Genesis of Evil (2 page)

“But you didn’t find any relatives or friends?”

“Nope. We’ll send a detective around to talk to his employer when we can break one loose. Maybe we’ll turn up something else. But the guy seemed to be a loner. Never could understand that, but, hey. Different strokes, ya know?”

“Yeah. It’s a strange case. I don’t know if there’s a crime involved or not. I just thought somebody might be looking for the guy. We may wind up planting him ourselves. Thanks for the help.” Gerhart hung up and went out to his car.

As he passed the mall construction site he discovered why the name Southeast Commercial Design was familiar. According to the sign at the front of the site they were the firm that had designed the mall. And that, thought Gerhart, raised more questions than it answered.

If this Joseph Lucas worked for the company, why hadn’t somebody seen him here before? What the hell was he doing here in the wee hours of the morning?

And how had he managed to get dead from a fall of thirty stories into a bed of disappearing marshmallows when the mall was only two stories tall?

Chapter Two

Europe — 1958

Zoltan Lugoj, seven years old, watched as his mother placed a bowl of beet soup in front of him. Then she went back to the cupboard next to the wood burning stove and returned with a pitcher of goat’s milk, half a loaf of dark bread and a wedge of cheese. He wondered briefly where the food had come from. Like all growing boys, he had developed a huge hunger in the middle of the afternoon and had looked in the cupboard for something to eat, but it was empty except for something that seemed to be growing short green hair. He guessed that his mother had brought the food home with her when she returned from the collective farm where she worked, but he hadn’t noticed it. His stomach growled once more and he bent over the bowl and happily spooned soup into his mouth.

At the end of World War II, Soviet Russia swallowed up Romania and several other countries that lay along her western border. Although technically a people’s democracy, one would be hard pressed to differentiate between the living conditions in Romania and the rest of the USSR. Primarily agricultural, the country’s citizens struggled to hold body and soul together under the Communist regime. The family of Ferenc Lugoj was no exception. When Ferenc’s wife, Bertuska, gave birth to Zoltan in the deep winter of 1951 the tiny family despaired of surviving the winter on the meager rations available. But when spring came, and the fields were once again green with fresh crops, Ferenc and Bertuska believed that, with a bit of luck, they could raise their new son without starving themselves half to death in the process.

Considering the circumstances, the next few years went rather smoothly. Ferenc was elevated to manager in the farm collective and their tiny garden provided enough for the three of them. They even had enough money to purchase a small radio in order to enjoy the classical music transmitted from a station somewhere in Austria. Zoltan grew like a weed.

And then, in Zoltan’s seventh year, the bottom fell out.

Crops all over Romania were destroyed by blight after insect after fungus. The winter fell on them like a frozen, white sledgehammer, and the citizens of the People’s Republic of Romania dropped like fleas from a drowning dog. Ferenc and Bertuska survived for days on end with only one meal each in order to feed Zoltan, who, they felt, needed the nourishment more than they. He was, after all, still growing. There was no work, no food and no wood for the fire. The temperature dropped to eighteen degrees. The wind from the north blew in at almost forty miles an hour and made life even more miserable.

Early one morning Ferenc drew on what passed for an overcoat, kissed Bertuska and little Zoltan and set out in search of something to burn in order to keep his family from freezing while they starved to death. A blizzard struck three hours after he left and he was prevented from returning for almost a week. But when he finally pushed open the door of his small cabin, he was shocked at what he found.

Several logs blazed merrily in the fireplace. Bertuska and Zoltan sat at a table heaped with fresh fruits and vegetables. At first he was baffled. And then he remembered what he had been told about the Malesciu family of which his wife was a part. With his mouth set in a firm straight line, Ferenc slammed the door against the bitter wind and stalked across the room to stand at the head of the table. Zoltan looked up and smiled, happy to see his father once more. Bertuska was not so thrilled. She jumped to her feet and backed away as Ferenc came to a stop in front of her

“So,” he said with a snarl, “they were correct, the old ones. I should have listened. But, no! I knew that I was right in my love for you. I would hear no evil spoken of you or your family.”

