I Must Betray You (11 page)

I hear them.

The clapping men.

Clapping.

The image is blurred and then I realize.

There's a plastic bag over my head, cinched at the neck.

Where did it come from?

Breathe!
shout the clapping men.
Breathe!
they chant in unison.

I tug at the bag. I tug at the band squeezing my neck. I look at them.

I can't breathe. I can't obey their command with a bag over my head. I'm losing air.

A swarm of black Dacias arrives, full of agents in leather coats.

Breathe!
they yell from the windows of the cars.
Breathe!

“I can't,” I croak.

The sea of clapping men parts. A small man in a rumpled suit approaches.

“Leader,” I plead. “Help me.”

Ceauşescu raises his right hand as if to bless me. To save me.

He then turns his back and slices his palm through the air, conducting the chorus.

Breathe! . . . Breathe! . . . Breathe!

I woke up, choking. I stumbled out of the closet, straight to the bathroom, and threw up—

Nothing.

The crossroads of reality and nightmare. My classmate who cracked—he had been there, trying to escape the suffocation that slithered and pulled tighter.

I didn't want to be an informer.

But I didn't want Bunu to die.

Double bind. That was the English term for it.

Luca spotted me the next day. “Cristian, this standoff between us, it's stupid. Let's talk,” he said. “You're not okay.”

I stared at him with disgust. “Are
you
okay? You know how it is, don't you, Luca?”

He gave a small nod and looked to his feet. He walked off.

Did Luca have it as bad as I did? Somehow, I doubted it. He looked well rested, probably still recognized himself in the mirror and in his nightmares. Probably didn't spend nights on the bathroom floor. Even though I still hated Luca for getting me into this, a small part of me hoped he wasn't suffering like I was.

The next day, I tried to approach Liliana at school. She wouldn't look at me, purposely avoided me as if she knew exactly where I'd be. I tried to speak to her on the street.

“This is a misunderstanding. It's not over,” I told her. “I'm not giving up.”

“Give up, Cristian,” she replied.

Starfish overheard and offered counsel. “Forget about her. Lots of girls talk about you. You have other options.”

I didn't want other options. I wanted Liliana.

“I'm not giving up,” I told Starfish.

“Did you hear that?” I shouted up to the Reporters. “I'm not giving up.”

Deranged? Desperate? Who knows what people were whispering about me.

But Liliana, it had felt like she could read my mind. She had to know it wasn't true. Yes, I was an informer. But I hadn't informed on her. How could I explain?

After a few days, she no longer spent time outside, but I looked for her anyway.

My family knew something had gone awry, but they didn't know what. I couldn't tell them—or anyone—why Liliana wouldn't see me. Fortunately, she hadn't told anyone either. Was she trying to protect her family . . . or me? I clung to the possibility.

I stood on the balcony, hoping she would see me. Trying to telegraph messages to her.

One night, Cici joined me. She took a deep breath, gathered her long black hair, and tied it into a knot. “Look, I don't know what's going on,
Pui
, but I know something happened with Liliana . . . and I know you're hurting.”

Sorrow crept into my throat. I couldn't speak. Just nodded.

She put her hand on my back. “Keep trying. She's worth it. And so are you.”

Was it my sister's kindness? Her encouragement to persevere? Whatever it was, it broke me. And she knew it. And she had the compassion to give me privacy on that cold dark balcony, alone with my tears.

Bunu eventually shuffled out as well. He said nothing at first, just stood next to me. His presence alone was comforting.

“Your pain, it inspires me,” he finally said. I looked to him. “Yes, inspires me. This regime steals so much from us. Some, like your father, are forced to go silent, dormant. But to feel so deeply, that is the very essence of being human. You give me hope.”

I had to confess.

He already knew I was an informer, but I had to say it out loud.

“Bunu—”

“That's enough for tonight. It's colder than Mother Elena's heart out here.” He left me on the balcony and returned to the apartment before I could say another word.

