“I saw Starfish on the way over,” said Liliana. “He says there are rumors about a discovery at the Ceau?escu’s villa. Incredible wealth.”
It was true. And they eventually broadcast it on TV. “Wealth” didn’t accurately describe it. Excess, extravagance, greed, and gluttony, those words were more accurate. Countless estates across the country, hundreds of millions salted away in foreign bank accounts. They broadcast a video tour of the homes, including their daughter’s, which had a solid gold meat scale and packages of imported veal for her dog.
“I can’t bear it,” said Liliana. “We’ve been suffering for years, existing off scrawny chicken feet, with just one forty-watt light bulb per home. And they’ve been living like kings. Gourmet food, foreign goods, antiques, jewelry, fur coats, hundreds of pairs of shoes?”
I didn’t care about that. Where was Ceau?escu and what was he planning?
Just before 5:00 p.m. the news was announced.
The Ceau?escus had been captured.
Messages of support poured in and were read on the air. A special message from Romania’s long-exiled king was broadcast. With heartfelt emotion, King Michael expressed his admiration and congratulated Romanians on our fight for freedom.
French Foreign Minister Roland Dumas pledged humanitarian aid and said he would urge the United States and other countries to do the same.
“The U.S. worked with Ceau?escu for years,” said my father. “What will happen when they learn the truth about him?”
Following mention of the U.S., the radio host cleared his throat.
??Speaking of the United States, an American diplomat sent something to us here at Radio Free Europe. It’s a very poignant account from Romania, given to him as a Christmas gift. It’s entitled Screaming Whispers: An American Teenager in Bucharest, authored by Anonymous.??
Liliana and I sat—frozen on the couch.
We didn’t move. We didn’t look at each other. We didn’t utter a sound.
??The pages of Screaming Whispers are full of heart, painful truths, and also humor. But above all, we note its courage, to speak such truths plainly and openly.??
“Courage?” snapped Mama. “Foolishness. That’s so dangerous.”
I swallowed what felt like a throatful of bullets.
??We’d like to share a piece called “A Letter from Romania” that was included in the very end of the notebook. Although this teenage author is anonymous, the sentiments might feel familiar to many listeners.??
A LETTER FROM ROMANIA
Do you see me?
Squinting beneath the half-light, Searching for a key to
The locked door of the world,
Lost within my own shadow
Amidst an empire of fear.
Do you feel me?
Heating a brick
To warm my sleep.
Drifting into dreams,
In search of myself,
In search of a conscience, a country.
Do you hear me?
Reciting jokes
Laughing to hide tears of truth
That we are denied the present
With empty promises
Of an emptier future.
Do you pity me?
Lips that know no taste of fruit, Lonely in a country of millions, Stumbling toward the gallows
Of bad decisions
While the walls listen and laugh.
Will you remember me?
A boy with wings of hope
Strapped to his back
That never had a chance to open, Denied forever knowing
What he could have become.
What we all could have become.
Empty static buzzed from the radio.
I sat, unable to move or breathe. A warming presence suddenly pressed in close, surrounding me. Enveloping me. I closed my eyes.
The announcer’s voice returned.
??In this notebook, the young author also asks: If communism is Paradise, why do we need barriers, walls, and laws to keep people from escaping? A great question indeed. In the days ahead, let us not forget these sentiments as we reflect upon communism’s aim to create a man without a memory.??
The broadcast continued.
Liliana turned to me, trembling, tears streaming down her face.
My father cleared emotion from his throat. “That letter was very moving. Something your grandfather would have loved.”
Bunu.
I sat on his couch fighting a rush of tears. My stubbornness, my defiance, my letter, it was all inspired by Bunu. And he had heard it. I felt him.
“Actually, it was accurate,” admitted my mother. “The mention of no taste of fruit—we haven’t had any for years.”
“I loved it. I really loved it,” said Liliana, squeezing my hand.
I wondered what Cici would have said about my letter. I assumed she hadn’t been home since I saw her at the hospital.