73
ŞAPTE ZECI ŞI TREI
bowlegged silhouette lingered on the stairs. Starfish. Was he alone? The thick darkness of the stairwell made it impossible toA tell.
I followed him outside to the back of the building.
“Mirel came through, but you’re gonna owe him.” He thrust several packages of Kents at me. I thanked him and shoved them in between the layers of scarf that Liliana had wrapped around my rib cage.
“It looks like you’re strapped with ammunition,” said Starfish.
Was that a positive or a negative?
“Listen, I slid a note under the door of Liliana’s apartment, letting her family know where she is. If you see them first, send them to the detention facility on Aaron Florian. Maybe they can bribe her out. I’ll be heading to the hospitals to look for Luca. In thirty minutes, shout up to the Reporters that you saw me. I’ll call home when I can.”
He nodded. “Hey, maybe you should be at the hospital yourself. Your color’s awful. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“That’s probably a good thing. Just tell me, what am I facing out there?”
“Mixed patrols. Militia men, Secu snipers, patriotic guards, security teams in civilian clothes. It’s been a hell of a night. You’ll see people hiding in yards, trees, garbage cans. The regime broke through the blockade at the Intercontinental and they’ve cut power to specific parts of the capital. Give me info on Jilava. How many protestors were brought there?”
“Hundreds, maybe close to a thousand. They let me out early this morning with a bunch of kids. But there are plenty of young people still there and more were arriving when I left.”
“I heard that students are recruiting people in the Titan and Berceni neighborhoods. Join a group,” said Starfish. “It’s too easy to be picked up if you’re alone.”
A car sped up to the corner. A man scrambled out and began looking around. Starfish gave a whistle. The passenger door of his car opened and another man appeared. They ran to us.
“I’ve got a hot one, Starfish. I need to hide him.”
“Okay. Take this guy to Colţea Hospital. He’ll give you a pack of
Kents.”
“Colţea’s full.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I told him. “My friend was shot last night in University Square. I think he may be at Colţea.”
He flapped a hand toward his car. The back was riddled with bullet holes. I jumped in. The driver sped down side streets, avoiding the city
center.
“What’s been happening?” I asked him.
“The Securitate are working in small groups, bands of assassins,” said the driver. “They’ve shot hundreds of civilians. I’m told they’re taking identity papers and getting rid of the bodies.”
“They shot my friend from a window.”
“Yeah, there are rumors they’re using infrared scopes. No one knows what to believe. Don’t stand out in the open. Find cover.”
We turned a corner and saw a young man stumbling on the sidewalk, holding his face. We swerved to a stop.
“My eye. They attacked me with a water cannon,” he cried. “It’s bad.”
He moved his hand and his glassy eyeball was dangling from the socket.
“No! Keep pressure on it.” The driver jumped out of the car and sent the boy into the back seat. He screamed in pain.
“Just hang on,” I told him. “We’re heading to the hospital. We’re almost there.”
“As soon as they bandage me up, I need to get back. We set up a new barricade. I have to help my friends. Will you wait for me?” he asked.
I had no time to respond.
The driver pulled up to the hospital. I tossed a package of Kents on the dash. “Mersi.” Trails of people snaked around the perimeter of the
building: Lines of injured.
Lines of Romanians giving blood to help the injured.
Lines of student volunteers from the university.
I steered the young man into the line for the wounded.
“Wait for me,” he repeated. “Once they bandage my eye, I have to get back.”
People ran by us shouting and carrying bloodied bodies. Had someone helped Luca?
“I’m sorry. I can’t wait for you,” I told the boy. “I’m looking for my friend.”
An orderly walked the line, inspecting wounds. He took one look at the dangling eyeball and pulled us from the group. “Can you help him inside?” the orderly asked me.
We banged through the doors, pushing across tile floors patterned in a mosaic of bloody footprints. The orderly took our names and returned with a nurse.
“Your eye, come with me,” said the nurse. She whisked him out of line.
“I just came for a bandage!” protested the boy. “I need to get back to the barricade.”
“My friend was shot. Can you tell me if he’s here?” I asked the orderly.
“I’m too busy. Ask at reception.”
“Show me where that is,” I begged. “Please.”
He pointed in a random direction and disappeared into the crowd.
I made my way through a crush of people to a desk. A woman at the front began to shake. “No. NO! Please, not my boy,” she pleaded. She slid down in a heap and someone carried her to a chair.
“Please, help me,” I pleaded to the desk clerk. “My friend Luca Oprea was shot last night. He’s seventeen years old and I think he was brought here.”
The clerk sifted through papers. “What’s the name?”
“Oprea, Luca.”
His finger stopped on the page.
“I’m very sorry—”
No.
Luca.
No.
“I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him. He’s in the critical care unit.”
“What?” I croaked.
“You can’t see him.”
“But he’s here? He’s alive?”
“I don’t have details. If you need dressing for your own wounds, there’s a volunteer triage down the back hallway. Next, please . . .”
He waved me aside, and I was propelled down the hall with a crowd.
Luca was here. In critical condition. What should I do? Should I wait for him?
I made my way to the triage area. University students were set up with makeshift supplies. A young guy inspected my nose. “Can’t really do anything for that, a doctor might have to re-break it.”
I unzipped my coat. “My ribs, can you wrap me up in something tighter?”
“Don’t think we should. You need to breathe deeply or you’ll get pneumonia. I can give you some pain meds.”
“I’ll take them.” And I did. “How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Since nine last night. Hospital staff is totally overwhelmed. Many have never seen gunshot wounds, let alone treated them.”
“HELP ME, NOW!” A Securitate agent in a long black coat burst through a nearby door. One of his arms hung limp, wounded.
“You need to help me!” he yelled.
No one moved.
And then I saw it. He reached into his coat. And pulled out a gun.