I often think back to that night and my desperation to confess. How many others across Romania were standing on their balconies at the same time, painfully picking at the adhesive, all trying so hard—

To pull the tape from our mouths.

Comrade Director gave a discreet nod when I passed him in the hall the next day. So after school I waited in the bathroom then headed for the apartment. Did the agent meet with other informers there? If I arrived early or waited afterward, would I see them? He probably staggered his schedule. But maybe I'd see the residents of the apartment. Would I recognize them?

Each step stirred questions—and anger.

Frustration.

Bunu. Liliana. Luca. It was all such a mess.

I peered through the crack in the door. The agent didn't see me. Not at first. He sat, sucking on a cigarette.

I had a moment to evaluate the miserable creature that Paddle Hands must have been, ruining the lives of teenagers and forcing them to become spies. What motivated him to sell his soul? Was he blackmailed, like me? Perhaps he had an ill family member too? Or was it the steady supply of Kents and the shallow power of driving a black Dacia that kept him going? He didn't wear a wedding ring. No, a bottle of
țuică,
plum firewater, kept him company on cold winter nights. How did Luca deal with this guy? Luca was kind but not savvy. No wonder our classmate had a breakdown.

But I was not going to have a breakdown.

I was going to take them all down.

If I got my notebook to Mr. Van Dorn, the embassy would see me as a source of truth and report that Ceauşescu was duping everyone.

I watched as the agent fiddled with his pack of BT cigarettes. He had removed the stamp decal from the top of the package and was curling it around his little finger. The cigarette smoke, like sins rising, crept up and around his neck.

Choke him.

“Come in and close the door,” he ordered, finally aware of my presence. “Take a seat.”

I entered and sat. Calculus notebook in my lap.

“So, how have things been going?”

“Fine,” I lied.

My thickening file sat on the desk in front of the agent. What was in it?

“Did you visit the target?”

I nodded. “I accompanied him to the American Library as instructed.”

“And what did you learn?”

I took a breath and began to recite. “He reads
Rolling Stone
,
Sports Illustrated
, and
Billboard
magazines. He's bored and misses home. He has a tutor who comes to the apartment.”

“What's the tutor's name?”

I shrugged. “He didn't say.”

“Male or female? Does his father interact with the tutor?”

“He didn't say. He wants to go home for Christmas. He likes a girl—”

“What's her name? Is she Romanian?”

I took a breath and continued. “He likes a girl who plays guitar in an American band—”

“They're dating?”

I thought of Dan, joking about his pretend girlfriend in the
magazine. I couldn't resist. “Yes, they're dating. Long-distance relationship. Serious. She's older, lives in New York.”

“Do his parents know?”

“No. It's a secret. A big secret. He's going to Princeton and they're making plans to be together there.”

He nodded, making notes in front of him. “The son has access to money?”

“He's never mentioned money.”

“What does he think of Romanian girls?”

“He's never mentioned them. Only talks of this girl who plays guitar.”

“Does his father interact with Romanian women?”

“I have no idea.”

Why the questions about women? Where was this going?

“In the American Library, what did you see?”

I was happy to answer that question. “I saw an album with photographs of Beloved Leader at Disneyland in California. He and Mother Elena were playing with Mickey Mouse, having a grand time in the Magic Kingdom. I was surprised—I thought Disneyland was make believe. Comrade Major, is it a real place?”

Paddle Hands looked up at me, edgy. “Did the target remove or take anything with him from the American Library?”

The question was too specific. He knew about the magazine. How?

“Yes, he removed a page from a magazine.”

“What were the contents of the page?”

“An article about American musicians.” I thought of the article, still sitting in my closet.

“What was described in the article?”

“Just general sentiments of a song,” I said.

“And what was the sentiment?” he asked, impatient.

One of Bunu's lectures sifted back to me, about words having
power. I paused, drawing out the delivery of the phrase I had invented. “The sentiment . . . I think it was something like . . . power to the one who doesn't want it.”

