Many Westerners couldn’t find Romania on a map, but we knew that some associated our country with athletics. Although gymnastics and tennis had taken Romania to the Olympics, no team from a communist country had ever won the most cherished prize in European soccer. Not until Steaua Bucure?ti.
The agent’s large mitts—perhaps Paddle Hands fancied himself a goalkeeper? Regardless, I now knew more about him: BT cigarettes. Unmarried. Steaua.
I knew how to proceed.
|| OFFICIAL REPORT ||
TOP SECRET
[28 Oct. 1989]
Ministry of the Interior Department of State Security Directorate III, Service 330
Discussion with source OSCAR at host meeting house near MF3 High School. OSCAR’s behavior was appraising, smug. Thinks he has the upper hand. Provided the following information on target VAIDA: -hand-drawn diagram of VAIDA’s apartment -locations of fixed and floating electronics -son’s interests
For further documentation, OSCAR is now tasked with the following: -trying to accompany VAIDA’s son to the American Library to collect further information -guiding us to VAIDA’s desk in the home NOTE: Recent informer source report states that OSCAR had a physical altercation with his friend and fellow student Luca Oprea. Recommend increased surveillance.
19
NOU?SPREZECE
Fahrenheit ?i Celsius, dou? c?i de a m?sura acela?i lucru.
Fahrenheit and Celsius, two ways of measuring the same thing.
I wrote that translation in English class. Spring and summer were pleasant in Bucharest. But winter drew near and the cold would get colder. There was no set schedule for electricity. No announcements to help us prepare.
“This never knowing, it weakens us,” Bunu would say. “It’s a form of control. They know exactly what they’re doing.”
When the power snapped off in the winter, the dark was instantly deep. The windows became a glaze of ice inside and out. Even when the electricity was on, the temperature in our apartment rarely rose above 12 degrees Celsius, which was 54 degrees Fahrenheit.
“People in other cities and in the countryside have it easier,” said Cici. “They have farms, more food, less restrictions. It’s the worst in Bucharest.”
So why were we living in Bucharest?
I tried to describe it in my notebook:
Do you see me?
Squinting beneath the half-light,
Searching for a key to
The locked door of the world
Lost within my own shadow
Amidst an empire of fear.
During the day, neighborhood streets milled with people. Friends lingered together outside. After all, why sit in a smoky, freezing matchbox of an apartment when you could have fresh air and privacy on a freezing street?
Luca and I continued to avoid each other. That was fine by me. His bruised face—it cramped my knuckles and conscience. I looked for Liliana the next day after school but couldn’t find her. Did she leave early? I had been carrying around the chocolate and wanted to give it to her. When I arrived on our street, she was standing on the sidewalk near her building.
“Cristian, you need to feed your dog.”
“Yeah? You have anything I can feed him?”
Her response and smile surprised me.
“Sure. Follow me.”
She turned and set off toward the entrance of her apartment block.
Did she really want me to follow her? I wanted to follow her.
So I did.
The electricity was off. We started up the stairs, ascending into blackness.
“My mom is terrified in a dark stairwell,” I said.
“So am I,” replied Liliana.
Should I reach for her hand? Before I could decide, we were on the second floor.
“Your apartment faces the street but ours overlooks the inner courtyard,” she said.
“How do you know ours faces the street?”
“Because I’ve seen you on your balcony. Fourth floor. Watching the agent in the black Dacia come and go. Are you spying on him?”
“I’m plotting a Kent heist. He has a stash on his balcony. You in?” I joked.
She laughed.
“So,” I said softly, “you’ve been watching me, huh?”
“That’s not what I said,” she replied as she opened the door. I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice.
I stood in the doorway of her dark, quiet apartment.
She leaned against the open door, gazing at me. A tiny silver heart hung from the suede cord around her neck, resting perfectly in the hollow of her throat. “You can come in,” she whispered. “No one’s here. My brother and parents are working.”
I nodded and stepped inside. A match hissed. Her hand moved to light a stub of a candle. Did her family buy candles at the street markets or from the church? Centered on the table beneath a handmade lace doily was a car battery. She noticed my gaze.