31
TREIZECI ȘI UNU
lie is like a snowball. It rolls, becomes bigger, heavier, and eventually, it’s difficult to lift. I had thought I was strong. But howA much weight could I actually carry?
I couldn’t mention the American Library to Bunu. He’d ask questions and my answers would just create a bigger snowball. I decided to tell Bunu I’d heard mention of Hungary on the street and that we had to get our radio fixed to find out what was going on.
I arrived at our apartment and found a woman in the stairwell struggling with a large suitcase.
“Bună!” she said. “Could I trouble you to help me?”
“Sure. Would you prefer the elevator?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to risk the power going out. I can’t be stuck in there.”
Her shiny gold earrings were shaped like lightning bolts. I looked at her suitcase. One of the luggage tags was labeled in English. American
Airlines.
“You’re from the States?”
“I’m from Romania, but I live in Boston.”
What? How did a Romanian woman get a passport to leave the country and live in Boston? People who applied to emigrate were often punished.
Severely. But I could see it. Her bright green coat, fancy red boots, and the chic cut of her hair; she carried an air of elsewhere.
I took her suitcase. “Which floor?”
“Third. I’m visiting my mother. Irina Drucan.”
I nodded.
Her voice lowered. “She’s dying, you know.”
I didn’t know. I’m sure the Reporters did. Maybe Bunu and Cici too.
All I knew was that Mrs. Drucan was elderly. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw her.
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. She took a deep breath and began
pacing. “I’m sorry, just a moment.”
“I’m not in a hurry.”
She looked at me with gratitude. “What’s your name?”
“Cristian.”
“Mersi, Cristian.”
I lugged her heavy suitcase up to the third floor. She opened the apartment door and the stale scent of illness quickly swept into the corridor.
She paused, fingers clutching the doorframe while gathering herself. Her voice choked with emotion. “Sărut mâna, Mamă. I’m here.”
I stood, waiting. Did she need help?
“Mersi, Cristian.” She quietly closed the door.
I proceeded up the flight of steps to the fourth floor. My mother’s exasperated whisper filled our small apartment.
“You infuriate me, old man! I was saving those to get medicine for
you!”
I looked to Cici.
“Bunu traded the Kents to have the radio repaired,” she said.
“Information is more valuable than medicine right now! Poland and Hungary. East Germany will be next!” argued Bunu. “We need the radio.
We need Radio Free Europe. We need Munteanu’s reports. Tell her, Cristian.”
“Don’t you involve him in this. You had no right,” complained Mama.
“Those cigarettes didn’t belong to you.”
“What belongs to us, truly, Mioara? Everything belongs to the Party, my dear,” said Bunu at full volume. “Isn’t that the truth?”
I had to agree with Bunu. I’d rather be Kentless but have the radio.
Especially with what I saw at the library. We needed Radio Free Europe.
Radio Free Europe had been established by the American CIA decades prior to move information behind the Iron Curtain—the border between communist and noncommunist countries. The broadcasts were accessed only with an illegal antenna, and nearly every family had fashioned one.
But no one spoke of it. It was too valuable.
Bunu had heard the news. He thought East Germany would be next?
“What about Romania?” I asked him.
“Exactly! We need the radio to find out!”
“Lower your voice!” pleaded Mama.
I turned to my sister. “Cici, did you know that Mrs. Drucan is sick?” I whispered. “Her daughter just arrived from the States.”
“Oh, I’m so happy she made it. Yes, I knew. I washed and mended her nightgown last week. Poor woman weighs nothing.”
“Her daughter lives in Boston?”
She nodded. “She’s a researcher at Harvard. Where have you been?” whispered Cici. “School ended hours ago.”
I shrugged. “Just hanging around.”
She looked at me, suspicious. “Hanging around. With anyone in
particular?”
“Not really.”
“Liliana came by. Twice. She said to give you this.”
Cici retrieved a sealed envelope from her back pocket. “Loooove notes,” she teased, dancing the envelope.
“Jealous that Alex hasn’t sent you one?” I snapped the envelope from her and retreated to my closet.
I used the flashlight sparingly, but a letter from Liliana was definitely worth it. Maybe I’d put the Springsteen article in the envelope and drop it off at her apartment. I tore open the sealed flap of the envelope and removed a small sheet of paper that contained just a few sentences:
You are a liar.
You are everything I despise.
You are an informer.