37
TREIZECI ȘI ȘAPTE
e sat in the kitchen, glued to Radio Free Europe and reports of
revolutions in other countries.W There will be danger here.
That’s what the woman said. What did that mean? Should I tell Bunu?
“Poland and then Hungary!” shouted Bunu.
“Shh . . . too loud!” said my mother.
“Now East Germany. My god, the Berlin Wall is falling!” said Bunu, his hand upon the radio. “Do you know what this means?”
“Yeah, Poles, Hungarians, and East Germans make revolutions and all we make are Bulă jokes,” I said.
“Just wait. Be patient, Cristian. Trust me.”
I did trust Bunu. But the woman from Boston had said America was focused on Germany and didn’t know much about Romania.
“Bunu, if no one knows much about Romania, how will they know we need help?”
“Romanians who live outside of the country—the diaspora and exiles —they’re on our side and will spread the word,” insisted Bunu.
“Too loud! Be quiet,” whispered Mama.
My father joined us late that evening. Normally quiet, he began to
make comments.
Just single words here and there.
Bold. Hold. Fight.
The tone and strength of his voice sounded so foreign.
In hindsight, that makes sense.
Because at that point I didn’t really know my father.
At all.