Mitko's Story: The Romanian Connection, #1

By Reg Kast

Debra Carter was an experienced Ghost writer.

She knew better than to get innvolved in a  client's life.

But she had not reckoned with the Sibiu family.

Mitko was into his Nineties when she started to tell his story. With an English mother and a Romanian father, he had mixed loyalties.

Could she avoid sinking into the family's shady dealings of the present. Or the wartime secrets the Family feared becoming open facts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reg Kast
• Release date: Jun 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393821588

Book preview

Mitko’s Story

Chapter 1

I PRESSED THE ENTRY button at the gate; the buzz told me it had rung at the other end. After a brief pause a youngish, female voice answered.

Who is there and how can I help you?

The voice used perfect English but had an almost indiscernible foreign accent.

I have an appointment with Mitko Sibiu at ten. My name is Debra Carter.

The line crackled as the button was released.

About fifteen seconds later there was the sharp sound of a gate catch moving electronically, at the same time the voice said, Come up.

I got back in my car and waited as the gates opened. As soon as they were wide enough, I drove through and on up the very winding drive. I parked the car in front of the rather magnificent bungalow. For a brief second I took in the... well, what I can only describe as a splendid home and the surroundings in which it stood.

The front door opened as I approached. A young woman stepped forwards to meet me, coming no further than two steps outside the door where the flight of steps finished. She was immaculately dressed in a skirted suit. I had the feeling she was sizing me up – in the way business people do at the start of some negotiations – and it felt as if I was coming up short and was very much in second place in the encounter.

Miss Carter, come this way, please.

She then, without waiting for a reply, turned and went back into the house, leaving me hurrying to catch up.

As I entered, she had stopped to close the door behind me.

Mitko will see you through here.

Again she led the way, giving me no time to take in my surroundings. We went into a room on my left which looked like the main lounge. It also looked like the page from a good homes magazine.

Please take a seat, Miss Carter.

She waved her hand towards a large sofa. Wishing to take back some form of control, I sat instead in one of the large armchairs. This did not provoke any significant outward reaction, but the miniscule movement of her right eyebrow told me it had been noted.

She turned and left. I then had time to take in the room more thoroughly; the artwork on the walls looked good quality and expensive, there were many porcelain ornaments, and several photographs, presumably of family. The only understated thing in the room was the television, being no more than thirty-six inches and tucked away in a corner. While I was taking in the ambiance, a second lady entered. She was older, in her late forties or early fifties I would estimate. Her body language was far friendlier; she walked directly towards me, her hand held out ready to shake mine.

I am Sofia, Mitko’s daughter. I take it you have been offered coffee?

I replied, No.

I will organize it, she said with a warm smile.

As she turned to leave an old man entered, old but not showing his age too much. He stood quite upright but used a stick for balance. He was about five foot six or so, not thin nor heavily built, casually dressed but smart with it.

Papa, this is Miss Carter.

Debra, or Debby if you wish, Mr Sibiu. I stood to shake his hand.  

Debra is your given name, so Debra if you wish; but only if I am Mitko.

Gentlemanly, he allowed me to sit before he lowered himself into, what my son would call, a granddad chair. Sofia had left to make the coffee.

Mitko looked at me for a few seconds then observed, You don’t look like a writer, if you don’t mind me saying so.

And what does a writer look like I retorted.

This brought a smile to his face.

That’s a good point. It is my intention to write my life history. I have no idea of how to go about it.

Well that’s where I come in, but I have a question first. It may seem a little rude, however, if we are to work with each other there will be more, unfortunately.

I can guess. What makes what I have done worthy of a book? Well, Debra...

He was interrupted by Sofia returning with the coffee. There were five cups on the tray. Sofia was followed by a tall man, six foot or more, and the woman who had met me originally. Sofia put the tray down and passed her father the first cup then one to me. The others took theirs. Sofia and the man sat on a sofa; the younger woman sat on its arm.

My daughter you have already met. This is my son-in-law, Dimitar. This young lady is Ana. To start off answering your question, Dimitar is also my son.

He let this fact sink in, while he looked for some surprise from me. I needed to cover any reaction I might show, so I sipped some of the coffee while I thought.

This is exceedingly good coffee, is it Colombian?

Both Mitko and Sofia smiled with, what seemed a silent chuckle. Dimitar just sipped at his cup, but Ana kept her fixed stare on me.