Ferenc spat on the floor at Bertuska’s feet. Zoltan’s smile slowly melted as he watched his father. He jumped up and ran to his mother’s side, fearful that Ferenc would try to harm her. He threw his arms about his mother’s waist. Bertuska hugged him tightly.

“And if they were right, so what?” Bertuska said quietly. “Should I let my little Zoltan freeze or starve when there was no need? I knew you would be this way if you discovered what I had done. But I had no choice. It was this way or death for both of us.”

Ferenc hesitated. He knew she was telling the truth, but he was unwilling to be a party to such obscenity. Finally he made a decision.

“This is how it will be,” he said with a tear in his eye. “You and the boy will stay here. I will not. I won’t tell the authorities, but I cannot live a lie.”

He knelt and reached gently for his son and held him close for a moment.

“I know you don’t understand any of this,” he said to the puzzled lad, “but, in time, you will come to see the reason for what I must do. Never forget that I am your father and that I love you.”

Ferenc Lugoj stood and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. He smiled down at Zoltan.

“God be with you, my son,” he said. Then he swung his gaze up to meet that of his wife. “And may you rot in hell, Bertuska Malesciu. May you rot in hell!”

He spun on his heel and stalked from the cabin for the last time.

The Malesciu Clan could be traced to a village in the Transylvanian Alps. It had been situated near the Rosul Pass between Sibiu and Ramnicu-Valcea but had disappeared into oblivion sometime during the 15th century. No one remembered what it was called, but the Malesciu descendants, now with many names, could be found in every corner of the Balkans, Europe and central Asia. Most of them didn’t know they were of the Malesciu blood, nor did they care. But those who did were proud people who took care of themselves and their own, and refused charity regardless of the circumstances. Bertuska Malesciu Lugoj was no exception. After Ferenc left, she did whatever was necessary to guarantee that Zoltan remained healthy.

When Zoltan reached the age of thirteen, Bertuska knew that something was eating her from the inside out. Medical help of any magnitude was only for the Party faithful, therefore out of the question. She needed to make certain that Zoltan could survive after she was gone. That would require a healthy sum of money. As a prosperous Romanian peasant was an oxymoron, Bertuska knew that she and Zoltan would have to leave the country in order to secure his future. The Iron Curtain, however, was very much a reality. The flight would take careful planning.

On a bleak February night, in the dark of the moon, Bertuska and Zoltan crept through the forest toward the Yugoslavian border. They carried only a few family heirlooms and the clothes on their backs. Bertuska knew that the guard would be changed in twenty minutes and felt that the sentries on duty in the tower would be half asleep from boredom and cold. She cautioned Zoltan to keep perfectly silent. Then she took him by the hand and stepped from the woods onto the dirt road.

As soon as his mother took his hand Zoltan felt a strange sensation. The sound of the wind and the night creatures faded as if he was enclosed in a transparent bubble of some sort. When he tried to ask his mother about it, she shushed him and pointed silently toward the barrier beneath the guard tower. He was certain that the guards would see or hear them when they approached. But they passed safely within ten feet of the tower without being challenged. Zoltan heard the guards’ muted chatter as if it was a kilometer away. When mother and son were safely clear of the bleak strip of plowed ground and barbed wire, Zoltan’s feeling of being shrouded in something dissipated and he soon forgot about it.

Three days later they boarded a rusty freighter in Dubrovnik and sailed across the Adriatic to Brindisi, Italy. The hard part was over.

Chapter Three

Europe — 1972

Zoltan Lugoj laid his diploma on the kitchen table and stood looking through the grimy, rain streaked window at the courtyard behind his one-room flat. Above the rooftops the flashing lights on the Eiffel Tower were barely visible through the gloom of the evening. He raised his eyes to see his mother smiling faintly at him from the picture frame above the table. Zoltan waved a hand dispiritedly in the air.

