My family knew something had gone awry, but they didn’t know what. I couldn’t tell them—or anyone—why Liliana wouldn’t see me. Fortunately, she hadn’t told anyone either. Was she trying to protect her family . . . or me? I clung to the possibility.
I stood on the balcony, hoping she would see me. Trying to telegraph messages to her.
One night, Cici joined me. She took a deep breath, gathered her long black hair, and tied it into a knot. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, Pui, but I know something happened with Liliana . . . and I know you’re hurting.”
Sorrow crept into my throat. I couldn’t speak. Just nodded.
She put her hand on my back. “Keep trying. She’s worth it. And so are you.”
Was it my sister’s kindness? Her encouragement to persevere? Whatever it was, it broke me. And she knew it. And she had the compassion to give me privacy on that cold dark balcony, alone with my tears.
Bunu eventually shuffled out as well. He said nothing at first, just stood next to me. His presence alone was comforting.
“Your pain, it inspires me,” he finally said. I looked to him. “Yes, inspires me. This regime steals so much from us. Some, like your father, are forced to go silent, dormant. But to feel so deeply, that is the very essence of being human. You give me hope.”
I had to confess.
He already knew I was an informer, but I had to say it out loud.
“Bunu—”
“That’s enough for tonight. It’s colder than Mother Elena’s heart out here.” He left me on the balcony and returned to the apartment before I could say another word.
I often think back to that night and my desperation to confess. How many others across Romania were standing on their balconies at the same time, painfully picking at the adhesive, all trying so hard—
To pull the tape from our mouths.
35
TREIZECI ?I CINCI
Comrade Director gave a discreet nod when I passed him in the hall the next day. So after school I waited in the bathroom then headed for the apartment. Did the agent meet with other informers there? If I arrived early or waited afterward, would I see them? He probably staggered his schedule. But maybe I’d see the residents of the apartment. Would I recognize them?
Each step stirred questions—and anger.
Frustration.
Bunu. Liliana. Luca. It was all such a mess.
I peered through the crack in the door. The agent didn’t see me. Not at first. He sat, sucking on a cigarette.
I had a moment to evaluate the miserable creature that Paddle Hands must have been, ruining the lives of teenagers and forcing them to become spies. What motivated him to sell his soul? Was he blackmailed, like me? Perhaps he had an ill family member too? Or was it the steady supply of Kents and the shallow power of driving a black Dacia that kept him going? He didn’t wear a wedding ring. No, a bottle of ?uic?, plum firewater, kept him company on cold winter nights. How did Luca deal with this guy? Luca was kind but not savvy. No wonder our classmate had a breakdown.
But I was not going to have a breakdown.
I was going to take them all down.
If I got my notebook to Mr. Van Dorn, the embassy would see me as a source of truth and report that Ceau?escu was duping everyone.
I watched as the agent fiddled with his pack of BT cigarettes. He had removed the stamp decal from the top of the package and was curling it around his little finger. The cigarette smoke, like sins rising, crept up and around his neck.
Choke him.
“Come in and close the door,” he ordered, finally aware of my presence. “Take a seat.”
I entered and sat. Calculus notebook in my lap.
“So, how have things been going?”
“Fine,” I lied.
My thickening file sat on the desk in front of the agent. What was in it?
“Did you visit the target?”
I nodded. “I accompanied him to the American Library as instructed.”
“And what did you learn?”
I took a breath and began to recite. “He reads Rolling Stone, Sports Illustrated, and Billboard magazines. He’s bored and misses home. He has a tutor who comes to the apartment.”
“What’s the tutor’s name?”
I shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
“Male or female? Does his father interact with the tutor?”
“He didn’t say. He wants to go home for Christmas. He likes a girl—”
“What’s her name? Is she Romanian?”
I took a breath and continued. “He likes a girl who plays guitar in an American band—”