I Must Betray You(42)

    You are a liar.

You are everything I despise.

You are an informer.



“You okay, Cristian? You don’t look so good.”

If I didn’t read the essay, I wouldn’t be able to inform on my friend. “I’m, um, not feeling well.” I told him.

Dan reached across the table and snatched the essay. “It’s my only copy. If you puke, I’m out of luck.”

Luck. Noroc. That was the only word I understood—and I understood that I didn’t have any.

“I think I better go. Thanks again, Dan. The stamps, they’re great.”

“You might like the Twinkies more than the stamps.” He laughed. “Hey, give me your address. We can keep in touch about stamps and stuff.” He tore a page from a spiral-bound notebook. I wrote my address on it, knowing it was forbidden to communicate with a foreigner, but knowing it was the last time I’d ever see Dan Van Dorn.

“Have a good Christmas,” said Dan, his face full of sincerity.

Was anyone thinking about Christmas? I wasn’t. I gave a wave and headed toward the door. I exited the building and pulled several deep breaths.

My notebook was on Mr. Van Dorn’s desk.

Dan was leaving Romania for good.

Bunu was dead.

What would the Securitate do with me now that I was no use to them?

Friendship. It was something valuable. Something I wanted with Luca. Something I wanted with Dan Van Dorn. And Dan wanted it too. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have given me the stamps and the Twinkies.

Would he?





|| INFORMER REPORT ||


[9 Dec. 1989]


Cristian Florescu (17), student at MF3 High School, resident in Salajan sector 3. Observed Saturday at the American Library in Bucharest with American Dan Van Dorn. Florescu and Van Dorn engaged in a brief discussion and exchanged an envelope and a piece of paper. Florescu left with the envelope after just five minutes. After Florescu departed, Van Dorn was approached by an American adult male (identity unknown) and proceeded to take part in a hushed conversation that lasted nearly ten minutes. Van Dorn gave the sheet of paper from Florescu to the American male. Following conversation, Van Dorn quickly left the library without reading any books or magazines.





52


    CINCIZECI ?I DOI




A week felt like a year, wading through waist-high mud.

I didn’t eat the Twinkies. I wanted to save them for Cici’s birthday.

But there was little to celebrate. Starving dogs, dark streets, Reporters, the cold getting colder. And all around us, other countries were preparing for their first Christmas in freedom.

Had Mr. Van Dorn found my notebook?

I stood on the freezing balcony, hoping the cold air would dull my emotions. Cici appeared with a bundle in her arms. “Here, try this on.”

“What is it?”

“Something I made for you, so you don’t have to sleep in your coat.”

Cici had found an oversized work shirt and stitched thick, quilted layers of padding on the inside.

“I love it. It’s super soft.”

“And it’ll be warm.” She began fastening the buttons and evaluating the fit. “Did you hear about Bunu’s chess partner?” she whispered. “He’s been placed under house arrest.”

I wasn’t surprised. Each night when we listened to Voice of America and Radio Free Europe we learned of writers, poets, and journalists who fought against the regime.

“Apparently Bunu’s friend was affiliated with a literary magazine that . . .”

My sister’s words faded from importance as something emerged in my line of sight. I squinted down at the street, trying to make out the figures.

Cici tugged gently at my arm. “Come inside, Pui.”

I shook my head. The moon shifted beneath a cloud, illuminating the scene.

Cici meant well. She was trying to protect me. But I couldn’t pull my eyes from what I saw below.

Standing on the dark sidewalk was Liliana.

With Luca.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” whispered my sister. “I’ve told you. You can’t trust Luca.”

But what did that mean for Liliana? She couldn’t trust me. She couldn’t trust Luca. Who would protect her?

My sister’s hand remained on my arm. “After Bunu, we need to be smart, Pui. Mama is not herself. She’s terrified the Secu will summon her. We need to be careful,” whispered Cici.

I nodded. She was right. Our parents were definitely not themselves. Our mother had gone silent like our father.

“What are you thinking?” asked my sister.

I so desperately wanted to tell her, to confess everything, but I couldn’t bear her disappointment. I had lost Bunu, Liliana, and Luca. I couldn’t lose Cici.

“What am I thinking? Nothing. And everything.” I shrugged. “Thanks for the sleeping coat.”

I left the balcony and shut myself in my closet. I no longer had my notebook to confess to. So instead, I wrote one of the entries from memory on the wall:

12 DECEMBER, 1989

WILL YOU REMEMBER ME?

A BOY WITH WINGS OF HOPE

STRAPPED TO HIS BACK

THAT NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO OPEN,