I Must Betray You(45)

“A protest?” whispered Mama, gripping the doorframe. “No, no. They must stop. There will be consequences.”

I wasn’t thinking of consequences. I was thinking of Bunu. My brave bunu who refused to whisper, who was beaten to death for what he believed in.

“Bunu, are you hearing this?” I said. “It’s happening!”

“Shhh . . .” said Cici. “The announcer’s coming back on.”

    ??The vigil began on Saturday with parish members holding candles and requesting that persecution of Pastor T?kés be stopped. But hour by hour, residents joined together and the brave people of Timi?oara united and took to the streets. The crowd grew overnight and today the swarm of protestors was so large that it blocked traffic in the square and overflowed onto the surrounding streets. As the protest continued, the crowd began to oppose not just the pastor’s persecution, but the regime itself.??



“YES!” I cried.

“Oh my god.”

“Shh . . .”

    ??Today, as the crowds swelled, the mayor called for the protestors to disperse. But the mayor’s voice was soon overpowered by the repeated call of the masses. Together, the citizens of Timi?oara joined as one voice, continuously chanting: Li-ber-ta-te.??



The word pierced through the radio. My skin chilled and a knot formed in my throat.

Libertate.

Liberty.

It was happening.

It was really happening!

Romanians were joining in hand and heart. And together they were finally calling— For freedom.





56


    CINCIZECI ?I ?ASE




I stayed awake all night on Bunu’s couch, searching for radio updates. State radio and television reported nothing. Of course not. Radio Free Europe and Voice of America were the only sources of information. The regime knew that. Would they jam the signal? No, that was too expensive. They hadn’t jammed signals in years and probably lacked the equipment to do so.

The announcer said civilian deaths had been reported.

Timi?oara. The heart. The courage. We had to help them. I pulled the faded map from the cabinet drawer. It was 550 kilometers from Bucharest to Timi?oara, a seven-hour drive, longer with our precarious roads. Could groups or buses be arranged? Perhaps we could build a chain of protests across the country. Together, we could close in on Ceau?escu. Trap him. Overthrow him.

Right here in Bucharest.

“It’s happening, Bunu,” I whispered.

Poland.

Hungary.

East Germany.

Czechoslovakia.

Bulgaria.

Their communist regimes had all fallen in nonviolent, bloodless transfers of power. But Romania remained, the last flap of the Iron Curtain. For decades, Ceau?escu had tied a strangling noose of national communism around our necks. If we wanted our freedom, we’d have to fight for it. And our ruthless dictator, he would fight back. He’d mobilize his death squads of blue-eyed boys from beneath the belly of the capital to kill his own people.

And he’d do it without a second thought.





57


    CINCIZECI ?I ?APTE




I hadn’t slept but by morning felt invincible. I ran to school, passing a banner proclaiming long live Ceau?escu! What if I tore it down? No, we needed a group. We had to join together. In Romania it was against the law to gather in groups larger than a few people. But no one would pay attention to that now, would they?

I couldn’t wait to get to school. There would be chatter, discussions, plans. Cici and my parents were full of fear rather than fortitude. I missed Bunu. He would know what to do and how to do it.

But school that day was a morgue. Cold silence. Blank faces.

Comrade Instructor spoke the same waste of time, wooden tongue nonsense. I couldn’t understand it. Had no one heard the radio reports? Did they care nothing for the brave people of Timi?oara? Were they too scared, or just programmed to believe that they were owned by the State and could do nothing about it?

Winter break began the next day. This was our last opportunity to be together and make plans. Between classes, I whispered to a fellow student.

“Hey, did you hear about Timi?oara?”

He nodded. “My parents are terrified we’ll all be mowed down. They’ve ordered me to stay inside.”

I looked at my classmate. Stay inside? I thought about Bunu, about his comment that an unexamined life wasn’t worth living, his reminders that sometimes to go inside, we needed to go outside.

I left school and walked home in the dark. A tall figure fell into step beside me.

Luca.

“Did you hear the reports last night?” he whispered.

“Yes! You?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. Can’t stop thinking of the people in Timi?oara.”

Finally. Someone who understood. And of course, it was Luca. Luca with his eager heart. With everything that was happening, it was impossible to stay mad at him.

“I looked on the map,” I told him.

“Me too. Over five hundred kilometers to Timi?oara.”

“Finally, Romanians have taken a stand.”

“And not just Romanians,” said Luca. “The report said that local Hungarians and Serbs took part. Real solidarity. We have to support them.”