That was very good, Debra, if there was shock or revulsion you did not show it. Dimitar was adopted by me; it was a debt of honour I owed his parents.

He sipped his coffee again.

This is Ana, my god-daughter and great-niece. Her grandmother was my little sister. She is somewhat overprotective of me.

Ana’s gaze did not move from me.

Mitko, I would do anything for. He looked after my granny from when she was twelve. I will not allow anyone to take advantage of him! Let alone someone who stands to make money by exploiting him!

Her hostility was, I thought, designed to provoke me but, aside from caring for her godfather, I could see no good reason for it.

There is an old saying, attack is the best form of defense, and with that in mind I put my coffee on the occasional table beside me.

You may well have your great-uncle’s best interests at heart, but I will not be browbeaten by you or anyone else. If, and that’s a big if, I do paid work for Mitko it will only be after he has agreed to my terms, and I have agreed to his. Then and only then will any money change hands. I would, of course, expect him to discuss it with his close family, but I would expect it to be his own decision!

I sat back in the chair and sipped at the coffee.

This really is good, you know.

Ana leant forwards, balanced on the arm of the chair, and her scowl turned slowly to a smile.

Debra, I have to protect my uncle and have to make sure the ghostwriter he chooses will have the strength to stand up to him when needed. Uncle, this is the one.

OK, Debra, you seem to have the approval of my niece. Where do we go from here?

Well, you could answer my question, what will make your story a good book?

There are many things I could tell you by way of examples, but they will come out as we work together, so here’s just one as an appetizer. I have killed many men in my life, but only one in cold blood.

He looked down into his coffee cup deep in thought. He cleared his throat with a slight cough.

March 21st, 1941, I was fourteen. I should add, if he were here today I would do exactly the same thing right now!

His body had tensed as, in his mind, he relived the incident. There were tears hidden somewhere behind those sad eyes, but they were not on show, perhaps the memories that surrounded the incident stopped them. I was now hooked and wanted to know more. 

We finished the coffee and went through into a room off the main lounge; there were two comfortable armchairs, a desk with an office chair and storage under the desk. The view from the window looked down the slope of the winding drive and on out to the English Channel beyond. Mitko guided me to one of the armchairs.

Now Debra, I am sure you have several terms you want included in our agreement. I must admit I have several that to me are, as they say, red lines. If we are unable to agree those business will end before it has begun.

I am afraid that cuts both ways Mitko!

He produced a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. I have noted down all my points so nothing gets forgotten in our discussions.

He leaned forwards and passed the note. I opened it and read:

One, all writing is to be carried out here in this house.

Two, there are to be no tape recorders or other recording machines.

Three, no documents leave this room nor does the computer or its   information.

Four, you will be paid by the hour so if the book is not published it   will not affect you adversely in a financial way.

Five, some of the family are less than enthusiastic about this project so all conversations we have are strictly confidential even from the family.

I read it twice.

There are some things that are different from the way I would normally work, but nothing I can’t accommodate. You will have to provide a computer and printer, and I suggest a shredder for your own peace of mind. If you do decide to go ahead my fee would have to be twenty-five pounds an hour.

He smiled and looked down.

Let’s say thirty-five and a bonus of five thousand if I am satisfied. I was still taking this in when he added, With Michael in grammar school; that must be an expensive time!

For the first time he had me on the ropes and rocking. There was a brief smile, he stood up and went through a door into what I could see was a bedroom. He returned with a pocket folder and passed it to me.

As I read the contents, I realized just how much he knew about me and Michael. He gave me time to look through the dossier. I looked up in some shock.

Why have you collected all this information on me?

The first thing I did was to read some of the books you have ghosted. From those I guessed you must have a knack for digging out the hidden details behind the named author. If I am to pass on such intimate details I wish to be sure you know how that feels. After all, there is just a mere fraction of the private details in there that I will be giving you.

Who else has read this?

Just the man who wrote it.

One last thing, Mitko, I may be assuming that two plus two equals five but from some things you have told me, I believe some of your story could involve illegality. So I need some form of documentation that it is a novel I am ghosting for you.

Are you in if I provide it?

I looked back at the paperwork for a few seconds giving me time to think. Yes; yes I am in!

On the way out I gave Ana a list of the hardware and supplies I would need.

She asked, When do you start?

Tomorrow, nine thirty. That is if Mitko has my letter.

