75
ŞAPTE ZECI ŞI CINCI
lation. Exhaustion. Determination.
Looting began. Fighting and violence surged in the streets.E Ceasescu had fled, but his henchmen weren’t backing down.
“Teams of terrorists are assisting the Secu assassins!” someone yelled.
But it was all in the background. I had to help Liliana.
The inside of the phone booth was streaked with blood.
I wiped the drops of perspiration from my face, deposited the coins,
and dialed.
“Alo?”
I paused. My mother’s voice cracked a whip of reality.
“Alo? Who is this?”
“Mama, it’s me,” I finally croaked.
“Cristi! Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Mama, listen. Luca is at Colţea Hospital. Please find his parents and tell them. Liliana is being held in a detention facility on Aaron Florian. She’s in terrible danger. Have Cici find Alex and bribe the—”
“Cici? Isn’t Cici with you?”
“No, Mama. If Cici’s not home, please, go across the street to Luca’s and Liliana’s. Go quickly!”
An explosion detonated, shaking the phone booth.
Mama’s voice went tight, shrill. She spoke each word slowly.
“Where . . . is . . . Cici?”
“I don’t know. Did you hear me, Mama? Luca’s at Colţea Hospital and Liliana’s in danger at a facility on Aaron Florian. Please, Mama. You have to send help to Liliana. Did you hear me?”
“Yes. And now you hear me. Come home this instant. Is that clear?
Your father has been out all night, risking his life to find you both. This is not a movie. They’re killing people. And the protesters, they’ll all be punished. How can you do this to me? How can you do this to our family?”
“No! The military has turned. Ceauşescu’s gone! We’ve won, Mama.”
“No, Cristian. You’re wrong. There is no ‘winning.’ Come home.
Immediately.”
And then she hung up.
I stood in the blood-spattered phone box, looking at the corded handset. What did Mama mean? Did she know something I didn’t?
Fists pounded on the glass of the phone booth. “If you’re done, leave!”
I stepped out, suddenly feeling warm and woozy. Was it the pain meds?
A helicopter buzzed overhead and small blue particles began descending from the sky.
“What are those?” shrieked a girl in line for the phone. “Are they explosives?”
Pieces of paper floated and fluttered down like snow, magically settling on the pavement.
I grabbed one of the blue squares. “It’s a message.” I looked at the words and could barely breathe.
Români, nu vă fie frică. Veți fi liberi!
I stared at the sentences, trying to swallow through the emotion.
“What does it say?” she asked.
“It says, ‘Romanians: Do not be afraid. You will be free.’ ”
Free.
We would be . . . free.