63
ŞAIZECE ŞI TREI
made excuses and stayed at Luca’s. Anything to avoid Cici.
During the day, I walked around the city, trying to calm myself.I The snow was melting in the warmer temperatures and now resembled lumps of sooty porridge along the roadside. I passed hobbling old people with knees full of rheumatism and faces corroded by fear, people who should have been resting, not prowling for rations. I joined a line for potatoes and got an onion the size of an olive instead.
Betrayal. It’s undigestible. It instantly changes the frequency of things.
Every Romanian carried a world inside them, and mine had quickly gone from dark to black.
I took the long route home. Young people loitered, filling the pavement in front of the apartment blocks. Luca’s head towered over a group that had gathered. He spotted me and ran my way.
“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“Ceauşescu’s back from Iran. He’s going to speak in the square. A group of university students will be there. C’mon, let’s go.”
By the time we arrived at Palace Square, a sea of thousands had gathered. The Aplaudacii were stacked rows deep below the balcony of the Central Committee Building where our leader would appear. Some hoisted red signs declaring LONG LIVE CEAUŞESCU and other phrases extolling the glory of communism. The warmer weather had inspired a massive crowd.
“Forget it,” I told Luca. “It’s just another rally of applauding men.”
Communist adulation rallies were commonplace in Romania. Over the years, we had all been dragged from school or work to hold signs and salute the leader. On our own, we weren’t allowed to gather in a group of five, but Ceauşescu could demand fifty thousand gather for him.
The mayor of Bucharest began his introduction over the sound system.
“Our much beloved and esteemed leader of the Party, the eminent patriot . . . has given us prosperity and provided full independence of socialist Romania . . .”
Eminent patriot? After Timișoara? Our leader had gunned down innocent human beings—students my age. Prosperity and independence? I couldn’t stomach it.
Ceauşescu and Mother Elena appeared on the balcony to rounds of applause. Ceauşescu stepped to the microphone, waving, wearing an expensive black coat with a fur collar and matching hat. He began speaking his usual nonsense.
“I’m not staying for this,” I told Luca. I turned to leave.
BOOM!
A blast thundered nearby. Screams shot through the crowd. What was happening? Had someone set off an explosive? Luca looked at me, eyes wide.
A mass of people pressed in behind us. The new crowd suddenly began
swaying, yelling.
“Boo!”
“Murderer!”
“Down with Ceauşescu!”
My heart began to pound. Everyone knew that plainclothes Securitate were always among us. But people continued to jeer anyway.
Groups of university students appeared, booing and shouting. They
carried flags.
“Murderer!”
“Down with Ceauşescu!”
Others joined in. They were heckling the leader of our country.
Ceauşescu stopped speaking, confused, and looked out into the crowd. He
stuttered into the microphone.
“Hallo! Calm! What? Hallo!”
Mother Elena pushed toward the microphone. “Silence!” she screeched.
And then the chanting began near the back of the swarm, quiet at first,
then louder, pulsing:
Ti-mi-șoa-ra.
Timișoara!
TIMIȘOARA!
Chills erupted over my entire body. The volume grew, a freight train of sound. A feeling of solidarity rose, growing within the crowd. Romania had found its voice. And we were using it, together. And our despicable leader was rattled, shaken, trying to calm the people, trying to remain in command. In a quarter of a century, this had never happened in Bucharest.
The feeling was palpable, a breaking and cracking, the dam of oppression bursting.
Emotion leapt within me. My hands began to vibrate. For Bunu.
“Timișoara!” I yelled.
I couldn’t stop. The screams came from deep within me, tearing at my vocal cords. “You’re thieves and murderers! Betrayers! TIMIȘOARA!”
“Down with Ceauşescu!” yelled Luca.
The university students encouraged others to join in. The response was spontaneous, full-throated. Thousands of people were protesting!
Ceauşescu attempted to regain control. He couldn’t. Random noise echoed from the sound system. He was rattled, confused. And the crowd— we felt it.
The sensation of speaking up, speaking aloud instead of in whispers, it was euphoric. And you could sense that others felt it too. Ceauşescu blabbered something about raising wages but the jeering continued.
“Empty promises! We want food. We want freedom!” I yelled.
Ceauşescu left the balcony and scurried into the Party building. But the crowd didn’t disperse. We looked to one another and made eye contact.
We saw one other.
It was December 21st.
Romanians in Bucharest were united and ready.
For revolution.