Chapter 2

ON THE STRENGTH OF the promised work and determined not to be outdone by Ana again, I had been shopping. First a new hairstyle, then a new, smart skirt, white blouse, a chiffon scarf and new kitten-heeled shoes. The shoes were the only concession I was willing to give for the fifteen or so years that I was her senior.

Ana opened the door the following morning in tight slacks, an oversized tee shirt, knotted to one side at the waist, and fat, slip-on shoes. It pleased me when I saw her do an involuntary double take.

Uncle is in his study. Go on through, there is coffee in there already.

As I entered, I realized he was not alone.

Come in Debra. He took my hand and shook it. I would like you to meet an old friend. Carmichael this is Debra. Debra this is Mr Carmichael, my solicitor.

He said hello then took a letter from a folder.

Read this through, my dear. It covers the point that the writing you are doing is all fictional. It also covers your fees excreta discussed.

The letter did indeed cover all I needed it to.

That all appears in order, I said.

Mitko took the letter and signed it, Carmichael then witnessed it.

Carmichael observed, I can see why you wanted this document, and I must admit I feel happier with it in place.

With that he handed me the letter and left the room, but not the house, as he went into a huddle with Ana and Sofia in the office off the kitchen. 

Now what happens? said Mitko with his hands turned palms up and shoulders in a shrug.

I ask a lot of boring, factual questions until I feel you are ready to answer with your innermost thoughts and feelings.

Secretarial pad in hand, I sat back in the armchair, and we started on, what I can only describe as, an incredible journey through his history during the twentieth century.

Name and date of birth, please?

Mitko Sibiu, born Mitko Tovash on 20/03/1927.

Father? 

Joseph Tovash.

Mother? 

Anne Sophie Tovash née Cartwright.

Sister?

Ana Sibiu, born Ana Tovash on 14/05/1929.

Brother?

Dancho Tovash born 01/01/1940, died 21/03/1941. (This was the first time any emotion was shown, as his eyes moistened.)

Wife?

Not married.

Daughter?

Sofia Sibiu, born 30/08/1969. (Again, with the faintest of smiles, the face cracked, but I was not sure if it was for Sofia or her mother.)

Son? 

Dimitar Sibiu (adopted) born 1967.

Moved to UK?

1956.

Employment?

Trader.

Education?

My mother taught us English, French, mathematics, and some science. From father we learned Romanian, Russian, a little Greek and how to farm, working with the land and nature, not against it.

The soft fondness in his voice gave me a clue to the man behind the answers. This was a point I believed might give me a way into his life. This was closer to the sort of answer I was looking for, something to build on, develop into a workable text for his book.

Can you know tell me how your mother and father came to meet? He began his story...

My father and I would spend hours up in the hills above our home, while we looked after the goats. He told me many times, in great detail, of their earliest times together. In late 1917 my father was conscripted into the German army. They called it volunteering, but there was not much that was voluntary about it. You see Germany had, like most of the great powers, slaughtered much of its manhood in the trenches of the European War. Now the Kaiser was drawing men from any country he could bully or put pressure on.

My father was sent by train to a training camp in the north of Germany near Hanover. The Germans trained the men with harsh, inhumane treatment and severe beatings of all kinds. Many of my father’s friends never saw the front, the treatment was so harsh they died or took their own lives to be out of the misery. Somehow Papa survived, and in April 1918 he went to the front.

He worked on the big guns of the artillery; he carried ammunition and the cotton-wrapped charges used to actually fire the shells from the gun. He told me it was very hard work. When the enemy shells started to fall too close to the guns they had to be moved. Usually they were moved by steam tractors, and he and the other Romanian soldiers had all the other equipment to move, including kit and supplies.

Chuckling to himself he continued.

He used to smile and say, ‘If not for us they would have no food to eat or a toilet to shit in!’

Sometimes there would be no tractors available, and then horses would be used, a hundred or more at a time. When this happened he had to help the horse handlers; all the Romanian men came from the country and were used to horses. The gunners were scared witless of these beasts; I think they were mostly educated men from the cities. On those occasions, it was they that carried the latrines for us, he would say.

In the September he was at the Second Battle of Arras, the British and Canadians were making a big push and his battery came under heavy bombardment. The Canadian push had taken the first and second line trenches.

The heavy tractors came and pulled the guns away. As they were loading cotton charges, a shell hit the wagon, and there was a terrible explosion. Father had just been told to help with the shells when it happened, and the blast moved part of an earth bank being used to protect the shells. He was buried up to his waist and had a wooden splinter, from the wagon, embedded in his chest.

