“Mind yourself. Beloved Leader is watching. He sees everything, you know.”
The picture in our classroom was the old, one-eared portrait of our hero. His head was positioned in three-quarter profile, so we only saw one of his ears. In Romania, calling someone “one-eared” is an expression for crazy or insane. Whispered jokes must have traveled down Victory Avenue because in most locations, the old portraits were now replaced with a two-eared version of our leader.
An absent classmate suddenly appeared at the door—the loner kid with the ratty brown scarf. He gave our instructor a note and took his seat. He looked ill, his face the color of milk. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. He was either going to throw up or pass out. I watched, waiting to find out. It was definitely more interesting than calculus. After several minutes he rocketed from his chair, waving his arms and stuttering like a madman.
“No! No! NO!”
“Comrade Nistor, sit down this instant,” yelled the teacher.
He didn’t sit down. He turned, wild eyed, to the class, gripping and pulling at his own hair. He began to cry. Students gasped in alarm.
“Comrade Nistor. Compose yourself!”
“I can’t. I can’t. Do you know?”
“Know what?” asked a girl.
His hands began to vibrate and then his entire body quaked with convulsion.
“THAT I’M AN INFORMER!!!”
The temperature in the cold classroom dropped further into frozen silence.
No one tried to console him. No one made a sound.
Comrade Instructor pointed to the door. Our classmate stumbled to it, sobbing, and left.
The lesson resumed.
And that’s when it hit me:
The teacher must be an informer. He informed on the students.
The school director was an informer. He informed on the teachers.
The secretary was an informer. She informed on the school director.
Luca was an informer. He informed on me.
I was an informer. I informed on Americans.
How naive. Had I really thought that Luca and I were the only student informers? There were probably many.
And then my stomach seized.
Wait, was Liliana an informer?
24
DOU?ZECI ?I PATRU
I lingered after school, but Comrade Director didn’t approach me.
Was it because of our classmate’s outburst? Did the agent retreat, fearing that students would be paying closer attention? Although I had thought about skipping the meeting with the agent, I realized that I was failing my original mission.
Medicine for Bunu.
If I didn’t see the agent, I wouldn’t get any medicine.
I walked home, my mind tangled with predicament and paranoia. I empathized with the student who had the outburst. It could have been me. And I did nothing to console him. I sat there, hollow-faced and hollow-hearted, relieved when Comrade Instructor ordered him from the room. What would happen to him now? And what was happening to me?
While waiting after school, I had missed the chance to walk home with Liliana. Had she heard what happened in class? As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t brush the question from my mind. Were there signs that Liliana was an informer? Maybe. She was quiet. Private. She asked odd questions. And the very first day we walked home together, she was behind me, which meant she left school after I did. Which could mean— She had been meeting with the Secu herself.
Did Liliana care about me or did she just need information? I could have smacked myself. What sort of hypocrite was I to even ponder that question?
I approached our building and saw Cici on the sidewalk. She rushed to join me. “I’ve been waiting for you. We can’t talk inside.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Something happened. I’m not sure when or how. Someone came to see Bunu.”
I thought of the old man with the spongy nose. His message about coffee. When I told Bunu, he had just shrugged and said, “I already knew that.”
“Was it the friend he plays chess with?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But Bunu is . . . improving. Pui, do you think someone negotiated treatments or medicine? And if so, how?”
“Medicine?” I tried to appear deep in consideration. “Have you checked the supply of Kents?”
“Yes, they’re still there. But it got me thinking. Bunu is alone all day. How would we know if anyone was coming see him?”
“Why would it matter? Bunu has friends.”
“Mama wouldn’t want Bunu having meetings at the apartment.”
I thought of Mama’s comment about Bunu. “Cici, instead of being sad, Mama seems angry that Bunu has leukemia. Isn’t that strange to you?”