I Must Betray You(7)

It was an odd question. Or maybe it felt odd because I had wondered the same thing but never had the courage to say it out loud. But it also felt . . . suspicious somehow. Too honest.

And then I was angry again. Not at her—at myself.

For months I’d been trying to talk to Liliana Pavel. We were finally alone, talking, agreeing to see each other on Saturday night and instead of being elated, I was suspicious?

Bunu was right. Communism is a state of mind.

But video nights were an escape. Gathering secretly to watch American movies dubbed into Romanian—it felt dangerous and exciting, like winning a forbidden prize. The worlds we saw depicted in the movies were oceans away. And the incredible lives we saw on-screen were all make believe.

They were, weren’t they?





7


    ?APTE




Ocean fish! No meal without fish!

The electricity in our building was on.

The television health advisory for ocean fish crackled behind closed doors. Since meat wasn’t available, we were advised to eat ocean fish. But we didn’t have fresh fish, just fish bones to make watery soup. Did that count? I paid little attention to the television. The English travel guide summed it up correctly:

    Romania has one TV channel. And one brand of TV set. The State broadcasts only two hours of bland television per day, mainly propaganda and salutes to Ceau?escu.



I trudged up the concrete stairs to our top-floor apartment. Life in an apartment block felt like living in a cement chest of drawers. Each floor equally divided into boxes of families. I climbed the steps, slapped with the smell of kerosene and unwanted information.

    First floor—A hungry baby crying.

Second floor—A drunken man screaming at his wife.

Third floor—A chain pulling to flush a toilet.

Fourth floor—A grandpa with leukemia coughing.



Just as you could be certain of lack of privacy, you could also be certain that the building administrator reported to the Securitate.

After all, the Party had a right to know everything.

Everything was owned by the Party.

And the Party kept track—of everything.

“Bugs, bugs all around,” lamented Bunu. “Philips inside and outside.”

Philips were listening devices and rumored to be everywhere: hidden in walls, telephones, ashtrays. So all families followed the same mantra:

At home we speak in whispers.

The constant threat of surveillance clawed at our mother. Her hands shook. Her eyes darted. Her figure resembled the cigarettes she smoked. I looked up English words and phrases to describe her and wrote them in my notebook: Jittery. Distressed. Flustered. Freaked out.

Being around Mama was like living with a grenade. On the rare occasion the pin was pulled, she’d explode, say awful things, and then cry afterward. In our family photo, our mother peered in a different direction, as if she saw something no one else did. She constantly begged us to whisper, to keep everything secret.

I should have listened to her.

But back then, I felt so clever. Didn’t realize I had confused intellect with arrogance. Serious mistake. And the first of many. But I was wise enough to whisper.

Our small apartment box housed four “whisperers” and Bunu.

Bunu refused to whisper. If the librarian thought I was a bad influence, she needed to meet my true hero, Bunu. I admired his bravery. I also admired his ingenuity. Because of Bunu, we had an illegal sofa wedged in our small alcove of a kitchen.

“I don’t care if it’s against the rules,” announced Bunu when he moved in. “Five people in this tiny space? I need a place to sleep and the kitchen is the warmest.”

With a sofa in the kitchen, we had less than a foot of clearance to stand at the two-burner stove and the tiny cast-iron sink, or listen to the radio.

With the exception of the kitchen sofa and Cici’s Ileana sewing machine, our communist apartment was the same as everyone’s. The living area consisted of an oval table with chairs, a narrow buffet cabinet, and a sofa that folded open. Before Bunu moved in, my mother and sister slept in the bedroom and I slept with my father on the folding sofa. When Bunu arrived, he argued that the arrangements were all wrong.

“Couples should sleep together. Gabriel and Mioara, take the bedroom. Cicilia has her own schedule for sewing, so she will take the folding sofa. I will sleep in the kitchen.”

“If Cici’s getting the sofa, where will I sleep?” I asked.

“Ahh,” said Bunu, wagging a finger. “A young man needs his own space for things, doesn’t he?”

I did but hoped Bunu wouldn’t elaborate and embarrass me. He didn’t. Instead, he negotiated with my parents and that’s when I got my own “space.” Next to the front door, every apartment had a closet. One narrow crack of a closet for the entire apartment.

“If we’re creative, we can reorganize so Cristi has his own room.”

My own room. Yes, that means I lived in a closet.

Crouched in a closet, is more like it.

I noted the arrangement in my notebook:

         One sick, yet feisty grandfather on an illegal sofa in the kitchen.



     Closet contents moved and unlawfully covered on Mother Elena’s balcony.