“Oh my god, Cristian, no wonder they beat you like this.”
“Honestly, I don’t think they know about it yet.”
“What was in the notebook?” she whispered.
“The truth. Pages of information on what the regime is doing to Romanians. A bunch of Bul? jokes. Notes from Bunu. I wrote a letter at the end. I titled the notebook Screaming Whispers: A Romanian Teenager in Bucharest. My name wasn’t anywhere on it.”
“And you just gave it to an American diplomat?”
“No, I hid it on his desk.”
Liliana’s jaw dropped. “What if the Secu found it?”
“You just gave me a message from Van Dorn. Well, a message supposedly from him, confirming he received it.” I looked toward the front of the cell. “We need to get out of here. I need to find Luca and get you home.”
“If they see we want to be together, they’ll split us apart,” said Liliana.
I looked at her battered, defiant face. She wanted to be together.
“You told me you weren’t giving up, Cristian.”
“I’m not giving up.”
But what if this was my end? I’d never even kissed her.
“Get the young people to the front of the cell!” a guard’s voice barked.
“Hurry,” said a man. “This may be your only chance.”
“I’m Liliana Pavel,” she shouted as they jostled us to the front of the group. “My friend Cristian Florescu and I are classmates at MF3 High School and we live in Salajan sector three. If any of you are set free, please contact our families. Tell them that you saw us together and we were alive.”
“My friend Luca Oprea was shot in University Square,” I yelled. “He’s also a student at MF3 High School. If any of you are released, please try to help him!”
A guard grabbed the young brother and sister by their collars.
“Papa!” cried the little boy, reaching for his father. “Where are they taking us? We want to stay with you!”
“I’ll see you very soon,” said the father, swallowing his tears. “Remember, stay with your sister. You must stay together.”
“Where are they taking us?” whispered Liliana. “What if it’s worse? Should we stay here?”
A man grabbed my shoulder, stopping me. “I knew your grandfather,” he whispered quickly.
He knew Bunu?
The man nodded. “He would be very proud of you.”
69
?AIZECE ?I NOU?
They pushed us into a room with long tables and benches. The guard ordered us to sit, locked the door, and left. Facing me, next to the door, were two framed portraits. One featured Mother Elena and the other, a one-eared Ceau?escu. I stared at their faces.
We had no food or freedom.
Because of them.
We were surrounded by spies and torturers.
Because of them.
We had no trust.
Because of them.
I couldn’t look at the portraits. I grabbed them from the wall and tossed them in the corner.
“What are you doing?” gasped Liliana. “You’re putting us all in danger.”
“If I have to look at them for one more minute, we’ll all be in danger anyway.”
Liliana turned to the kids. “Keep your heads down. If the guard asks, tell him the pictures were like that when we came in.”
The guard returned carrying buckets and a clipboard. He yawned. “Because of you criminals, we haven’t had rest since Timi?oara. Do you know what that does? It makes us angry.”
We said nothing. He set down the buckets and noticed the heap of portraits in the corner.
“Who did that?”
Silence.
“I said, who did that?!”
I shrugged. “They were like that when we came in.”
“No, they weren’t.”
“Yes, they were!” we all insisted.
The guard blinked, fatigued, not used to dealing with a chorus of kids. He eyed us and waited, uncertain.
“Well, you will pledge your obedience to our hero and Heroine Mother. Each one of you will get down on your hands and knees and kiss their portraits or you’ll be taken back to the cell. And my superior must witness you doing it.” He turned on his heel and locked the door once again.
“Do we have to?” asked the little boy.
“Yes, we probably do. I’m sorry.” I sighed. Why did I have to mess with the portraits? Why couldn’t I have just ignored them?
“Kiss me.”
She said it so softly, I thought maybe I had imagined it.
But then she said it again.