How did she know I had wondered?
She smiled.
And then we went our separate ways.
61
?AIZECE ?I UNU
I sat in my dark closet, avoiding family. Could there be an explanation, like Luca said?
Cici sewed for people. Maybe they paid her in foreign currency. Maybe she took the Springsteen article to keep me safe. Maybe she made the loop rings from the cigarette packages herself.
Maybe?
I snapped on the flashlight to read the English pages I had bought from Starfish. They were crumpled, clearly retrieved from a trash bin. And they weren’t original. They were multigeneration, poor copies, stapled together.
The words at the top said:
Romania,
Human Rights Violations in the Eighties
First published July 1987,
Amnesty International Publications, London
Amnesty International’s Concerns
This report documents the persistent pattern of human rights abuse in Romania in the 1980s, a period in which the authorities have imprisoned their critics and jailed hundreds of other men and women for wanting to exercise their rights to leave the country. Some prisoners of conscience have been tortured, beaten, and jailed for years after unfair trials. Other critics of the government have been put under house arrest, have lost their jobs, or have been attacked in the street by security thugs.
“Prisoner of conscience.” I made a mental note to research that term.
Torture and Ill Treatment
. . . It has been reported that political prisoners have been tortured by being beaten on the soles of the feet or being kicked and beaten with rubber truncheons. Two prisoners are reported to have died after torture.
Bunu. That’s exactly what happened to Bunu. The descriptions were detailed, listing several names of specific victims. The papers were so lethal, they nearly burned my hands.
“Pui?” Cici’s voice appeared at my door. I jumped, clutching the papers. “Pui . . . Ceau?escu’s going to be on TV.”
I couldn’t leave my closet. Cici would take one look at me and know I was hiding something. I needed more information first.
“I’m tired. And sick of it,” I told her. “He’ll just say the same old thing.”
I was right. Partially. I put my ear to the door and heard our leader’s ranting voice. According to Ceau?escu, hooligans and foreign agents were creating turmoil and unrest.
Was I a hooligan?
Maybe.
Was there unrest?
Definitely.
The papers from Starfish were dangerous. So dangerous that I couldn’t leave them in my closet. I had to carry them with me at all times.
So I stuffed them into my jacket pocket and finished devising my plan.
I was going to confront Cici.
At the time it seemed straightforward. She was either working with Paddle Hands or she wasn’t. I hadn’t yet absorbed one of life’s universal truths:
Things that seem straightforward?
Often aren’t.
62
?AIZECE ?I DOI
5:00 a.m.
Layers.
Two pair of socks. Three shirts. Hat. Gloves. Jacket. Ration card.
I left the apartment as if to stand in line but hid across the street.
And then I waited.
Cici left the apartment wrapped in a yellow scarf. I followed at a distance.
The textile factory she worked at was supposedly across town and that’s why she had to leave so early. After a fifteen-minute walk, she turned down a street. I rushed to keep up.
When I got to the street, she was gone.
I looked up at the buildings. It wasn’t a commercial district, it was a residential district. And then I saw the pop of her yellow scarf. Behind the window— Of a black Dacia.
Each step I took toward the car felt like a kilometer.
Should I do this?
Yes, I had to know.
I approached the passenger-side door. A package of BT cigarettes sat on the dash, next to my sister’s elevated foot.
Through the window, I saw the shape of two figures amidst a swirl of hostaged cigarette smoke. I pressed my face against the glass.
Cici jumped. So did the driver. It was quick, but I saw.
The thinning hair, one eyebrow, his huge mitts foraging my sister’s lap.
Paddle Hands.
I pointed my finger at the glass. I slowly shook my head.
And then I ran.
Her voice rang out behind me. “Pui, wait. Wait!” The Dacia’s engine roared to life. I continued to run, cutting and dodging quickly across the sidewalks. My lungs burned, my pulse raged.
My state-made sneakers were ragged, with barely any tread. I slipped, almost fell, and lost time. Those who were out early looked at me. There’s a difference between someone who’s running, and someone who’s running from something. I looked more than suspicious.