“I did it, Mama,” he said as a tear ran down one cheek. “I got that diploma you said I would need.” A sob escaped him. “But, it wasn’t any good without you there to see me receive it. I’m sorry, Mama. I wanted you there so much.”

Zoltan Lugoj cradled his head in his arms and wept quietly for the woman who had borne him and loved him so much.

When Zoltan and his mother climbed from the freighter onto the dock at Brindisi, Italy, Bertuska turned to Zoltan and said, “Now, my son, you will get an education. That is the most important thing. Education. With education, you can become whatever you wish to be. I will provide for this education, don’t worry.”

“Mama,” Zoltan said, “I don’t need education. I want to work so I can take care of you.”

Bertuska picked up their small suitcase and led him away from the dock. “Hush, boy. First we must find somewhere to stay. Then we will start on the education. It will be fun. You will see. Come now.” She coughed a little in the chilly night air. Then she took his hand gently as they walked along the cobblestones.

Coughing. Always coughing. As time went on, it seemed that she coughed more than she breathed. But, no matter how much Zoltan protested, Bertuska wouldn’t visit a doctor. No money, she said, no time. But, somehow, there was enough money for school, food and what little clothing they needed.

They spent the first winter in Brindisi, where Zoltan went to the school and struggled with the strange language and customs. But when spring came he could speak enough Italian to make himself understood, even if the other children laughed at his crude accent and funny mannerisms. When the term was over, Bertuska packed their worn suitcase once more and they headed north along the Adriatic coast through the tiny fishing villages. They hitchhiked the entire way, stopping only when night came. They got a room if the weather was bad. Otherwise they slept in haystacks or under trees. At Riccione, Bertuska led Zoltan away from the coast at last. They passed through the bustling metropolis of Bologna. Although Zoltan didn’t understand why, they continued inland. As the first icy blasts of winter rocketed toward them from across the Alps, they reached the outskirts of Milan. They spent the winter there, Zoltan once again in school while Bertuska passed more and more time in the tiny room they rented.

Zoltan couldn’t understand how his mother could stay inside day after day without a breath of fresh air, but that was exactly what she did. Although she didn’t seem to work, there was always food on the table. Zoltan wondered if she had somehow managed to steal a great deal of money before they left home. If she had, he wondered where she hid it. Certainly, he reasoned, it would be heavy. When he asked about these things Bertuska would only shush him, smile and point to his schoolwork.

“Study, my son. Learn. What has already happened has happened, and nothing can change that. What you can change is how you live your future. Study. Learn.” Then she would lie back in the chair or bed and close her eyes as if exhausted.

When spring arrived once more, it was back to the dusty road. Milan was left behind to swelter in the summer heat. Before he knew it, Zoltan was looking across the border into France. There was some difficulty with their passports, but after two days, Zoltan and Bertuska were allowed to pass.

France was more difficult than Italy. The farther away they got from the border, the less the French tried to understand Zoltan’s rudimentary Italian. Once more he and Bertuska were reduced to waving hands, shrugging shoulders and pointing fingers in order to get their point across.

“Zoltan,” Bertuska said one evening as they sat in a field eating some bread and sausage they had bought in the last village. “Now you must begin all over. You must learn French.”

“Mama, why could we not have stayed in Italy? It was warm there, and the people were nice. Why do we have to come to France? They don’t seem to like us, and they certainly don’t go out of their way to understand us. Why?”

“The reason we do everything, Zoltan. Education. The Italians are intellectual cretins. But the French! Ah, the French. They have culture. Breeding. But most of all, they have wonderful universities.”

“Mama,” Zoltan sighed, “we don’t have enough money for me to go to a university. Do we?”

“Hush. I am your mother. I shall provide. Eat your supper. We must leave early tomorrow.”