13
TREISPRE ZECE
an Van Dorn. Son of American diplomat Nick Van Dorn.
A chance acquaintance had become my assignment.D The diplomatic apartments my mother cleaned were near the U.S. Embassy on Strada Tudor Arghezi. The Van Dorn family had arrived four months prior, in June.
After reading the criticisms in the British travel guide, I often wondered what foreigners thought of Romania. The regime claimed that our beloved leader was respected in the West—considered a maverick of the Eastern Bloc—because he disagreed with the leadership of the Soviet Union. We saw reports of Ceauşescu being invited to meet with American presidents. We were told Americans admired our hero and Heroine Mother.
So when I’d caught a peek at Dan Van Dorn’s notebook shortly after we met, I was surprised. He was working in the living room while I sat
nearby, waiting for my mother.
“Homework?” I asked.
“Nah, notes for my college admissions essay.”
“What’s the essay about?” I asked him.
“Romania. But the essays are a waste of time. I know I’m going to
Princeton.”
“You’ve already been accepted?”
“No, but my dad went there. He’ll arrange it,” said Dan casually.
He’ll arrange it. What did that mean?
I was curious to see what notes for a U.S. college essay looked like, so when he used the bathroom, I glanced at his notebook. I expected it to say that Romanians descended from Romans and Dacians. Or maybe something about Transylvania and our castles. But that’s not what it said.
Romania—Serious: Fear induces compliance. Nonconformists put in mental institutions.
Amnesty International reports human rights abuses.
Population is fed propaganda and kept in a state of ignorance by Ceauşescu and his wife (who have a third-grade education).
One U.S. ambassador resigned because Washington refused to believe reports that America has been outfoxed by Ceauşescu.
Romania—Funny: Romania received a shipment of twenty thousand Bibles from the U.S.—Ceauşescu turned them into toilet paper.
The President of France reports that the Ceauşescus stole everything from their diplomatic suite in Paris—lamps, artwork, even the bathroom faucets!
After the looting in France, Queen Elizabeth removed valuables from Buckingham Palace in fear that the Ceauşescus might steal them during their stay. The Queen knighted “Draculescu” anyway.
That’s all I’d had time to read.
At first, I was offended. Evil American. But the words, they circled my conscience. Human rights abuses. Propaganda. Ignorance. Draculescu.
After seeing Dan’s notebook, that’s when I decided to start a notebook of my own. I wrote in small type, in English. And I kept it hidden. Deep beneath my mattress of rugs, I had lifted the edge of the vinyl flooring to create a secret hiding pocket. At night in my closet, I filled the notebook
with thoughts and feelings. I tried to use creative phrases and questions like Bunu had suggested:
DO YOU HEAR ME?
RECITING JOKES,
LAUGHING TO HIDE TEARS OF TRUTH
THAT WE ARE DENIED THE PRESENT
WITH EMPTY PROMISES
OF AN EMPTIER FUTURE.
The list in Dan’s notebook—I thought about it constantly. I had even tried to ask Bunu about it a couple months prior when he was well enough to take some air outside.
“Salutare, ladies!” Bunu had called up to the Reporters from the sidewalk. He lowered his voice and laughed. “An old man says hello.
They’ll chew on that for at least thirty minutes, eh? Crazy country . . .”
That was my opportunity.
“Speaking of crazy, I heard some jokes that claimed some crazy things.”
Bunu’s thin wrinkled face turned toward mine. “What kind of things?”
“That the Ceauşescus stole stuff during their visit to France. Oh, and that they turned Bibles from the United States into toilet paper.”
Bunu spoke while staring straight ahead. “You heard those things in jokes, you say?”
I didn’t reply. I held Bunu by the arm as he shuffled very slowly down the sidewalk. When he spoke, the usual twinkle was absent from his voice.
“Don’t repeat those ‘jokes.’ Ever. Do you hear me, Cristi? Not to anyone. Not to your sister, not to a friend, and especially not anywhere in public.”
Was he implying what I thought he was? I had to know.
“Bunu, has Ceauşescu outfoxed America?”
My grandfather stopped on the sidewalk. His frail hand reached for mine, and his cold, thin fingers squeezed, trembling against my palm.
He looked me straight in the eye.
“You’re smart, Cristian. Wisdom—thank god that’s something this country can’t take from you. But trust no one. Do you hear me? No one.
Right now there is no such thing as a ‘confidant.’ ”
• • •
His words. They return to me often.
I remember walking with Bunu, thinking about trust. Who in life could we truly trust? What remains unseen, hunting through the shadows?
I had no idea then that within a few months I’d be an informer and
Bunu’s words would ring so true.
I could trust no one.
Not even myself.