52
CINCIZECI ŞI DOI
week felt like a year, wading through waist-high mud.
I didn’t eat the Twinkies. I wanted to save them for Cici’sA birthday.
But there was little to celebrate. Starving dogs, dark streets, Reporters, the cold getting colder. And all around us, other countries were preparing
for their first Christmas in freedom.
Had Mr. Van Dorn found my notebook?
I stood on the freezing balcony, hoping the cold air would dull my emotions. Cici appeared with a bundle in her arms. “Here, try this on.”
“What is it?”
“Something I made for you, so you don’t have to sleep in your coat.”
Cici had found an oversized work shirt and stitched thick, quilted
layers of padding on the inside.
“I love it. It’s super soft.”
“And it’ll be warm.” She began fastening the buttons and evaluating the fit. “Did you hear about Bunu’s chess partner?” she whispered. “He’s been placed under house arrest.”
I wasn’t surprised. Each night when we listened to Voice of America and Radio Free Europe we learned of writers, poets, and journalists who fought against the regime.
“Apparently Bunu’s friend was affiliated with a literary magazine that . . .”
My sister’s words faded from importance as something emerged in my line of sight. I squinted down at the street, trying to make out the figures.
Cici tugged gently at my arm. “Come inside, Pui.”
I shook my head. The moon shifted beneath a cloud, illuminating the scene.
Cici meant well. She was trying to protect me. But I couldn’t pull my eyes from what I saw below.
Standing on the dark sidewalk was Liliana.
With Luca.
“Don’t do this to yourself,” whispered my sister. “I’ve told you. You can’t trust Luca.”
But what did that mean for Liliana? She couldn’t trust me. She couldn’t trust Luca. Who would protect her?
My sister’s hand remained on my arm. “After Bunu, we need to be smart, Pui. Mama is not herself. She’s terrified the Secu will summon her.
We need to be careful,” whispered Cici.
I nodded. She was right. Our parents were definitely not themselves.
Our mother had gone silent like our father.
“What are you thinking?” asked my sister.
I so desperately wanted to tell her, to confess everything, but I couldn’t bear her disappointment. I had lost Bunu, Liliana, and Luca. I couldn’t lose Cici.
“What am I thinking? Nothing. And everything.” I shrugged. “Thanks for the sleeping coat.”
I left the balcony and shut myself in my closet. I no longer had my notebook to confess to. So instead, I wrote one of the entries from memory on the wall:
12 DECEMBER, 1989
WILL YOU REMEMBER ME?
A BOY WITH WINGS OF HOPE
STRAPPED TO HIS BACK
THAT NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO OPEN,
DENIED FOREVER KNOWING WHAT HE COULD HAVE BECOME.
WHAT WE ALL COULD HAVE BECOME.