The agent leaned forward, placing his massive flesh rackets on the desk.
“I can see you’ve absorbed the severity of the situation. I’m told you’re a strong student, talented, an observer among your peers. I’m feeling generous today.”
He was letting me off with a warning. I exhaled with gratitude.
“Mul?umesc. I—”
“You’re thanking me? You haven’t heard my proposal yet. It’s simple and, as I said, very generous of me. You will continue to meet your mother and walk her home. You will continue your interactions with the son of the American diplomat. And you will report details of the diplomat’s home and family to me.”
It was not a proposal. It was an order, and one that compromised all principles of decency. I’d be a rat, a turn?tor, secretly informing on the private lives of others.
I could never tell my family. Constant deception. I should refuse. But if I refused, my family would suffer. I was sure of that. And then, amidst the silence, the agent made his final move.
“Say, how is your bunu?”
?ahmat. Checkmate. The simple mention weakened me.
He knew about my grandfather. Bunu was a light, full of wisdom and philosophy. Bunu knew of my interest in poetry and literature. He encouraged it. Quietly.
“They steal our power by making us believe we don’t have any,” said Bunu. “But words and creative phrases—they have power, Cristian. Explore that power in your mind.”
The stamp collection was Bunu’s treasure. It had been our secret project for years.
We had other secrets. Like Bunu’s leukemia. It stormed upon him so quickly.
“Don’t tell anyone,” begged our perpetually nervous mother.
We didn’t have to. Anyone could see that an energetic, healthy man had suddenly turned gray and shriveled. He lifted the frying pan and his wrist snapped.
Paddle Hands cleared his throat. “It’s a generous proposal. We’ll work together. You give me information and I give you medicine for Bunu. He won’t suffer.”
* * *
? ? ?
And that’s how it began.
I was Cristian Florescu. Code name “OSCAR.”
A seventeen-year-old spy.
An informer.
|| OFFICIAL RECRUITMENT REPORT OF “OSCAR” ||
TOP SECRET
[15 Oct. 1989]
Ministry of the Interior Department of State Security Directorate III, Service 330
For the informative supervision of American diplomat Nicholas Van Dorn （target name: “VAIDA”）， we were referred by Source “FRITZI” to Cristian Florescu （17）， student at MF3 High School. Florescu’s mother works as housekeeper to Van Dorn and has access to the family. Florescu was described to us as intelligent, quietly observant, with strong facility for the English language. He also has access to Van Dorn’s apartment and family. Approached Florescu on school grounds and used guise of illegal stamp trading as basis for recruitment. Florescu appeared wary but agreed to provide information as OSCAR when medication for his grandfather was presented as an option. OSCAR will be used to: -interact with Van Dorn’s son, Dan （16） -determine schedule patterns of the Van Dorn family -determine who frequents the residence -provide detailed mapping and layout of the Van Dorn residence -ascertain general attitudes of the Van Dorns toward Romania
4
PATRU
Guilt walks on all fours.
It creeps, encircles, and climbs. It presses its thumbs to your throat.
And it waits.
I left school, grateful for the two-kilometer walk to our apartment block. But with each step I took, guilt and fear transformed into anger.
What sort of human being preys on teenagers and uses a sick grandfather as a bargaining chip? Why didn’t I refuse and tell him to drive his black Dacia straight to hell? Why did I give in so quickly?
The agent had a file. Who informed on me? I threw a quick glance over my shoulder into the shadows. Was I being followed?
I didn’t yet know the truth: many of us were being followed.
Night pooled with a scattering of clouds. The sky slung black and empty of light. Tall, ashen buildings towered together on each side of the street, lording over me. Living in Bucharest was like living inside a black-and-white photo. Life in cold monochrome. You knew that color existed somewhere beyond the city’s palette of cement and charcoal, but you couldn’t get there—beyond the gray. Even my guilt tasted gray, like I had swallowed a fistful of soot.
Perhaps it wasn’t as evil as it felt? I would be spying on an American family only, not fellow Romanians. Romanian spy novels depicted the Securitate as defenders against evil Western forces. But if the stories were realistic, the agents were predictable. Maybe I could outwit them.