Black and White Echoes

It was Sunday and I was rummaging through one of those endless boxes of photographs and postcards, in a second-hand store, as I often did on my free days. This is, in fact, how I decorated most of my walls. I was now living in my dream city, Edinburgh, and I filled my tiny, old but charming one-bedroom apartment with “junk” as my mother would call it, or “little treasures” as I liked to think of it. The furniture was old, patiently hunted (and probably also haunted) at flea markets or in shops like the one I was in now. My walls were adorned with old photographs, postcards and illustrations in all shape and size vintage frames. Music played almost exclusively from my — not old, but old school — record player and my wardrobe contained mostly thrifted clothes. It would be wrong to say I think I was born at the wrong time in history, because I love the freedoms of the 21st century, but I’ve always had a nostalgia for the times I didn’t even get to be alive for.

I had this nostalgia for Edinburgh too. The first time I visited and I heard the bagpipes being played in front of the Scott Monument I actually teared up. It was a solo trip and one of the best I’ve ever had. I was irrevocably in love with the city. I feel it is a perfect extension of my personality. Big parts of it are well-preserved old, it is within an hour's reach from the sea and cosy cafes, thrift and book stores cherry-top the charm of the place. So after five years of yearning for Edinburgh, I decided to uproot my life, once again, and make the big move. It was the opposite of easy but I’ve never been happier and more content in my whole life. 

But that changed right then and there when I pulled up a photograph from the random box. It caught my eye and initially I thought “how funny, that woman looks like my grandma”. But as I looked closer, my heart started racing, my hands shaking and I was frozen. It was indeed my grandma, photographed at the foot of Victoria Street, the iconic colourful houses less impressive in the black and white picture, the back of it reading “A., Edinburgh, 03 Feb 1965”. Inexplicably, my Romanian grandma, Aurelia, was in Edinburgh in 1965. Historically, that means halfway through the Romanian communist regime. And if by now it’s not crystal clear why this couldn’t be right, let me explain: you were not allowed to travel outside of Romania, or the communist bloc at best, during those times. 

The only reasonable explanation was still that it was not her in the picture. But the more I looked the less I could think of this as being true. The maternal gene in my family is undeniably strong. One too many times me and my mom have shocked strangers with how much we look alike. It is so strong that even my father sometimes calls me by her name. And my experience is all too well known to my mother. This happened in her youth as well, with her mother, the now in question grandma. There is this picture of me, my mom, my grandma, my great-grandma and my-close-in-age cousin where this is evident. Each of us is unique in their own way but quintessentially we are the same person. So there is no doubt that was my grandma standing in the cold streets of Edinburgh, in February 1965.  

Unaware of how long it has been since I’ve been staring at the picture, I finally found it in me to move towards the cashier and pay for the two records I had already picked up and the picture. 

A week later, sleep deprived and stiff from sitting for too long in three different public transport modes - train, aeroplane, bus - I was back in the village where I spent all my childhood summers. I was in front of my grandma’s house waiting for her to come at the gate and let me in. She could see me through the bars of the gate before she got there and was surprised to see me. As she was approaching she was talking loudly. “What on earth are you doing here? Is everything ok? You didn’t tell me you were coming, on purpose, again, didn’t you? Neither did your mom, as sly as you.” She was now twisting the key in the locket. 

“She doesn’t know I’m here either, everything is ok” I said as I went in. She relaxed now and her eyes were watering. She pulled me into a big hug and managed, through sighs “Then what are you doing here? I’ve missed you”. 

“I’ve missed you too,” I said, my voice also cracking up a bit. This was the hardest part of living abroad. Not seeing my family as often as I would have liked and missing out on their milestones and small moments. “I came because I wanted to talk to you about something important,” I clarified. “But first, let’s have coffee together.” 

Another copy-paste feature of our “clan” - our love for coffee. She went into the summer kitchen as they call it back home, and made a fresh pot. I could see her from where I was, on the terrace, through the window and was briefly transported to my favourite childhood memory of her, sitting on the table in that very kitchen, next to the stove, one hand stirring an enormous pot of home-made tomato sauce, and the other book in hand, reading out loud for me, in the summer glow.

After a short exchange of small talk, as she was pouring the coffee, she sat next to me. “Alright, tell me what is it that you want to talk about,” she said, exhaling a first puff of cigarette smoke. I imagine she thought I was in some kind of trouble or impasse in my life. She was indeed my go-to person. 

“This,” I said softly as I took out the photograph from my journal. I kept it there to prevent any damage. She put her cigarette down in the already overflowing ashtray, took it and looked at it for a long time, speechless. I broke the silence “We’ve always had this bond and you know you can tell me anything and our relationship won’t change. This is still true for this situation. But I need an explanation. That is you in the picture, right?”

She took a deep breath and said flatly “Yes, that’s me.” By then I had gotten used to the puzzling truth and it hadn’t come as much of a surprise. I gave her a very suggestive “go on” look and after another sigh she continued. “This is something I thought I’d carry with me to my grave but here we go”.

“You might remember stories about your great grandpa, how he fought in the Second World War. What no one else, besides me, knows is that he was a spy for the Allies during the time Romania fought for the Axis, before switching sides. He continued undercover as a regular soldier after the switch as the Allies wanted to be sure of the new loyalty of the Romanian army. When the war ended and communism was installed, he naturally kept his position. Not even your great-grandma knew.”

“I was 14 when I started to suspect something wasn’t quite right about my father and 15 when I had it all figured out and confronted him. He stared at me, his blue eyes wide as I lay out all the evidence I had. He was truly impressed and the next thing I knew he asked me if it was something I thought I would like to do. I was young but as you guessed by now, precocious and naturally I already hated the communists, so I accepted. So, the following years he shared his craft with me - not including the classified details, of course. Not long after I turned 18, I was expecting to be recruited. Because my recruitment wasn’t a sure thing, I went along and pursued a relationship with your grandfather. I was fond of him and I even grew to love him throughout our marriage. We got married in January 1965, as I wanted to keep a normal facade even if by then I knew I had been recruited. The first step was real training, of course, and it happened right after our wedding. I will spare you the details of how hard it was to get me out of and back in the country and what I had to endure, but I have been prepared by my father and made it to Scotland where the training took place. Your grandfather was sent to work in a remote location for a month so he was in the dark.”

“That picture was taken on my first day in Scotland.” She then proceeded to tell me about a charming Scotsman who was also training to be a spy and how both of them, stellar, but still teenagers fell victim to their desires and spent the night together. How the attraction was instant and, as it often is at that age, confused for love. I listened speechless, trying to process all the information, when the mathematical realisation clicked. February is nine months before November. My mother was born November 1965. And oddly enough, my grandma met the Scottsman exactly 31 years before I was born, how poetic. 

“Stop for a second!” I said in one breath. She stopped. Silence. On the outside. Inside my head the thoughts were buzzing like bees in a beehive. On the bright side, I might be able to relate to Outlander’s Brianna. Self-deprecation as a coping mechanism was another attribute strongly passed down to me. “Is there any chance grandpa is not my biological grandfather?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “However, I never tried to find out. The times were tough and rationally it didn’t make any sense to pursue finding out. Your grandad, knowingly agreed. After communism fell, more than two decades had passed and if it is true it would have only caused suffering in our family. As I said, I grew to truly love your grandad after the youthful haze faded and always regretted that impulse. Nevertheless, I was pregnant and even with all the training, was discarded and I never got to be a spy. Out of fear, I continued having a normal life. But what a beautiful life and family I’ve built with your grandad, God rest his soul,” she said contently. 

I told her I need to take a walk to process everything and while she was eager for a reaction from my side, she gave me the space. I went to the garden. I loved the immense garden they had, even more in the past two years since my grandad passed away. I could always find him there in the trees he planted, in the grass I used to watch him mow. I stayed there until the sun was low enough to bathe the place in a warm glow, flickering through the branches, in the soft wind. After I gathered myself, and my thoughts, I went back to my grandma. She was sitting exactly where I left her, smoking, her eyes not focused on anything in particular. She always heavily smoked when she was in distress. As I approached, she put out her cigarette and looked at me expectantly. 

I sat next to her, took her hand in mine and said “First, know that I am not mad at you and nothing has changed for me, regarding you. You did the best you could and I know and understand that. Secondly, grandpa was a grandfather to me in all the ways that matter and nothing will change that either.” 

At this she tightened her grip on my hand and softly said “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

“Now,” I continued, “I would still like to find out if any part of me is Scottish. You know how I’ve always felt about Edinburgh. I don’t want to hurt anyone, so when I have an answer it is up to you what you do with that information, if you tell mom or not.” She nodded in agreement.

I stayed with her for a few more days before returning to Edinburgh. When I got back, the DNA test was already waiting for me in the mailbox, like a ticket for the journey of my life.