Yes, that’s actually what I thought. I could beat the Securitate.
But how could I manage the guilt? It wouldn’t dissolve overnight. My family would know something was wrong.
I could fool my parents. My father was always gone, working. In recent years he felt more like a shadow than a man. Mama was always distracted and worried, constantly making lists. I think she actually made lists of things to worry about. But I wouldn’t be able to fool Bunu. And I certainly couldn’t fool my older sister, Cici.
So, I invented a story about exams.
University exams were highly competitive. Thirty students would compete for four spots to study education. Seventy students for just one spot in medicine.
“Philosophy,” nodded Bunu. “Soul nourishment. Sit for a spot in philosophy. You see, communism is a state of mind,” he would lecture, tapping at his temple. “The State controls the amount of food we eat, our electricity, our transportation, the information we receive. But with philosophy, we control our own minds. What if the internal landscape was ours to build and paint?”
Bunu spoke often of vibrant what-ifs. I pondered them in my notebook. How could we paint or sketch creatively? If the West was a box of colorful crayons, my life was a case of dull pencil leads.
My family knew I wanted to go to university. I’d pretend I was upset because the available spots for philosophy had been cut in half. Cici would roll her eyes.
“You take it all too seriously, Cristi,” she would say. “Many Romanians have advanced degrees and no use for them now. It can be dangerous to be considered an intellectual. I wish you’d let it go.”
I thought my story would work. I’d pretend to be worried, say I was busy studying for exams. They wouldn’t ask questions.
But Bunu always asked questions.
What if he figured it out? He would never understand how I could become an informer. A traitor. I was worse than the cancer that was eating him.
And then I heard the footsteps.
My question was answered.
I was being followed.
5
CINCI
I took a breath, listening closely. I risked a glance over my shoulder.
A shadowy figure lingered nearby. A girl. Carrying a large stick tucked beneath her arm. And then her quiet voice emerged, saying hi.
“Bun?.”
“Bun?.” I nodded.
She stepped closer and suddenly, we fell into step.
My pulse tapped.
Liliana Pavel. The girl with the hair hiding her eyes. The girl I wanted to “coincidentally” catch up with after school. I had created a grand plan with precision timing, but it evaporated after the meeting with Agent Paddle Hands.
Liliana lived in Luca’s building and also studied English. She was quiet, smart, a mystery beneath brown bangs with a clever sense of humor. When my responses carried an irony that Comrade Instructor didn’t catch, Liliana did. Her efforts to hide a smile, they gave her away.
Most students loitered in groups, but Liliana often wandered somewhere to read. Her folders were covered with hand-drawn flowers and zodiac signs. Sometimes—the way she looked at me—it felt like she could read my mind. And I liked it.
Our apartment blocks faced each other at the tail of a dead-end street. Liliana’s father managed a grocery supply—an extremely desirable job in a city where most people were starving.
Unlike some chattering girls, Liliana didn’t speak to just anyone and everyone. When we were younger, she once paid attention to me. I was standing amidst a group on the street and out of the blue she walked up to me and gave me a piece of Gumela.
“It’s for you,” she said. My buddies snickered.
I was secretly elated but didn’t want my friends to know.
“It’s just gray gum. It turns to sawdust in your mouth,” I had said with a shrug.
I was an idiot back then too.
I still remember the sad look on her face. It had taken until now, two years later, for her to approach me again. Should I apologize for being a jerk about the gum? Nah, she probably didn’t remember.
We walked in silence, the darkness punctuated by the occasional tap of the stick Liliana carried. She pointed the stick, gesturing.
“What’s the English word for these?”
“Streetlights,” I said. “But guess what, in other countries I think they actually work.”
She laughed.
The streetlights in Bucharest weren’t illuminated. Too costly. Romania was rich in resources, but for several years, our “hero” exported all of our resources to repay the country’s debts. As a result, electricity and food were rationed.