“You know what I hate? The cold. I’m tired of warming bricks in the stove for bed.”
“I don’t blame you,” replied Bunu. “This hardship, it hasn’t always been this bad, you know.”
I rolled my eyes.
“It’s true. When Ceau?escu assumed power in the sixties, things were fairly moderate; conditions actually improved for several years.”
“What changed?” I asked, rubbing my hands together for warmth. “The debt?”
“Yes, the need to pay the country’s debts, but something else.” Bunu moved closer. His voice dropped to a rare whisper. “Building a cult, a cult of personality. Are you familiar with those terms?”
I shook my head.
“Listen, Ceau?escu may be near illiterate, but even I can admit that he’s a statesman and a mastermind. He’s slowly made people believe that he’s a god and we must follow him, blindly. And think about it, Cristi, he starts with toddlers. The little ones are just four years old when they’re indoctrinated.”
Falcons of the Fatherland. That’s what the communist toddler group was called. And in second grade, children became Pioneers and wore a red neck scarf. No one questioned it.
“Four years old. It’s cunning. More than a communist dictatorship. Remember that.”
I nodded. I would add that to my notebook.
“But now—on to more important things. The conversation you had with Cici. Who is her and what can’t you give her?” A gleam appeared in his eye. “Got yourself a girlfriend, have you?”
I stared at him.
“Please. I might be dying but I’m not deaf yet, Cristian.”
My stomach clenched. If Bunu heard our whispers from the kitchen, what did the microphones pick up from the ceiling?
17
?APTESPREZECE
Compulsory volunteering.
That’s what they called it. An oxymoron. How could it be considered volunteering if it was mandatory? Students were required to devote themselves to helping the great golden era of Romania. Sometimes, that meant raking a thick field or sorting through boxes of vegetables outside the city. That’s what we were supposed to be doing that morning during “Harvest Day” season.
The largest and best produce was sorted for export. The deformed and mealy produce held for Romanians. We called them “bean potatoes” because they were so small.
Luca and I were sent to a field to collect cartons of produce. I took a breath, trying to steady myself. I had been ignoring Luca, pretending he didn’t exist. But walking alone with him, I could no longer pretend. And suddenly, I was more upset than I realized.
Luca had informed on me. I was sure of it. He was the only one who had known about the American dollar.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
I stopped walking and faced him. “No. What’s wrong with you, Luca? I thought we were friends.”
He gave me an odd look, like he was hurt but trying to pretend he wasn’t. Nice guys like Luca were terrible at lying. I shook my head and continued walking.
Luca and I had been friends since we were ten. He planned to sit for the exam in medicine. He was smart and would probably pass. I wanted him to pass. Luca was kind. He’d make a great doctor who wouldn’t turn away the Kentless. He never—ever—struck me as a rat.
But maybe they got to Luca through some weakness, just as they had gotten to me. Or maybe they convinced him that informing was his patriotic duty to the homeland. I was OSCAR. What was Luca’s code name? I should have listened to my sister.
“I don’t know,” Cici had said. “There’s just something about Luca. He’s so eager. Asks a lot of questions. Am I too suspicious?”
We were all too suspicious.
And that’s how the regime undermined everything. In my notebook, I drew a diagram of the Securitate—a monstrous apparatus with huge spinning tentacles planting doubt, spreading rumors, and casting fear. I remember my father and Bunu fighting about it.
“You do realize what they’re doing, don’t you, Gabriel?” Bunu asked. “Mistrust is a form of terror. The regime pits us against one another. We can’t join together in solidarity because we never know whom we can trust or who might be an informer.”
“Stop this talk,” said my father.
“You see, even out here in the street, you’re paranoid to be speaking with your own father! You’ve become a man without a voice. Mistrust. It’s insidious. It causes multiple personality syndrome and rots relationships. At home, you’re one person, speaking in whispers. Outside, on the street, and standing in lines at the shops, you’re someone else. Tell me, who are you?”