Within minutes, the position was overrun by Canadian troops; he was unconscious. Their position had been abandoned so quickly that the wounded were left behind. He was taken to a forward field hospital and put on a German ward. Despite German being spoken, he could not understand a single word. His condition continued to worsen, and he frequently drifted in and out of consciousness. On the third day, a pretty, young nurse was knocked over by one of the peasants lashing out in a delirious state. Apparently, she swore rather rudely in Russian. Father laughed and, in Russian, told her that such words were not ladylike.

Realizing he spoke Russian was a breakthrough in his treatment, an interpreter could be used to help the medical staff. The nurse became a good friend, he learned English from her and she learned both Russian and Romanian from him. And the rest, as they say, is history.

He looked up, smiled and said, Enough to be going on with? With a flourish of writing I finished my notes.

It is not a ghostwriter you need so much as someone to write it down as you speak, my shorthand is a little rusty, but I think I got it all.

You mean you wrote all of that down while I spoke?

I nodded and added, So long as I can read my writing that is, yes.

With a smile and a chuckle in his voice he called, Sofia! My friend and I deserve coffee.

I typed up the notes so far and printed off a hard copy. Mitko had gone through to the dining room at the other end of the building. The sheets were slipped into a clear folder.

He took the folder as I held it out to him. What’s this then? he enquired.

It is what you told me about your father’s time in the First World War

He looked at the unopened binder then passed it back.

Can you do a second copy so both Sofia and Ana can read this part for me?

I sensed that now was not the time to push further, and there was something that Mitko did not want to talk about. He was putting up a wall so as not to have to think or speak about something that had hurt him deeply.

Next morning, I decided to arrive with a bright and breezy attitude in an attempt to penetrate the facade Mitko was starting to develop.

With both of us settled in the armchairs, I said, "I will ask questions, as we did yesterday, then ask you to expand on one of the points.

Where were you born?

In Sussex, only fifteen miles from here.

That answer threw my train of thought completely, and it was some seconds before I had the questions back in a new order in my mind.

Nationality?

Dual Romanian and British.

Which do you feel, British or Romanian? He gave this some thought before answering.

In my head I am British, in my heart Romanian.

A morbid question I am afraid, where will you be buried?

Romania, on the family farm.

When did you last visit the farm?

About six weeks ago.

I sensed there was more to come so left time for it to happen. He glanced up at a painting on the wall of a lady and gentleman with a young child. I assumed it was his parents and him. Never assume.

"My grandson had been in some serious trouble with the police. I... No, we sent him to stay with a friend who will teach him to be a man, not a spoilt thug.

Once I had seen to the arrangements for him, I went back home. Ana’s father and sisters live there now, but it is held in trust for the use of the wider family. I stayed with them rather than using the old house, my needs for care are now outweighing nostalgia. There is a burial plot. My sister lies to one side of Mum, Dad and Dancho; I shall lay on the other with Maria, looking up for a moment then he added, Sofia’s mother that is.

His eyes appeared blank, as he was back reliving the history that had been made by the people who had lived and died on this land.

Giving a long sigh, he declared that, "Ana, when I am gone, will take on the stewardship; the farm cannot be sold by anyone, it is an entity in its own right.

Debra, it is my feelings that are stopping me from being direct about me and the family’s past. I am afraid that emotions will get the better of me, and I shall break down, something I fear.

I put the pad to one side and knelt on the floor in front of him cradling his hands in mine.

Mitko, I have, on several occasions, had clients who, while telling their stories, have been in a complete emotional breakdown. That does not go into the book or go outside the room. Remembering... no, reliving traumatic events leaves the mind raw, but once out it is not something to fear or dread having to talk about.

No further parts of what I will tell you are to go into a book, or be read until it is complete, is that understood?

You have my word on it, not only as your writer but also as a friend.

The date was 21st of March 1941. The previous day had been my fourteenth birthday, Father had given me a new herder’s flute. Mother had said so long as my sister completed two pages of reading first, the rest of the time we could play and relax in the spring sunshine while we looked after the goats high in the hills. She was on the second page and doing quite well. I looked up for a moment and saw movement close to the farm; men with guns. Papa and I had a tune to signal danger. From where we were you could see for miles. I started the tune as loud as I could, Papa looked up. I pointed in the direction of the men but, it was too late, they had already reached the farm.

