Please. I might be dying but I’m not deaf yet, Cristian.
Could Mrs. Drucan hear her daughter? I hoped not.
She prattled on and her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t bury her. I want to take her with me. But I’m told the low gas pressure in Romania prohibits full cremations. What do families do with half-cremated remains?” She looked to me in desperate query. “Cristian, how many Kents will I need to make sure they turn up the gas?” she whispered.
A rush of air entered my mouth that had fallen open. I shook my head. “I . . . don’t know.”
She exhaled her tears and moved in close. She looked at me, speaking so silently the words were mere puffs of air. “Things are moving quickly. Take care. There will be danger here.” Her eyes lingered in a way that made me uncomfortable.
“I’ll leave you and your mama,” I told her. “Let us know if you need anything.”
She nodded, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.
I made my way silently to the door.
And left the Kents on the table.
37
TREIZECI ?I ?APTE
We sat in the kitchen, glued to Radio Free Europe and reports of revolutions in other countries.
There will be danger here.
That’s what the woman said. What did that mean? Should I tell Bunu?
“Poland and then Hungary!” shouted Bunu.
“Shh . . . too loud!” said my mother.
“Now East Germany. My god, the Berlin Wall is falling!” said Bunu, his hand upon the radio. “Do you know what this means?”
“Yeah, Poles, Hungarians, and East Germans make revolutions and all we make are Bul? jokes,” I said.
“Just wait. Be patient, Cristian. Trust me.”
I did trust Bunu. But the woman from Boston had said America was focused on Germany and didn’t know much about Romania.
“Bunu, if no one knows much about Romania, how will they know we need help?”
“Romanians who live outside of the country—the diaspora and exiles—they’re on our side and will spread the word,” insisted Bunu.
“Too loud! Be quiet,” whispered Mama.
My father joined us late that evening. Normally quiet, he began to make comments.
Just single words here and there.
Bold. Hold. Fight.
The tone and strength of his voice sounded so foreign.
In hindsight, that makes sense.
Because at that point I didn’t really know my father.
At all.
38
TREIZECI ?I OPT
Reports continued to flow into Romania.
My often-absent father suddenly spent more time at home.
In the evenings, our entire family lived in the kitchen, waiting for broadcasts. I hated that Bunu was still weak and we were Kentless, but I was grateful to him for saving our radio.
“Bunu, how do we know that these broadcasts are accurate?” asked Cici.
“Freedom of the press is democratic,” replied Bunu.
“But if Radio Free Europe was created by the Americans, how can we trust it?” whispered Mama.
My father stared at her. “Mioara, what choice do we have?”
“We can turn off the radio! It’s too stressful!” she insisted.
“It will be more stressful without information,” said my grandfather.
“Bunu,” I whispered. “Do you think the regime is listening to the reports?”
“Of course! They need the the information themselves to strategize.”
The developments and reports bolstered a flutter of activity. Over the next few days, Bunu had a steady flow of visitors and colleagues who seemed very concerned about his health. News of revolutions and chats with his friends strengthened my grandfather but angered my mother. I couldn’t figure out why.
“Bunu, why is Mama so angry?” I asked.
He responded with a shake of his head and just one word.
“Fear.”
39
TREIZECI ?I NOU?
The night air was crisp with cold. A full moon spilled light onto the street.
I stood, tucked within a shadow on our balcony. The Secu agent who lived beneath us rummaged through his boxes. I peered over the railing. The agent lifted a tarp and retrieved something from a crate. A bottle of cognac? Interesting, I had pegged him as a vodka man. Maybe he had a date. I waited, watching the street below. The agent emerged in his long dark coat and strode toward the black Dacia.
And then I saw her.
Liliana walked down the sidewalk with her brother.
I retreated into the fold of shadow, watching. She suddenly stopped and turned, glancing across the street. The ends of her purple scarf lifted in the wind. Was she looking for me—or was she looking at the agent? I had voices on both shoulders: