“My brother rigs it to create light for homework. It’s brighter than a candle.” She stepped into the kitchen.
“Hey, are you hungry?” I asked.
“I thought we were feeding the dogs.” Liliana returned from the kitchen and set a bone on the table. “My dad brings bones home from work.”
“We are feeding the dogs. But I thought we could also share this.” I removed the small chocolate bar from my pocket. “It’s not a Coke, but—”
“Uau! I’ve never had that kind! Where did you get it?”
I shrugged and handed it to her. “I know someone.”
She broke it in half. We stood near the table, candle glowing, eating the chocolate.
Her fingers brushed the bottom of my jacket. “The dogs tore it. You repaired it?”
“My sister did. She has a sewing machine.”
“I’ve heard.” And then it was quiet. “Do you like music?” she suddenly asked.
“Sure, do you?”
“Yes. I like . . . Springsteen’s lyrics.” She glanced up at me as she said it.
The candlelight danced shadowed patterns on her face and hair. My heart bumped. She was even prettier up close.
“Springsteen was born in September. He’s a Libra,” said Liliana.
“Oh, yeah?” I leaned against a chair. “Can you guess what my sign is?”
“I don’t have to guess.” She smiled. “I know.” She placed her hand near the candle. On the center of her palm was a small symbol. It looked like a lowercase “m” with a comma stuck to it. “You’re a Virgo.”
She had drawn my sign on her palm? “Whoa, how did you know?” I asked.
“I just know.”
I nodded, not sure what to say. “Hey,” I whispered. “What color are your eyes?”
“Yours are a weird gray-blue color,” she said.
“Weird?”
“Sorry.” She laughed. “Not weird. Different. I mean, unique. They’re unique.”
“And what color are yours?” I repeated.
She lifted the candle from the table and held it in front of her face.
“You tell me. What color are my eyes?”
The candle flame swayed. “I can’t see them through your hair,” I whispered.
“You can’t?”
“No.”
She stepped closer to me.
And then closer.
Silence and candlelight flickered between us. I paused, then slowly brushed the hair from her eyes. A shudder of energy pulsed through me. Did she feel it? I thought something might drop from a shelf.
“Brown,” I whispered. “They’re brown. They’re really pretty.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled.
And then she blew out the candle.
We stood, silhouettes in the dark. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked softly.
I gently wrapped my arms around her.
She pulled me closer and pressed against me, placing the side of her face on my chest. We held each other. Soundless yet somehow boundless. And in that quiet moment, all hardship melted away. For once, the shadows weren’t gloomy. They were private. Holding Liliana, alone in the stillness of that dark apartment, feeling her breathe, it was everything.
I had everything.
I closed my eyes, held on to the moment—and for once, thanked the heavens for the darkness of communism.
20
DOU?ZECI
5:00 a.m.
Layers.
Two pair of socks. Three shirts. Hat. Gloves. Jacket. Ration card.
I pulled the woolen hat down over my ears and zipped my jacket. It doesn’t take long to dress when you sleep in your clothes for warmth. Bunu’s wall thermometer said the temperature in our apartment had dipped to 8 degrees Celsius, 46 Fahrenheit overnight.
I left quietly. As if in unison, the other apartment doors opened and a line of tired residents clutching oilcloth shopping bags appeared. We trudged down the cement stairs to join the sea of humanity swarming into the freezing dark—that bleak wasteland of time.
To stand in lines.
Every family had a system for the Alimentara, the local shop. This was ours: I stood in line three days per week before school.
Cici stood in line three days per week before work.
Mama stood in line after work.
Our father relieved Mama in line during the evenings.
To shiver. To wait in line for absolutely everything. That’s what I was used to.
That’s what we were all used to.
How long were the lines in other countries?
I thought of the advice from the British travel book: