68
ŞAIZECE ŞI OPT
ilava.
A sprawling monster the color of dry bones that lived south ofJ Bucharest.
Brick archways. Thick metal gates. Grisly history.
I had said nothing in the van, but I was worried. Bunu had told me of Jilava.
“It’s the worst of the worst, reserved for political prisoners and people incarcerated for their faith. The inmates are tortured, mutilated, burned, and locked in frozen boxes.”
We were considered political prisoners. And we had been marching with a group of what looked like a hundred thousand.
The van came to a stop.
“Cristian,” whispered Liliana. “What’s going to happen to us?”
The fear in her voice pained me. “I don’t know. Stay close.”
The father of the two children issued warnings. “Stay alert and stay together! No matter what, stay together. Promise me.” The children nodded and whimpered.
Our van sat alongside many others parked at the prison; arrests had been plentiful. Guards appeared and marched us in a line down the drive. A decayed sign above the archway was illuminated by a red bulb. It was frightening in its simplicity.
FORTUL Nº13
JILAVA
We exited the van and guards jabbed at our backs with batons, corralling us into a tunnel lined with militia. A swarm of canes rained down upon us, smacking, as we tried to make our way through the corridor. We were herded into a large, damp cell, already packed with people. Questions flew.
“Where did you come from? Do you have any news?”
“Have you seen my daughter?”
“My god, they’ve arrested children. They’re covered in blood.”
“SILENCE!” boomed a guard.
People began whispering.
Another prisoner untied our hands. “Children and minors sent to
Jilava? The regime must be desperate.”
“What are you hearing?” I asked.
“Rumors that Ceauşescu is arguing with the military. The soldiers don’t want to fire on citizens.”
“My friend, he was shot from above, from a window, not by a soldier.”
“Maybe a Secu sniper. You’re shaking. Are you okay?”
Was I okay? Was anyone okay? “I’m worried about my friend,” I told the man.
He nodded. “We’ll try to get you kids out of here.”
Liliana pulled me under a light. “Cristian, your nose is broken. You need a doctor.”
“Take a look around. We all need a doctor. What I need is to find Luca.
Besides, it’s not my nose that hurts, it’s my head. And my ribs. It’s painful to breathe.”
Liliana pulled the purple scarf from her neck. “Take off your jacket.”
I removed my coat and she wrapped her scarf around my rib cage.
“Ow.”
“Sorry. It needs to be tight,” she said, tying a knot. It helped.
I rifled through my jacket pockets to find the papers. I quickly shoved them down the front of my pants. Liliana squinted, watching.
“Don’t ask.”
Men filtered through the crowd, collecting cigarettes. “We’re going to negotiate with the guards, give them cigarettes to let the kids out.”
Trading Kents for the lives of children. And he said it without hesitation, without the pain and shameful truth it carried—that the guards cared more about nicotine than humans.
Liliana and I moved toward the corner. The plaster on the cell wall had peeled away in patches, like dead skin, revealing raw bricks. Messages from former prisoners remained etched for us to see:
Straw under clothes softens beatings.
Remember Richard Wurmbrand.
Tell the world—We’re innocent.
Liliana moved in close. “I’m scared, Cristian. I’m scared they’ll torture us, but I’m even more frightened the uprising will fail.”
“You heard the man in the van. There’s too much momentum. It’s only going to grow. But it was dangerous for you to be out so late. Were you
alone?”
She shook her head.
“I was with Alex,” she said, then paused. “And Cici.”
“Cici?”
“She came to our apartment, looking for you. She was frantic, said you hadn’t been home all day and was terrified something had happened. She was going to search for you and asked Alex to help. I wanted to come along, and then we got separated in the crowd.”
Cici had betrayed me. How could she claim to care about me? I looked at Liliana’s tear-streaked face.
“Tell Alex to stay away from Cici. She’s . . .”
Liliana reached up and put a finger to my lips. “I know. I figured it out the day of the funeral. She was informing on me. She saw us drinking the Coke.”
“She framed me,” I whispered. “She sent the Secu to blackmail her own brother. What about Alex? Can we trust him?” I asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know. But he and Cici, they seemed to have a plan.
Before we got separated, Cici told me something. She said that if I found
you, I should give you a message.”
I looked at her, waiting.
“The message is, ‘Mr. Van Dorn sends his thanks.’ Does that make sense?”
Tears of relief pushed at my eyes. It did make sense. Van Dorn was acknowledging that he got my notebook. But how did Cici have that
information?
“What does it mean?” asked Liliana.
There was no reason to hold back. Not now.
“Remember that night in the stairwell, when I told you I had an idea?”
I whispered. “Mr. Van Dorn is a diplomat at the U.S. Embassy. My idea was to give him a notebook full of information I compiled, a cry for help to share with other diplomats.”
“Oh my god, Cristian, no wonder they beat you like this.”
“Honestly, I don’t think they know about it yet.”
“What was in the notebook?” she whispered.
“The truth. Pages of information on what the regime is doing to Romanians. A bunch of Bulă jokes. Notes from Bunu. I wrote a letter at the end. I titled the notebook Screaming Whispers: A Romanian Teenager in Bucharest. My name wasn’t anywhere on it.”
“And you just gave it to an American diplomat?”
“No, I hid it on his desk.”
Liliana’s jaw dropped. “What if the Secu found it?”
“You just gave me a message from Van Dorn. Well, a message supposedly from him, confirming he received it.” I looked toward the front
of the cell. “We need to get out of here. I need to find Luca and get you home.”
“If they see we want to be together, they’ll split us apart,” said Liliana.
I looked at her battered, defiant face. She wanted to be together.
“You told me you weren’t giving up, Cristian.”
“I’m not giving up.”
But what if this was my end? I’d never even kissed her.
“Get the young people to the front of the cell!” a guard’s voice barked.
“Hurry,” said a man. “This may be your only chance.”
“I’m Liliana Pavel,” she shouted as they jostled us to the front of the group. “My friend Cristian Florescu and I are classmates at MF3 High School and we live in Salajan sector three. If any of you are set free, please contact our families. Tell them that you saw us together and we were alive.”
“My friend Luca Oprea was shot in University Square,” I yelled. “He’s also a student at MF3 High School. If any of you are released, please try to help him!”
A guard grabbed the young brother and sister by their collars.
“Papa!” cried the little boy, reaching for his father. “Where are they taking us? We want to stay with you!”
“I’ll see you very soon,” said the father, swallowing his tears.
“Remember, stay with your sister. You must stay together.”
“Where are they taking us?” whispered Liliana. “What if it’s worse?
Should we stay here?”
A man grabbed my shoulder, stopping me. “I knew your grandfather,”
he whispered quickly.
He knew Bunu?
The man nodded. “He would be very proud of you.”