But that night, I found her locked box and key in my closet. Inside was a note:
Take care of yourself. And please—be careful, Cristian. A revolution eats its heroes.
80
OPTZECI
December 25th.
Christmas Day. 1989.
The Ceau?escus’ trial lasted less than two hours. The chief military judge delivered the verdict in minutes. Crimes against the people. Genocide—guilty. Sentenced to death.
4:00 p.m. Executed.
Beloved Leader and Mother Elena, shot by firing squad near a military toilet block. Their death was televised. I stood, staring at their crumpled bodies on the gritty screen. After decades of prolonged suffering, the hasty finality felt confusing somehow. Was that how it was supposed to end? So quickly? I suddenly had an odd, lingering sensation, unsure of what I was feeling. Did we have the full truth? What exactly had happened—and how?
And then, a smell. I couldn’t quite place it. And the noise, a pounding at first, filtered into my ears. Was it my own breath and heartbeat? And then I realized. No, it was the desperate scent of long-trapped prayers beating against the walls and windows, tripping over photographs of dead relatives, trying to find a way out.
I ran across the room and threw open a window.
To finally set them free.
1
UNU
Merry Christmas,” smiled Liliana.
“Merry Christmas.”
My breath smoked on the air. Sure, the apartment might have been warmer, especially now, with fewer heat restrictions. But we had more privacy in the hallway. So we sat, huddled next to each other against the wall.
She passed me a narrow box.
“A new rib?” I grinned.
“Sorry, couldn’t find one quick enough. Open it.”
I removed the lid. Inside was a pen. A sleek, black ballpoint pen from Germany. It was so special, much nicer than anything I owned. I looked to her.
“Keep writing, Cristian. You have a lot to say.”
“Mersi. I love it. I have something for you too.” I lifted the small bag next to me. “First, this.” I reached inside the bag and handed her the colorful square. She unfolded it carefully.
“Springsteen! And it’s in English! Uau, where did you get it?”
“A pal gave it to me.”
“What’s a pal?” she asked.
I paused, thinking of Dan Van Dorn. “It’s an American term. It means ‘friend.’？”
“It’s great. I love it.”
“I have something else.” I dipped my hand into the bag, held it there for suspense, then revealed the shiny plastic package with grand ceremony.
“What are those?” She laughed.
“They’re called Twinkies. They’re American too.”
“Should we eat one?”
“Of course we should.” I pulled off the cellophane wrapper. Liliana took one of the yellow cakes and I took the other.
“Unu . . . doi . . .”
On “trei” we both took a big bite. We watched each other, chewing and laughing.
“Oh! There’s whipped cream inside,” she said.
A dot of vanilla fluff lingered on the side of Liliana’s mouth. I leaned in and kissed it away, hovering close to her. “Merry Christmas,” I whispered.
“Merry Christmas, Cristian.”
For years, life had felt frozen thick, obscured, like looking through a window blinded with ice. I slowly exhaled a chestful of emptiness and inhaled a breath of possibility. We each took another bite. The Twinkies weren’t spectacular, but in that moment, sitting in the hallway next to Liliana on Christmas Day, they tasted like something we had never experienced: Spectacular hope.
EPILOGUE
EPILOG
How long does it take to uncover the truth? For me it took more than twenty years. I was teaching English and Liliana was managing a bookstore. Luca had emigrated to England with his parents.
The Securitate Archives, CNSAS, contained over twenty-six kilometers of files—sixteen miles. And those were just the surviving files. After Ceau?escu’s execution, many of the Secu files disappeared. So did some of the agents. But communism didn’t disappear, not for many years. A group of second-tier communists took over. The Van Dorns never returned to Romania, but I’m still in occasional touch with Dan. And guess what? Disneyland is a real place. I’ve been there. But I’ve never developed a taste for coffee.
When the Securitate Archives were finally opened, Liliana and I agreed that I needed to see my family’s files. There were still so many unanswered questions. My parents were no longer alive. I needed the truth.