We passed a long, snaking line of people in front of a State-controlled shop. They stood, huddled against the cold, clutching their ration cards and waiting for some scrap of food that no other country wanted.
“Russia gets all of our meat. Isn’t that unfair?” Luca once asked. “We get nothing but the patriots.”
The feet of slaughtered pigs and chickens were sometimes available in the shops. We called them “patriots” because they were the only part of the animal that remained in Romania. Dark humor, it entertained us.
I pointed toward the shop. “Daily ration of delicious patriots, right?”
“Patriots . . . and that Gumela you love so much,” said Liliana.
She looked at me, serious, then broke out laughing.
I laughed too and shook my head. “Sorry, I was a jerk.”
She gave me a wordless nod. And then a smile.
I tried not to stare but stole glances as we walked. Her purple scarf, it wasn’t something you could buy. Did she knit it herself? Should I ask? I knew that beneath the scarf was the necklace she always wore—a brown suede cord with a silver charm. Her hair fell in soft, loose waves, hanging just above her shoulders.
Liliana looked at the food line, grimacing. Over the past few years, the feeling of darkness had grown beyond electricity. To me, the darkness felt poisonous, leaching into everything. Did she feel it too?
She flashed a look over her shoulder and spoke below her breath. “My father said that Bucharest used to be called ‘Little Paris.’ There were trees everywhere, lots of birds, and even Belle époque architecture. Do you remember what the city used to look like?” she whispered.
“I remember some parts. My bunu used to have a house. He said that Bucharest was once a luxury stop on the Orient Express.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
It was happening. I was walking home with Liliana Pavel. We were having a conversation. If I could speak freely, I’d say, “Yeah, Bunu said that after visiting North Korea, Ceau?escu decided to bulldoze our city to build ‘the House of the People’ and cement apartment blocks. Our beloved leader destroyed churches, schools, and over thirty thousand private homes, including Bunu’s. What do you think of that?”
But I couldn’t speak freely.
No one could.
“I wish our neighborhood had more trees,” said Liliana. “I miss the birds.”
Trees appeared in parks and on large boulevards where they could be shared by all. Families, like our family of five, were herded into one-bedroom, ashtray-sized flats. I looked at the cement apartment blocks we passed. Some weren’t even finished. They had no doors, no elevators, no stair railings. Similar concrete hulks loomed around the city, gray staircases to nowhere. Concrete walls gave birth to concrete faces.
But no one discussed it.
Everyone will live together! Everything is collectivized, shared by the Party! was the mantra. When Ceau?escu spoke the words, he sliced the air with his hand. The Aplaudacii, his faithful supporters, clapped and clapped. Those applauding men, did they shiver when a cold wind whisked through their hollow hearts and abandoned souls? I searched for English words to describe the Aplaudacii. I put them in my notebook: Bootlicker. Butt-kisser. Fawner.
Liliana grabbed my arm, yanking me from my thoughts.
“Cristian! Oh no!”
6
?ASE
Stray dogs stalked a young girl across the street.
“Don’t run!” I called out. I grabbed the stick from Liliana. A scream tore through the darkness.
I was too late.
The animals lunged at the girl, growling wild and guttural. She frantically swiveled her torso, holding her small fists protectively in front of her neck. Teeth landed, found anchor, and ripped. The sound, it still lives in my ears.
I ran and pressed in front of her, trying to block the dogs.
“Culcat,” I ordered, extending the stick for the gnashing dogs to bite, speaking low to subdue them. Others rushed to join our circle, stamping their feet. The dogs, eventually outnumbered by the group, ran off to search for easier prey. Frantic chatter ensued, arguments about the strays.
“If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us!” wailed a woman.
“It’s not their fault,” snapped Liliana.
Stray dogs. They were everywhere. And Liliana was right. It wasn’t their fault.
When the regime bulldozed the city, dogs were lost and left to the streets. Starving and wild, the poor creatures drifted and hunted in packs. The month prior, our teacher’s baby was mauled to death in her stroller. Some people, like Liliana, carried sticks for protection.