The agent nodded and continued to scribble. He even asked me to repeat it. I almost laughed. I was definitely losing my mind.

“Power to the one . . . who doesn't want it,” I told him.

He pushed on, writing, the irony lost on him. I shifted in my seat and repositioned my notebook in the process, making certain the Steaua logo was casually visible. I had drawn it on my notebook the night after our last meeting. The agent's eyes shifted to the image. He set down the pen for a quick pull on his cigarette. I took the chance.

“Do you follow Steaua or Dinamo?”

“Steaua,” said the agent quietly.

“Me too. Steaua's the most underrated team in all of Europe. Over a hundred games, undefeated.”

The agent leaned back, nodding. He pulled another drag from the cigarette and resumed playing with the paper ring from the package. “And remember, the other European teams import and buy players. But our team is real—all Romanians,” he said.

“Exactly. When I was little, I dreamed of being a goalkeeper for Steaua,” I lied.

The agent gave a small laugh. “Didn't we all.” His body suddenly stiffened, returning to tight posture, as if lashed by an invisible whip. He dropped the paper ring from the cigarette pack and picked up his pen. But the momentary, minuscule crack in his armor, I saw it. I had chiseled my way in and briefly distracted him. It was possible.

“Dan Van Dorn doesn't like soccer. He likes American football,” I told him.

“Write it all down. Everything you've told me. Sign the bottom,” he instructed.

The agent made notations in his ledger while I wrote. When I finished I handed him the signed paper.

“I've learned the target's father has a large desk in the apartment,” he said. “I need to know what's on the desk.”

“I need medicine for my
bunu
.”

The agent looked up from his notes. I stared at him, unblinking.

“I told you I'd take care of that. Find out what's on his desk. We're done,” he said.

I gave a nod and left the apartment. Jerk.

And then I had a thought. How did Paddle Hands learn that Mr. Van Dorn had a desk? Was there another informer assigned to the Van Dorns?

If so, who was it?

|| OFFICIAL REPORT ||

TOP SECRET

[14 Nov. 1989]

Ministry of the Interior

Department of State Security

Directorate III, Service 330

Discussion with source OSCAR at host location. OSCAR displayed arrogance and tried to manipulate the conversation. Signature on today’s report differs from last. OSCAR provided the following information on target VAIDA:

-VAIDA’s son has a school tutor who works with him in the home

-VAIDA’s son is engaged in a clandestine relationship with an American female musician

-at the American Library, VAIDA’s son removed an article from a magazine that expressed anti-communist sentiments

For further documentation, OSCAR is now tasked with:

-retrieving information on VAIDA’s home desk

NOTE:
Consideration should be given to OSCAR’s family loyalty and viability as a continued source. Recent reports state that while at the American Library, OSCAR viewed American political magazines. Additional reports indicate OSCAR is distressed within his romantic relationship with neighbor, Liliana Pavel (17).

I walked through the dark, so angry that even the dogs kept their distance. The cold crept in, a few degrees above nothing. The familiar smell lingered in the air, snow waiting to fall.

The agent knew about the magazine article. Had Luca followed me to the American Library? I assumed he worked for Paddle Hands too? If so, Paddle Hands had probably intimidated him, threatened him. If I asked Luca, would he tell me? Could we join together somehow?

No, that was a terrible idea. I was safer alone.

I arrived home and found the woman from Boston smoking at the bottom of our stairwell. An American visitor was an extreme oddity. How many residents had reported her and those pointy red boots?

“Bună seara
.
”
She nodded to me. Her face was drawn, fatigued.

“
Bună seara
. How is your mother?”

“It won't be long,” she said as she exhaled the last of her cigarette. “But she's comfortable. Your sister has been such a help. Will you ask her to stop by if she has time? I need to move a piece of furniture.”

“I'll help you.”

