48
PATRUZECI ȘI OPT
human pendulum.
That’s what I felt like. Swinging between fear, sadness,A confusion, and rage.
After three nights of funeral visitations, the atmosphere in the apartment felt darker than the stairwells. The light between the walls shifted to an anemic blue gray. My parents spoke only behind the closed door of their bedroom. Black crescents appeared under Cici’s eyes.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered. “It’s going to be awful, Pui. Bunu must have been involved in something dangerous.”
“Like what?” I asked. “Supporting a revolution?”
“Shh . . . I don’t know, but whatever it was, they wanted him to stop.
And now they’ll start hauling us to Secu headquarters to be interrogated.
We need a plan. They may come to my work. What if they come to your school?”
I looked at her fear-filled face. If she only knew. “We’ll just tell them the truth, Cici. That we don’t know anything.”
“But it could be endless. Mama is declining by the day. She’s a shell of herself.”
Cici was right. Our mother was becoming more withdrawn. The lines on her forehead etched deeper. She paced the apartment muttering, kneading her hands, and checking the window frames for listening devices.
That night I sat on the rugs in my closet, leaning against the wall. I had kept my end of the bargain. I gave Paddle Hands what he asked for. How
had I miscalculated? I would finish my notebook and give it to Mr. Van Dorn as soon as possible. The strategy had worked before.
The year prior, a Romanian professor and writer named Doina Cornea saw a car with a foreign license plate. She gave the driver a doll, requesting he take it when he left Romania. Hidden inside the head of the doll was an open letter to Ceauşescu, written in tiny type on cigarette paper. The letter was delivered to Munich and broadcast on Radio Free Europe. Her sentiments echoed those of many Romanians who couldn’t speak them aloud. I wanted to do something similar—give our country a voice.
“She’s crazy, taking a risk like that,” Mama had insisted.
“Not crazy. She’s brilliant,” said Bunu. “We’re punished for our sanity.”
I snapped on my flashlight to add “we’re punished for our sanity” to my notebook. As I positioned the flashlight, something fluttered in its beam. A small piece of paper was pinned to the inside of the doorframe.
How long had it been there?
I grabbed the note and opened it. Lines of Bunu’s shaky handwriting filled the small piece of paper.
I know you’re confused.
Remain quiet, unseen.
Things will soon become clearer. Listen to Radio Free Europe.
Remember— Be patient. Be wise. Search within yourself always.
As Socrates told us, an unexamined life is not worth living.
I’m proud of you. ~ Bunu
I stared at the note in my trembling hand.
Despite everything, he understood. He didn’t judge me. He was proud of me. Tears welled within my eyes. I didn’t try to stop them. An unexamined life is not worth living. The notebook was my way of searching
within, examining life and asking questions that I couldn’t speak aloud. I drew a breath and read the note again.
Listen to Radio Free Europe. That’s what it said.
Not, “We’ll listen to Radio Free Europe.”
Me. Alone. It was a directive.
I had my answer.
Bunu knew they were coming for him.