I thought of the portraits in the other room. “Those portraits, they would make a good shovel,” I whispered to Liliana.
“Don’t you dare.”
Finally we finished. We reeked.
“Move!” yelled the guards. They pushed at our backs with guns and clubs, shuffling us back down the cement corridor where we’d entered.
“Are we going home now?” asked the sister.
“You’re going to a new home,” said the guard.
“I want Papa,” cried the brother. “Papa!”
“The older ones, make sure they’re restrained.”
A guard pushed me against the wall and jammed his club beneath my throat. They tied my hands in front of me with rope. The pain from my ribs, I nearly passed out.
The sun was up. As they loaded us back into a van, a truck arrived carrying a dozen new prisoners. They looked at us, faces full of shock.
“What time is it?” I asked. “What do you know?”
“It’s around eight a.m. Fighting continues. Stay strong, we’re close!”
The guards pushed us into a van. The children began to cry and the newly arrived prisoners tried to intervene. “Bastards! Let the kids go!”
“Freedom!” yelled a man. They clubbed him before he could say another word.
I sat in the van, trying to breathe. I extended my wrists to Liliana. “Can you loosen the rope?” I whispered.
“It smells. Where are we going?” said a small voice.
“Ask the big boy.”
The big boy. Really?
I suddenly felt so small, so tired. So frightened. They said fighting continued, but what if the revolution failed? How much worse would things get? Where were we going? Were our families looking for us? Was the Secu looking for me? Was Cici telling the truth about the message from Van Dorn? What would they do to the prisoners who helped get us out of the cell?
Liliana leaned against my shoulder. My head touched hers and at some point, my exhausted thoughts surrendered to shallow sleep.
We arrived midmorning. I recognized the location the moment they opened the van doors. Strada Aaron Florian. We were near the U.S. Embassy and the Van Dorns’ apartment.
In front of us stood a white, ornate building. Decorative plaster garlands draped over each door and window. But the Belle époque beauty and smooth white plaster exterior fooled no one. Darkness and cruelty lived inside the building, belted tight by bars over each window.
We waited in the van, hands still bound, while the tired guard trudged to the tall front door. The sister and brother clung together as their father had instructed. Explosions and the sound of gunfire hovered in the distance.
I lifted my wrists toward Liliana. “Try the rope again.”
My voice wasn’t my own. It was hoarse and weary with injury. I put my mouth to her ear. “Starfish once told me about this place. It’s a juvenile jail. They sent his cousin here. They shaved his head, beat him, and all sorts of awful things. I say we make a run for it.”
“You’re in no condition to run, and we can’t leave these kids.”
She was right.
“You go,” she suddenly said, pulling the rope from my hands. “Hurry, sneak behind the van, then hide behind a building. Go! Send someone for us. We’ll tell them you escaped the van at Jilava.”
I hesitated. “No, I’m not gonna leave you.”
“Go! Now!” she whispered, pushing at me. “Find my parents and Alex. They’ll have something to bribe with. They’ll get us all out of here. Save us!”
Could I save them?
Liliana thought I could. She believed in me.
Bunu believed in me.
I couldn’t let them down.
71
?APTEZECI ?I UNU
I crept to the open van doors and watched the guard approach the beastly building. The driver of the van leaned against the vehicle. He closed his eyes.
Quietly, painfully, I stepped down from the back of the van, and hid by the tire. I made it across the street and crouched in a pool of shadow by a building. I crawled until I was beyond the line of sight.
And then I tried to run.
Pain jolted through my torso. I clutched my ribs, stumbling, but kept going, looking over my shoulder. I darted between buildings and saw a thick crowd in front of the U.S. Embassy. I waded into the swarm. I picked up a filthy knitted hat from the ground and put it on, tucking my wild hair beneath it. I zipped up my coat so the scarf around my torso wasn’t visible. The tired guards wouldn’t be able to distinguish one protester from another. One positive about bland communist clothing—many of us looked alike.