There were eight in German uniform and a man in civilian clothes. You see, both my parents were against the occupation.

Looking up he continued.

Most people believe the Romanian people sided with the Germans in World War II. The truth is that the vast majority tolerated them after our government allowed us to be occupied to prevent bloodshed. My parents were both active in helping the Allies in any way they could. Even at fourteen, I had already helped with moving people and information around the country. There were some who wished to gain favour with the Germans; traitors, the lowest scum on earth! The civilian was one such man.

Ana had heard the warning tune and asked what was wrong. I placed my finger on my lips to show her to keep silent. There was much shouting, but we could not hear what was said. Then one of the soldiers hit my father with his rifle. If only Papa had had time to get to his gun, he might have had a chance. Mama came out of the house, she was carrying little Dancho. She was screaming at the soldiers in English.

This seemed to take them by surprise; the attention of the Germans seemed to change to her. One grabbed Dancho from her. Papa launched himself at him at the man and was shot with a machine-pistol, probably five or six shots. Papa dropped immediately. Mama again screamed and turned on the man in civilian clothes. I saw her with her hands on his face; he recoiled back and put his hand to his head with his left hand he pulled something from his belt. I saw the flash and Mama fell before the sound of her scream reached us, then there was a second flash. Ana screamed before I could stop her, and by the time I looked back, two of the German soldiers were on their way towards us.

I was in almost total shock, but it was now up to me to look after Ana. I took one last look down on the farm at where my parents lay, I did not know if they were alive or dead, and holding Ana’s hand, we climbed the last hundred meters round the rocky outcrop; all the time the men were shouting. We cleared the brow of the hill, and the next grassy valley dropped away in front of us, we started to run, but then I remembered the caves Papa had shown me. Tugging Ana back, we clambered towards the caves.

Ana went to go into the first one, but I pulled her towards the second. We had to crawl in; the entrance was only as high as the desk over there.

Mitko pointed across at the desk.

Ana protested that the other cave was bigger; I told her this one had a secret. ‘A secret?’ she said. Inside it was high enough to stand up. As our eyes adjusted to the light, I pointed out a small hole near the top at the back. It was a tight fit to crawl through, but once inside it dropped down and opened up to almost half the size of the outer chamber. Ana asked where we were. I told her it used to be a wolf den years ago. We lay down and I covered us with our coats. I told her she had to be brave; and that she mustn’t cry out or make a sound whatever may happen.

After about fifteen minutes, we could hear the men calling. They were using German; I recognized the word ‘kinder’. Then it sounded as if they were discussing something. The voices came nearer then there was an explosion nearby. Moments later, I heard a sound like a piece of wood hitting the back of the cave. I held Ana tight and put my hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming.

The grenade exploded on the floor of the outer chamber – the noise was terrible, louder than anything you can imagine – but that was not the worst part. It’s the pressure wave that follows; it feels as if a giant hand is holding you and squashing with all its might. It is a terrible sensation, it lasts for only a split second, but then there is no breath left in your body. You try to breathe in – I don’t know why but you can’t, you struggle, you feel as if you are suffocating, as if there is something blocking your throat.

Eventually you manage very small breaths. The nearest I can explain is it’s like taking sips of water when you are so thirsty your mouth has dried out completely. During the time I was regaining my senses, I could hear shooting and laughter.

Once my mind could focus, I immediately pulled the coat from Ana. She had suffered less than me but was in shock and was breathing deeply.

When we had heard nothing for ten minutes or so, I told Ana to stay where she was and crept into the outer part of the cave. Apart from dust, there was little to show by way of damage from the grenade. Very slowly I crept forwards, into the entrance, until I could see no one was there. Keeping low, I went around the outcrop and looked over the top of the hill into the valley. The two men, who had come up to the top of the hill, were halfway down and travelling to the right to meet up with the remainder who were moving through the valley floor towards the next farm.

I counted them all twice to make sure they were all accounted for. As I turned to go back for Ana, I realized what the shooting had been about, all the goats were lying motionless, spread over the side of the hill. Why did they have to do that?

I COLLECTED ANA AND told her she must be brave. As we started back down the hill she stopped, there was a bleating coming from somewhere. One of the young kids was by its mother, unable to understand why she did not respond. Ana went over and picked it up. At the time I was angry with her, we needed to get to the farm quickly. She cuddled the young goat and only