I Must Betray You(26)

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? ? ?

The next day was Saturday. So after school I was on a bus to the Van Dorns’ apartment to accompany Dan to the American Library.

I surveyed the passengers, sandwiched together.

Wrinkled faces.

Wrinkled clothing.

Wrinkled spirits.

Service was too infrequent. There was no reliable schedule and never enough room. People clutched the railings on the bus stairs, preventing the doors from closing. We hung, smashed half inside, half outside. Sometimes, the bus was so crowded that the back dragged, scraping and lapping the pavement.

We arrived at the stop. I hoped Dan hadn’t forgotten his invitation.

Mr. Van Dorn greeted me at the door. He was dressed not in a suit, but in casual clothes. He eyed my coat, school uniform, and book bag.

“Always have to remind myself, school on Saturday here, right?”

It felt like bait for comment. If the light fixtures weren’t listening, maybe I would reply with my usual sarcasm and engage in what Americans called “chitchat.”

Yes, Mr. Van Dorn, good comrades don’t take weekends, holidays, or summers off. Did you know that Ceau?escu once declared December 25th a day of labor? Speaking of holidays, Santa Claus is considered too religious here. In Romania, we replaced him with a proletarian character named Mo? Geril?, Freezer Man. We celebrate our winter season by entering the factories for work!

But I said none of that, just replied, “Yes, school on Saturday.”

“Dan,” called Mr. Van Dorn down the hallway. “Cristian is here.”

I heard a muffled reply.

“Have a seat,” said Mr. Van Dorn, gesturing to a couch in the living area. He then walked to his large desk. It held a typewriter. Was the typewriter registered?

“You have an older sister, don’t you?” he asked. I nodded.

He shuffled through stacks of files, papers, and newspapers. He then took a sip from a nearby coffee cup.

Wait. Coffee.

The man with the spongy nose had warned against coffee. Should I stop Mr. Van Dorn?

Dan appeared. “Cristian and I are heading to the American Library to read the new magazines.”

“Sounds good,” said his father.

We had just left their apartment when Mr. Van Dorn suddenly appeared on the stairs.

“Dan, your mom wants you to wear a hat. It was snowing this morning.”

When Dan returned to retrieve his hat, Mr. Van Dorn discreetly displayed what looked like an American magazine. The title appeared in block letters:

    TIME



“Look for it at the library today. Make sure it’s the most recent.”

I said nothing. Just nodded.

Mr. Van Dorn disappeared back into the apartment. I tried to contain my smile.

My instincts were right.

I could communicate with Mr. Van Dorn. I could share the truth about Romania.

I could outwit the Securitate.

That’s what I thought. What I really believed.

I didn’t yet know that sometimes in outwitting others, we accidentally outwit ourselves.





|| INFORMER REPORT ||


[11 Nov. 1989]


Cristian Florescu (17), student at MF3 High School.


Observed Saturday afternoon entering and departing the apartment of the Van Dorn family. Florescu engaged in private exchange (undecipherable) with Mr. Van Dorn in the hallway. Florescu then departed with Van Dorn’s son and proceeded to the American Library in Bucharest.


Appears Florescu is pursuing private communications with Mr. Van Dorn. Advise cross-referencing with other Sources.





29


    DOU?ZECI ?I NOU?




I noted Dan’s behavior as we walked through Rosetti Square, his general ease in all things. He swung his arms, casually looking about, speaking louder than most Romanians would.

I envied him, the courage to be himself. In public.

The American Library was housed in two elegant turn-of-the-century villas—buildings spared by the bulldozers. As we entered the library, we had to present identification in a reception area. Dan leaned across the desk.

“Hi there, Brenda. What are you doing up front?” he asked.

“Reception clerk is sick,” said the older woman. “It’s so chilly by the door. Sure do miss the weather in California.”

“I know. I’m missing the weather in New Jersey. So that says a lot!” replied Dan.

Dan and the woman shared a laugh. He gestured to me.

“This is my friend Cristian. He’s my guest today. He speaks English.”

“Hello, Cristian,” said the woman, smiling brightly. “Just need a peek at your ID.”

A peek. What did that mean? Dan had given his ID, so I handed her mine.

She looked at the photo on my identification for an extended beat. She finally looked up and stared straight at me. A gentle smile appeared.

“My, what lovely eyes you have,” she said.

“Oh, they’re . . . weird,” I blurted. I was uncomfortable with the exchange but comfortable with the memory of Liliana’s description.

“No, not weird at all,” she insisted, handing back my card. “But maybe weird that an old lady is complimenting them?” She then did something I’d seen in movies.