Ceau?escu and his family were free to travel to every continent and experience all the world had to offer, but he kept his people caged within the country’s borders, working, full of fear, terrorized if they inquired about a passport. My parents longed to return to the Romanian seaside or to spend time in the mountains. But in recent years, Ceau?escu’s work mandates and petrol rations made that difficult.
I wanted my mother to have a lighted stairwell.
I wanted my father to have a real vacation or a car.
I wanted Liliana to have the birds she missed.
I closed the album and wandered to the shelves with magazines, looking for the one Mr. Van Dorn had suggested.
TIME.
I found it. The moment is forever engraved in my memory.
The headline of the issue:
THE BIG BREAK
Moscow Lets Eastern Europe Go Its Own Way I shot a quick glance over my shoulder. My pulse began to tick.
The magazine cover featured a large crowd with a teenager waving a flag.
A Hungarian flag.
Hungary bordered Romania.
Wait.
Hungary was no longer ruled by communism?
Hungary was free?
30
TREIZECI
I quickly scanned through the article, struggling with some of the terminology. But I recognized a few words from the Radio Free Europe broadcasts: Democracy. Perestroika. Glasnost.
How much had we missed with a broken radio? We knew that Poland had been successful with their decade-long Solidarity movement, but now Hungary? Had they really broken free of communism? Did my parents know? I tried to memorize the details to share with Bunu.
I rejoined Dan, who was hunched over a glossy magazine. Flustered, I reminded myself of the agent. I made mental notes of the magazines Dan had pulled to read: Rolling Stone, Sports Illustrated, Billboard.
“Meet the love of my life,” said Dan, pointing to a picture of a woman playing the guitar. “She’s in a band called the Bangles.” He gave an exaggerated, heartsick sigh, then laughed. “Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked.
Did I? I gave a half nod. And maybe smiled a little too.
“Yeah? What’s her name?” asked Dan.
I paused. Should I tell him?
“Liliana,” I finally said. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
He shook his head. “I liked a German girl who was staying in our building, but her family was only visiting. She sends me letters with cool stamps though.”
He fiddled with the magazine. “Does Liliana like music?” he asked.
“Yes. Springsteen.”
“Springsteen, huh?” Dan flipped the pages back to an article and photo of Bruce Springsteen. Without pausing, he tore the page from the magazine.
I took a step back. Dan Van Dorn tore the page right out of the magazine. He didn’t request permission. That couldn’t be legal—in any library, anywhere. That was just vandalism. He saw my eyes pop and laughed.
“I heard the U.S. Embassy really needs this information,” he whispered, rolling the sheet and sliding it through a loop on his backpack. “You know, this library is open to Romanians as well. You can come on your own.”
“Really?” I wondered if Bunu knew that.
“Yeah, Reagan and Bush aren’t really fans, but back in the day, Nixon bartered a deal with Ceau?escu. Romania was allowed to open a cultural office in New York and the U.S. opened this library in Bucharest.”
Aren’t really fans. Nixon bartered. What did that mean? There weren’t any photos in the album of Ceau?escu with recent U.S. presidents. Is that what Dan was referring to?
And sure, the American Library existed, but any Romanian who entered alone was probably reported to the Securitate. Would anyone take the risk?
“Thanks for bringing me. It’s interesting,” I said.
“Sure. I come every two weeks. Tag along. There’s not much for me to do in Bucharest. Do you ever get bored?” he asked.
“No time to be bored.”
“Yeah, you’re always in school or standing in a line. Hey, take me to stand in line sometime. That would be interesting to write about for my college essays.”
He wanted to stand in a line? Did it seem like a novelty to him? My brow narrowed.
“Sorry, what I mean is, in the States, we don’t have to stand in line for things. We don’t have a Kent economy either. Last week my mom had to hustle up some Kents to have our trash collected. Boy, she was griping about that. I’m still wondering what my dad did to get demoted and sent here.”
Dan’s comments gave me so much to think about. What did “tag along,” “hustle,” “griping,” and “demoted” mean? But bouncing in my mind was the question of Hungary: Were the citizens of Hungary still standing in lines? Could they travel freely now?