I Must Betray You(25)

Who was on the stairs?





27


    DOU?ZECI ?I ?APTE




Two more steps. They stopped. I heard breathing.

Liliana pressed into my side. I slid my arm around her.

One more step.

Closer.

Liliana shivered.

“Who’s there?!” I yelled.

A scream filled the stairwell, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Muffled cries emerged from the steps, followed by a woman’s voice.

“V? rog. V? rog.”

Please. Please.

I jumped to my feet. “Mama?”

“V? rog.”

I ran down the steps. My mother lay huddled in a heap.

“Cristian?” she whispered.

“Yes, it’s me. Mama, what happened?”

Liliana appeared at my side.

“I came home and the stairs were so dark. I started up and heard something. Someone hovered nearby, I could feel it. I was so frightened. And then there was a yell and I panicked.”

“That was me. I was talking with Liliana and I thought someone was listening. Let me help you up.” I put my arms beneath my mother’s.

“Au! Be careful, there’s broken glass.”

We helped her up the stairs and into our apartment.

“Mama! What happened?” said Cici.

My mother’s shoulders sagged. Her thin arms slung, trembling, at her sides. “I stood in line for three hours. They finally had rations of cooking oil. But I became frightened in the dark stairwell and fell. The bottle broke. Cici, help me with the cuts on my leg. Cristian, clean the glass and oil from the stairs.”

I pretended not to notice the fear-induced urine that had soaked through the center of my mother’s pants. Did Liliana see it? My sister took Mama into the small bathroom. Muffled crying leaked from behind the door.

Sometimes, when the grenade exploded, our mother would say mean things and then cry. But this time, there was no anger. She escalated straight to tears.

I felt terrible.

“The efficiency of tyranny!” announced Bunu from the kitchen. “They don’t even need weapons to control us. Our own fear is more than enough. You see, Cristi, this is how it feels, being an animal in a trap.”

Liliana looked at me, shocked by the comments. I quickly pulled her toward the door and out of the apartment. The episode left me feeling weird, embarrassed.

We crouched in the dark, trying to brush away the glass and soak up the oil with a rag. We needed to preserve as much as we could.

“Your poor mama. The stairwells can be so dark and scary. And now your family lost their ration of oil. That’s awful.”

It was awful. And I was so tired of awful.

We finished the cleanup and returned to our place in the stairwell. Any thought of a kiss was now replaced by an uncomfortable silence between us. Was she thinking of Bunu’s comments?

“Hey,” I whispered. “A woman screamed in the stairwell. Did you notice something?”

She nodded. “No one came running.”

“Exactly.”

But how could they? If they peeked out and saw something, they might be questioned. No one wanted to be questioned. But neighbors had heard. Some would try to help and share what little they had. A jar with some cooking oil was probably already outside our door.

We sat, stiff and awkward in the darkened maze of the staircase.

“Cristian,” she whispered, her voice thinned with vulnerability. “Does the world know what’s happening in Romania? If they did . . . would they do something?”

It was a great question. The broadcasts from Radio Free Europe came into Romania. But what information was making it out of Romania? I thought of Mr. Van Dorn’s comment that Bucharest was “dark.” How much did he really know and how much did he report to the embassy?

The comment in Dan’s notebook floated back to me:


One U.S. ambassador resigned because Washington refused to believe reports that America has been outfoxed by Ceau?escu.



Could I communicate with Mr. Van Dorn somehow? If he happened to find my secret notebook with a request to send it to Washington . . . would he?

Liliana shifted on the stairs. The words came out before I could stop them.

“I have an idea.”





28


    DOU?ZECI ?I OPT




My idea. An invitation to truth.

I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But I was so comfortable with Liliana, I had actually spoken my thoughts aloud. Of course, once I mentioned it, she wanted to know more. But what was I supposed to say? Hey, I’ve been keeping a secret notebook. I want to give it to the U.S. diplomat to ensure he knows the truth and shares it widely.

No. I couldn’t say that.

So instead of telling Liliana my idea, I skirted the issue. I wanted to tell her everything but knew I couldn’t. The notebook itself was a huge risk. I didn’t want to put her in danger. So I remained silent and hated myself for it.

Hatred. Guilt. Decisions. That night I wrote about it all in my notebook:


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.