“Oh,
mersi
. That would be wonderful.” I followed her up the stairs.

A bucket and mop sat outside the door. The apartment no longer smelled sour, it smelled . . . I wasn't sure what the smell was. I helped her move the couch to position it outside the bedroom.

Through the doorway, I caught sight of a figure in the bed. Small
and frail. If not for the white puff of hair, I would have mistaken her for a child.

“With the sofa here, I can be closer to her at night.”

I nodded. “If I can ask, how did you end up in Boston?”

“I left Bucharest in the seventies. Harvard offered me a place. Things were easier then.”

“Is this your first time back?” I whispered.

“Yes. The entry was complicated, but I'm married to an American and have a U.S. passport now.”

Married to an American? Oh, yes. The residents had definitely reported this woman. The throats of the Reporters were likely chattered dry. Was she aware that when she left Romania her family had probably been punished?

A whimper sounded from the bedroom.

“She wants to be moved again. Could you help me?”

I followed her into the bedroom. The stark loneliness of the small, pale room was warmed by a photo of Pope John Paul II. So Mrs. Drucan was Catholic, not Romanian Orthodox. It didn't matter. Most people prayed in secret anyway. The regime harassed religious leaders and destroyed many churches. When Ceauşescu razed the center of Bucharest, a brave engineer saved several historic churches. He put them on rolling tracks and slid them to different parts of the city. Bunu called him “the engineer of heaven.”

“She likes the pillows arranged in a certain way. If you can lift her torso for a moment, I'll reposition them.” She turned to address her mother. “I have some help here, Mama.”

Help? I had no idea what I was doing. Mrs. Drucan looked so breakable. Tufts of her white hair were missing. The tender pink of her scalp resembled a bald baby bird. “My sister might be better—”

“Just hold her neck and head. Bring her slightly forward.” I did as instructed, terrified that Mrs. Drucan might die in my arms. When I
released her back against the pillows, her gaze floated to me. The look was hollow, yet still connected.

“This is Cristian Florescu, Mama. Cicilia's younger brother.”

I smiled at the woman.

Her eyes slowly closed, then opened again.

“Oh, an acknowledgment. That's more than she's given me all day. Rest, Mama, I'll be here.”

I followed her daughter out of the room. She rummaged through a cabinet, turned, and extended a package of Kents. I looked at her.

“Your hesitation, it tells me that you're a nice boy.”

I decided to ask.

“Do people in the United States know what life is like in Romania?” I whispered.

“No. Americans don't know much at all about Romania. Ceauşescu prefers it that way. And right now, the U.S. is focused on Germany and perestroika with the Soviet Union.”

I nodded, thinking of the reports from Radio Free Europe. Bunu said Ceauşescu would never allow perestroika to touch Romania.

She cleared her throat and quickly pushed the package of Kents into my hand. “Look, maybe it feels odd to accept cigarettes for helping a dying woman. But let's face it, everyone here can use them. I can't even imagine how many Kents I'm going to need to get a death certificate and a successful cremation.”

I looked over to the frail woman tucked in the bed and Bunu's words floated back to me.

Please. I might be dying but I'm not deaf yet, Cristian.

Could Mrs. Drucan hear her daughter? I hoped not.

She prattled on and her eyes filled with tears. “I can't bury her. I want to take her with me. But I'm told the low gas pressure in Romania prohibits full cremations. What do families do with half-cremated remains?” She looked to me in desperate query. “Cristian, how many
Kents will I need to make sure they turn up the gas?” she whispered.

A rush of air entered my mouth that had fallen open. I shook my head. “I . . . don't know.”

She exhaled her tears and moved in close. She looked at me, speaking so silently the words were mere puffs of air. “Things are moving quickly. Take care. There will be danger here.” Her eyes lingered in a way that made me uncomfortable.

“I'll leave you and your mama,” I told her. “Let us know if you need anything.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.

I made my way silently to the door.

And left the Kents on the table.