Eminent patriot? After Timi?oara? Our leader had gunned down innocent human beings—students my age. Prosperity and independence? I couldn’t stomach it.
Ceau?escu and Mother Elena appeared on the balcony to rounds of applause. Ceau?escu stepped to the microphone, waving, wearing an expensive black coat with a fur collar and matching hat. He began speaking his usual nonsense.
“I’m not staying for this,” I told Luca. I turned to leave.
BOOM!
A blast thundered nearby. Screams shot through the crowd. What was happening? Had someone set off an explosive? Luca looked at me, eyes wide.
A mass of people pressed in behind us. The new crowd suddenly began swaying, yelling.
“Boo!”
“Murderer!”
“Down with Ceau?escu!”
My heart began to pound. Everyone knew that plainclothes Securitate were always among us. But people continued to jeer anyway.
Groups of university students appeared, booing and shouting. They carried flags.
“Murderer!”
“Down with Ceau?escu!”
Others joined in. They were heckling the leader of our country. Ceau?escu stopped speaking, confused, and looked out into the crowd. He stuttered into the microphone.
“Hallo! Calm! What? Hallo!”
Mother Elena pushed toward the microphone. “Silence!” she screeched.
And then the chanting began near the back of the swarm, quiet at first, then louder, pulsing:
Ti-mi-?oa-ra.
Timi?oara!
TIMI?OARA!
Chills erupted over my entire body. The volume grew, a freight train of sound. A feeling of solidarity rose, growing within the crowd. Romania had found its voice. And we were using it, together. And our despicable leader was rattled, shaken, trying to calm the people, trying to remain in command. In a quarter of a century, this had never happened in Bucharest. The feeling was palpable, a breaking and cracking, the dam of oppression bursting.
Emotion leapt within me. My hands began to vibrate. For Bunu.
“Timi?oara!” I yelled.
I couldn’t stop. The screams came from deep within me, tearing at my vocal cords. “You’re thieves and murderers! Betrayers! TIMI?OARA!”
“Down with Ceau?escu!” yelled Luca.
The university students encouraged others to join in. The response was spontaneous, full-throated. Thousands of people were protesting!
Ceau?escu attempted to regain control. He couldn’t. Random noise echoed from the sound system. He was rattled, confused. And the crowd—we felt it.
The sensation of speaking up, speaking aloud instead of in whispers, it was euphoric. And you could sense that others felt it too. Ceau?escu blabbered something about raising wages but the jeering continued.
“Empty promises! We want food. We want freedom!” I yelled.
Ceau?escu left the balcony and scurried into the Party building. But the crowd didn’t disperse. We looked to one another and made eye contact.
We saw one other.
It was December 21st.
Romanians in Bucharest were united and ready.
For revolution.
64
?AIZECE ?I PATRU
The crowd lingered. People stood, shocked, waiting.
Luca’s mouth hung open and he began to laugh, nervously swatting my shoulder.
A woman in a babushka shuffled up to us. “Go home, boys. Now!” she said. “It was probably televised. There were cameras. There will be consequences. Be quick. Go home and hide, they’ll kill all of you.”
“We’re not cowards!” I told the woman.
“We’re already dead!” replied a university student in a green cap. “Their system has killed us.”
“We have to fight for the future!” said a man.
“We have to fight for Romania!” I yelled.
The crowd cheered. The terrified old woman tottered away.
A university student stood on a lamppost, holding a flag. “Remember, this is peaceful. We’re asking for food and electricity. We’re asking for freedom of opinion, freedom of religion. For those of you who are undecided—please, join us! Workers, come join us! Students, come join us! The world is watching Eastern Europe. Show them that Romanians aren’t cowards. Together we’ll stand up against tyranny. We’re going to march for freedom. Join us!”
An elderly man took off his hat and clutched it in his hands. With quivering voice, he began to sing.
De?teapt?-te, romane, din somnul cel de moarte.
Awaken thee, Romanian—wake up from your deadly sleep.
The old song of patriotism. It had been outlawed when the communists destroyed the monarchy. Those who knew the words joined him.