She smiled, relieved, peaceful.
Mrs. Drucan’s daughter. The woman from Boston. Red boots and lighting bolt earrings. I realized only later.
I never knew her name.
Cici continued to arrange chairs in the hallway. “Mama is home. Dad is out standing in line.” I nodded and headed up the stairs.
Like our parents, our apartment was silent. The door to the bedroom was closed. I headed to my closet to confirm my suspicion. I lifted the stack of books in the corner.
Just as I thought.
The Springsteen article was gone.
The Secu was still coming and going from our apartment.
But the next time they came? They’d be in for a surprise.
Because I would be there.
55
CINCIZECI ?I CINCI
Sad emptiness has a presence that seeps into everything. Each time I inhaled, it entered me—a spirit-crushing loneliness and the strange, shameful feeling that accompanied it.
I missed Bunu.
It was Sunday evening and for a rare moment, our family was together. We ate our quiet dinner of soup with a wedge of bread that Mama had soldiered hours in the cold for. I then settled in on Bunu’s couch to wait until 10:00 p.m. for the headline recap on Voice of America. Cici joined me. The signal wasn’t clear, so I adjusted the illegal wire that ran from the radio to the kitchen window. As I finessed the dial, a few words emerged from the static.
??Protest in Maria Square??
“Where’s Maria Square?” asked Cici.
Our mother appeared. “In Timi?oara, the western part of Romania. Why?”
“Shh . . . I’m trying to tune in,” I told them.
I landed on the frequency. The radio knob pulsed beneath my fingers as the announcer’s voice warbled into our kitchen.
??In Timi?oara, what began as a vigil over the forced eviction of church pastor László T?kés has escalated into an antigovernment protest. Romanian security forces opened fire, and there are reports that civilians have been killed. This story is still developing and we’ll come back with details.??
Cici jumped off the couch.
Mama turned and ran to the bedroom. She returned with our father in tow.
“A protest?” whispered Mama, gripping the doorframe. “No, no. They must stop. There will be consequences.”
I wasn’t thinking of consequences. I was thinking of Bunu. My brave bunu who refused to whisper, who was beaten to death for what he believed in.
“Bunu, are you hearing this?” I said. “It’s happening!”
“Shhh . . .” said Cici. “The announcer’s coming back on.”
??The vigil began on Saturday with parish members holding candles and requesting that persecution of Pastor T?kés be stopped. But hour by hour, residents joined together and the brave people of Timi?oara united and took to the streets. The crowd grew overnight and today the swarm of protestors was so large that it blocked traffic in the square and overflowed onto the surrounding streets. As the protest continued, the crowd began to oppose not just the pastor’s persecution, but the regime itself.??
“YES!” I cried.
“Oh my god.”
“Shh . . .”
??Today, as the crowds swelled, the mayor called for the protestors to disperse. But the mayor’s voice was soon overpowered by the repeated call of the masses. Together, the citizens of Timi?oara joined as one voice, continuously chanting: Li-ber-ta-te.??
The word pierced through the radio. My skin chilled and a knot formed in my throat.
Libertate.
Liberty.
It was happening.
It was really happening!
Romanians were joining in hand and heart. And together they were finally calling— For freedom.
56
CINCIZECI ?I ?ASE
I stayed awake all night on Bunu’s couch, searching for radio updates. State radio and television reported nothing. Of course not. Radio Free Europe and Voice of America were the only sources of information. The regime knew that. Would they jam the signal? No, that was too expensive. They hadn’t jammed signals in years and probably lacked the equipment to do so.
The announcer said civilian deaths had been reported.
Timi?oara. The heart. The courage. We had to help them. I pulled the faded map from the cabinet drawer. It was 550 kilometers from Bucharest to Timi?oara, a seven-hour drive, longer with our precarious roads. Could groups or buses be arranged? Perhaps we could build a chain of protests across the country. Together, we could close in on Ceau?escu. Trap him. Overthrow him.
Right here in Bucharest.
“It’s happening, Bunu,” I whispered.
Poland.
Hungary.