I Must Betray You(61)
We banged through the doors, pushing across tile floors patterned in a mosaic of bloody footprints. The orderly took our names and returned with a nurse.
“Your eye, come with me,” said the nurse. She whisked him out of line.
“I just came for a bandage!” protested the boy. “I need to get back to the barricade.”
“My friend was shot. Can you tell me if he’s here?” I asked the orderly.
“I’m too busy. Ask at reception.”
“Show me where that is,” I begged. “Please.”
He pointed in a random direction and disappeared into the crowd.
I made my way through a crush of people to a desk. A woman at the front began to shake. “No. NO! Please, not my boy,” she pleaded. She slid down in a heap and someone carried her to a chair.
“Please, help me,” I pleaded to the desk clerk. “My friend Luca Oprea was shot last night. He’s seventeen years old and I think he was brought here.”
The clerk sifted through papers. “What’s the name?”
“Oprea, Luca.”
His finger stopped on the page.
“I’m very sorry—”
No.
Luca.
No.
“I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him. He’s in the critical care unit.”
“What?” I croaked.
“You can’t see him.”
“But he’s here? He’s alive?”
“I don’t have details. If you need dressing for your own wounds, there’s a volunteer triage down the back hallway. Next, please . . .”
He waved me aside, and I was propelled down the hall with a crowd.
Luca was here. In critical condition. What should I do? Should I wait for him?
I made my way to the triage area. University students were set up with makeshift supplies. A young guy inspected my nose. “Can’t really do anything for that, a doctor might have to re-break it.”
I unzipped my coat. “My ribs, can you wrap me up in something tighter?”
“Don’t think we should. You need to breathe deeply or you’ll get pneumonia. I can give you some pain meds.”
“I’ll take them.” And I did. “How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Since nine last night. Hospital staff is totally overwhelmed. Many have never seen gunshot wounds, let alone treated them.”
“HELP ME, NOW!” A Securitate agent in a long black coat burst through a nearby door. One of his arms hung limp, wounded.
“You need to help me!” he yelled.
No one moved.
And then I saw it. He reached into his coat. And pulled out a gun.
74
?APTEZECI ?I PATRU
People screamed and ran.
“The army, the army. Who cares about the army!” raged the Secu agent, waving his weapon. “You’re outnumbered. We’re going to kill all of you!” He pointed his gun at the forehead of an injured young woman sitting on a chair. He pulled the trigger.
The gun didn’t fire.
Orderlies, patients, and volunteers—they jumped the agent, pummeling him to the ground. He fought and thrashed. We formed a circle around him until he was restrained. Chattering ensued.
“He mentioned the army.”
“Have they turned?”
“Someone said Milea committed suicide.”
Milea killed himself? Was that true? General Vasile Milea was the Minister of Defense.
“Let’s go!” yelled a man.
I exited the hospital with a crowd and stumbled out into the street.
A growing swell of people moved down the road. I joined them and together we walked to Republic Square. I arrived and immediately lost my breath. Shoulder to shoulder, a sea of citizens as far as the eye could see. I had never seen so many people. Probably a hundred thousand. And I immediately noticed something. Romanians were standing, side by side, with the men in green.
It had happened.
The army had turned against the regime. They had joined the Romanian people! Choruses of chanting climbed through the air in front of the Central Committee Building: Jos Ceau?escu!
Down with tyranny!
The army is with us!
Protected by the army, we sang, chanted, and called for freedom and justice for Timi?oara.
Students climbed on top of tanks and thrust their hands in the air with the peace sign. They stood together with the military, waving Romanian flags. A woman ran by me with a bouquet of carnations and began giving them to the soldiers.
The crowd pulsed, agitated. Demonstrators suddenly rushed the building, pushing their way inside. Hearts defiant, we erupted in cheers and the chanting began: Li-ber-ta-te.
Li-ber-ta-te.
I joined in, calling for liberty.
Then we heard it. A loud whir.
People pointed to a helicopter on top of the building. “It’s them! The Ceau?escus!” The crowd jeered, booed, catcalled, and whistled.
A throng of protestors appeared on the balcony of the Committee Building.
Voices echoed through loudspeakers in the square. The propeller on the helicopter began to turn faster, whisking the air with loud chugging sounds.
“He’s fleeing!”
“We’ve done it!”
The helicopter lifted, then sagged, struggling to get airborne. It finally elevated and we watched as it floated across the city.