74
ŞAPTE ZECI ŞI PATRU
eople screamed and ran.
“The army, the army. Who cares about the army!” raged theP Secu agent, waving his weapon. “You’re outnumbered. We’re going to kill all of you!” He pointed his gun at the forehead of an injured young woman sitting on a chair. He pulled the trigger.
The gun didn’t fire.
Orderlies, patients, and volunteers—they jumped the agent, pummeling him to the ground. He fought and thrashed. We formed a circle around him until he was restrained. Chattering ensued.
“He mentioned the army.”
“Have they turned?”
“Someone said Milea committed suicide.”
Milea killed himself? Was that true? General Vasile Milea was the
Minister of Defense.
“Let’s go!” yelled a man.
I exited the hospital with a crowd and stumbled out into the street.
A growing swell of people moved down the road. I joined them and together we walked to Republic Square. I arrived and immediately lost my breath. Shoulder to shoulder, a sea of citizens as far as the eye could see. I had never seen so many people. Probably a hundred thousand. And I immediately noticed something. Romanians were standing, side by side,
with the men in green.
It had happened.
The army had turned against the regime. They had joined the Romanian people! Choruses of chanting climbed through the air in front of
the Central Committee Building:
Jos Ceauşescu!
Down with tyranny!
The army is with us!
Protected by the army, we sang, chanted, and called for freedom and justice for Timișoara.
Students climbed on top of tanks and thrust their hands in the air with the peace sign. They stood together with the military, waving Romanian flags. A woman ran by me with a bouquet of carnations and began giving them to the soldiers.
The crowd pulsed, agitated. Demonstrators suddenly rushed the building, pushing their way inside. Hearts defiant, we erupted in cheers and
the chanting began:
Li-ber-ta-te.
Li-ber-ta-te.
I joined in, calling for liberty.
Then we heard it. A loud whir.
People pointed to a helicopter on top of the building. “It’s them! The Ceauşescus!” The crowd jeered, booed, catcalled, and whistled.
A throng of protestors appeared on the balcony of the Committee Building.
Voices echoed through loudspeakers in the square. The propeller on the helicopter began to turn faster, whisking the air with loud chugging sounds.
“He’s fleeing!”
“We’ve done it!”
The helicopter lifted, then sagged, struggling to get airborne. It finally elevated and we watched as it floated across the city.
The sound system crackled and a man’s voice filled the square.
“We’ve done it! Victory is ours! Please, do not be afraid. Have courage. Nothing can stop us now. Nothing can stop us!” He repeated his words over and over until the crowd began to sing.
Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole, Ceauşescu nu mai e.
Ceauşescu no more? Could it be true?
I felt a brief wave of joy until I realized.
Bunu. Luca. Liliana. They’d sacrificed so much.
And they had all missed it.
I left the square and began to limp.
I had to find a pay phone—I had to save Liliana.