprise.
Where are they now? Not a clue. Not here, at any rate. Are you private customers?”

Grandfather nodded.

“The trading organization doesn’t sell to private persons anymore. Directive from upstairs. But no problem. How big is your shop?”

Ilja calculated the square footage in his head and stated the result.

“But the greater part of the space is devoted to our taproom,” I remarked.

“Aha. You’re also running a gastronomic establishment up there. Must do a brisk business. There’s nothing much else to do, right? Do you have a concession? Liquor
license?”

“Liquor license?” Grandfather’s initial wonderment gave way to anger. “Tell me something, do you guys have a screw loose? We’ve been doing fine without one for a
few generations. Don’t you have anything better to do than think up this bureaucratic bullshit?”

“Take it easy. I’m not thinking up anything. But there’s got to be order, and the law’s the law. Otherwise everybody could do his own private wheeling and dealing. And
then we’d have capitalism like the Yanks, where everyone does whatever they want. And the Gypsies would have their hands in our pockets.”

“But we need fresh stock!” Ilja was getting indignant. “Our shelves are empty, and the villagers are starting to grumble. You can’t just stop selling to private
enterprises from one day to the next.”

“I told you, no problem. All you have to do is join the trading collective. It’s just a formality. Then your private shop will be deprivatized. Everything else stays the same.
You’ll even get your stock under optimal conditions. You’ll definitely pay less than you did to those capitalists the Hossus. All you have to do is go to the collectivization office and
sign up. And while you’re in town, you might as well pick up a state liquor license, too. Without a concession, we’re only allowed to sell you soft drinks here at the T.O. You’ll
find the offices on Square of the Republic. It’s a short walk. The offices are open till four o’clock.”

With the worst fears and cursing the state, the party, and Socialism in general, we hurried into town and twenty minutes later were sitting on a wooden bench in a deserted hallway. We were
waiting outside a door on which hung a piece of cardboard with the hand-lettered directive
DO NOT KNOCK. ENTER WHEN CALLED
. A small sign was fastened to the wall next to the
door:
T.O. CONCESSIONS A–D
.

We had only waited a few minutes when the door opened and a woman stuck her head out. “Well, why didn’t you knock? Please come in.” She was wearing a simple suit and radiated
an unexpected congeniality. She offered us a seat and even asked if the gentlemen would care for a mocha to pep them up. We declined.

“So you’re from Baia Luna? I didn’t even know there was a shop there.”

Still smiling, the woman explained that in establishing Socialism, the state’s and the party’s most urgent task was to assure and continually optimize the provisioning of the
population countrywide. By no means should even such a remote village as Baia Luna have to lag behind. The State Trade Organization guaranteed progress to their cooperative partners. Then she told
us that Western capitalism was headed for a dramatic impoverishment of the masses in the near future while our new republic was close to achieving world-class status.

Grandfather interrupted her explanations. “But I want to know what’s going to happen to our business. There’s no sugar, salt, or oil in Baia Luna. We’re in urgent need of
new stock.”

“You’re going to get it, too,” said the woman without losing an iota of her friendliness. Then she went over to a shelf of files.

“Here we are: Botev, Baia Luna.”

She opened the file and leafed through it. We realized immediately that it contained the packing lists and invoices the Hossu brothers had filled out for us in past years.

“Well, you’ve never purchased in large amounts. And as I can see, meat, sausages, and fresh vegetables are completely absent. The farmers in your village probably supply such things
themselves. Privately, each for himself?”

Grandfather nodded. “There isn’t much money to go around in the village.”

“That’s going to change. Join the cooperative and you’ll see: supplies will improve and become cheaper, too. You say you need oil, salt, and sugar. Since it looks like the
planned quotas are going to be exceeded, the government dropped the prices for basic foodstuffs by half last month.”

We looked at each other in silence. “And we can continue to sell everything as we have up to now?”

“Yes. But not as a private enterprise anymore. You can’t set prices as you see fit to make your profit. You’ll be an employee of the T.O., receive a set monthly salary, and
take delivery of all stock on the basis of a commission with a monthly statement. And you will have set hours of operation of your T.O. branch: weekdays from eight to twelve and three to six.
Saturdays only until noon, of course. But just between you and me, nobody’s going to traipse all the way up to Baia Luna to check up on what hours you’re open.”

The mere thought of no longer being able to operate as an independent businessman and tavern owner was sure to be unbearable for Grandfather. I could tell he was getting stabbing pains in his
bowels. He was shifting back and forth on his chair and trying his best to suppress the gas. But when the official mentioned the amount we would be receiving every month from the postman as a
salary, he let one fly. It was about twice as much as our usual net profit.

Grandfather thought it over. I asked, “What alternative is there to the cooperative model?”

“None,” said the woman, taking a blank contract out of her desk drawer. “You don’t have to sign. No one’s forcing you. But then you’ll have to go back to your
village empty-handed. If you don’t want to be unemployed, you could of course apply for a job at one of the new state enterprises. From what I know about what’s available in your area,
you might have some luck at the new agro-complex in Apoldasch. But just between us, do you seriously think anybody who hasn’t understood the need to have his private business collectivized is
about to be hired by a state enterprise? I ask you, gentlemen.” She was still smiling. “Sign this agreement and I guarantee you won’t regret it. And let me assure you, up to now
there’s only been a single self-employed person who didn’t sign. And guess what happened? Upset as he was, he slammed the door shut, stormed out into the street, and ran right in front
of a truck. The poor man is still in the hospital and will never stand on his own two legs again. How’s he going to feed his family now? Wife and five children. If he’d signed the
contract two minutes before, he would have been insured by workman’s comp from the T.O. cooperative. But as it is? Nothing. Here’s the contract. It’s all set down in black and
white. Take your time and read it all through. Care for a mocha now?”

We read. The contract seemed a pretty straightforward deal with no hidden tricks or pitfalls, as far as I could judge without understanding all the details.

“What about our taproom?” asked Ilja. “They said I needed a liquor license.”

“You have a tavern, too?” The young woman was confused.

“I’m a tavern owner and a shopkeeper. That’s been the tradition in our house for generations.”

“And all that on the same premises! Only in the mountains, is all I can say! Groceries being sold and alcohol dispensed under the same roof? Unbelievable!”

“Where else would you suggest?” I interjected.

“Well, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Food-handling hygiene isn’t part of my job description. You’re in the wrong office for a liquor license. You’ll find
that two floors up, T.O. Division of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Food Services. They’ll offer you the same contract we do here in the division of retail food sales. No contract, no sale of
alcoholic beverages.” The woman paused to think it over. “You know what? I’ll take care of it for you. Running around from one office to the next can’t be very pleasant.
Especially if you’re from the mountains and don’t know your way around. I just need your papers.”