I Must Betray You(4)

We had other secrets. Like Bunu’s leukemia. It stormed upon him so quickly.

“Don’t tell anyone,” begged our perpetually nervous mother.

We didn’t have to. Anyone could see that an energetic, healthy man had suddenly turned gray and shriveled. He lifted the frying pan and his wrist snapped.

Paddle Hands cleared his throat. “It’s a generous proposal. We’ll work together. You give me information and I give you medicine for Bunu. He won’t suffer.”



* * *



? ? ?

And that’s how it began.

I was Cristian Florescu. Code name “OSCAR.”

A seventeen-year-old spy.

An informer.





|| OFFICIAL RECRUITMENT REPORT OF “OSCAR” ||


TOP SECRET

[15 Oct. 1989]

Ministry of the Interior Department of State Security Directorate III, Service 330


For the informative supervision of American diplomat Nicholas Van Dorn (target name: “VAIDA”), we were referred by Source “FRITZI” to Cristian Florescu (17), student at MF3 High School. Florescu’s mother works as housekeeper to Van Dorn and has access to the family. Florescu was described to us as intelligent, quietly observant, with strong facility for the English language. He also has access to Van Dorn’s apartment and family. Approached Florescu on school grounds and used guise of illegal stamp trading as basis for recruitment. Florescu appeared wary but agreed to provide information as OSCAR when medication for his grandfather was presented as an option. OSCAR will be used to: -interact with Van Dorn’s son, Dan (16) -determine schedule patterns of the Van Dorn family -determine who frequents the residence -provide detailed mapping and layout of the Van Dorn residence -ascertain general attitudes of the Van Dorns toward Romania





4


    PATRU




Guilt walks on all fours.

It creeps, encircles, and climbs. It presses its thumbs to your throat.

And it waits.

I left school, grateful for the two-kilometer walk to our apartment block. But with each step I took, guilt and fear transformed into anger.

What sort of human being preys on teenagers and uses a sick grandfather as a bargaining chip? Why didn’t I refuse and tell him to drive his black Dacia straight to hell? Why did I give in so quickly?

The agent had a file. Who informed on me? I threw a quick glance over my shoulder into the shadows. Was I being followed?

I didn’t yet know the truth: many of us were being followed.

Night pooled with a scattering of clouds. The sky slung black and empty of light. Tall, ashen buildings towered together on each side of the street, lording over me. Living in Bucharest was like living inside a black-and-white photo. Life in cold monochrome. You knew that color existed somewhere beyond the city’s palette of cement and charcoal, but you couldn’t get there—beyond the gray. Even my guilt tasted gray, like I had swallowed a fistful of soot.

Perhaps it wasn’t as evil as it felt? I would be spying on an American family only, not fellow Romanians. Romanian spy novels depicted the Securitate as defenders against evil Western forces. But if the stories were realistic, the agents were predictable. Maybe I could outwit them.

Yes, that’s actually what I thought. I could beat the Securitate.

But how could I manage the guilt? It wouldn’t dissolve overnight. My family would know something was wrong.

I could fool my parents. My father was always gone, working. In recent years he felt more like a shadow than a man. Mama was always distracted and worried, constantly making lists. I think she actually made lists of things to worry about. But I wouldn’t be able to fool Bunu. And I certainly couldn’t fool my older sister, Cici.

So, I invented a story about exams.

University exams were highly competitive. Thirty students would compete for four spots to study education. Seventy students for just one spot in medicine.

“Philosophy,” nodded Bunu. “Soul nourishment. Sit for a spot in philosophy. You see, communism is a state of mind,” he would lecture, tapping at his temple. “The State controls the amount of food we eat, our electricity, our transportation, the information we receive. But with philosophy, we control our own minds. What if the internal landscape was ours to build and paint?”

Bunu spoke often of vibrant what-ifs. I pondered them in my notebook. How could we paint or sketch creatively? If the West was a box of colorful crayons, my life was a case of dull pencil leads.

My family knew I wanted to go to university. I’d pretend I was upset because the available spots for philosophy had been cut in half. Cici would roll her eyes.

“You take it all too seriously, Cristi,” she would say. “Many Romanians have advanced degrees and no use for them now. It can be dangerous to be considered an intellectual. I wish you’d let it go.”

I thought my story would work. I’d pretend to be worried, say I was busy studying for exams. They wouldn’t ask questions.

But Bunu always asked questions.

What if he figured it out? He would never understand how I could become an informer. A traitor. I was worse than the cancer that was eating him.

And then I heard the footsteps.

My question was answered.

I was being followed.