A few weeks after I arrived in Moldova I visited a volunteer-run group known as “The Association,” whose full name translates roughly to the Association of Former Deportees and Political Detainees. I remember the experience so well.
The entryway had a strange smell that was at once familiar and exciting and hard to define. It smelled like old things: decades’ worth of dust and musty books, creaky floorboards and threadbare carpets, seasons of rain and sweat and mud, old leather, cigarettes and many coats of paint – the last of which was a technicolor green that reminded me of old Hollywood, of the Wicked Witch of the West. I opened the door to room No. 3, where I found three women dressed in puffy coats, sorting through paperwork at their desks. It was so cold I could see my breath. The offered me a cup of tea.
This was the day when I began to understand that the story I wanted to tell was blurrier and more complicated than I’d realized. Like any story about people and war, this one had many versions, each with its own heroes and villains, each told through someone’s personal lens.
I thought about that building and the thick, musty smell long after I left. Somewhere in there, where dust meets memory, there was a story I needed to tell.
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