I Must Betray You: Chapters 8–17

“We?” said Cici, turning from her sewing machine. “Who is we?”
I ignored her query.

The ration of breath left Bunu coughing, hacking so deeply my parents came running.

Kents were Western cigarettes.
Kents were used as currency. For bribes. For trade. For the black market.
We needed Kents for a lot of things: seeing a doctor, gratuities for our schoolteachers, bribing the apartment administrator.

A recent notation in my notebook reported our family bribe inventory—three cartons of Kents, two yellow packages of Alvorada coffee, one bar of Fa soap, and one bottle of Queen Anne whisky.

Even my sister dabbled in the black market.

That’s right, I thought I could outwit Paddle Hands.
The very idea—was it blazing ignorance or blazing courage?
In hindsight, a bit of both.

Most illegal movies from the West were dubbed into Romanian by the same woman. No one knew her name, but more than twenty million people knew her voice. She brought us into a secret, forbidden world of inspiration.

The electricity was on when I arrived home, so I opted for the elevator to our fourth floor. The fickle elevator doors rattled shut, presenting a new display of communist poetry inscribed on the metal...

She doted on the elderly people in our building and they adored her.

“Promise me you’ll never change. Promise, Pui. We have to stay close.”
She stared at me with such a desperate, imploring look.

Deceit. Treachery. Hypocrisy.
I lied to my sister. The person I loved most.

Deceit. Treachery. Hypocrisy.
I lied to my sister. The person I loved most.

My sister could tell I was energized about something but didn’t pry.

After meeting in the street, the two quickly proceeded to a hidden spot where they engaged in clandestine discussion and the sharing of illegal items.

When I watched the movies, I generally tracked the plot. The stories were farfetched yet fascinating.

Fear induces compliance.

Fear induces compliance.

Nonconformists put in mental institutions.

But the words, they circled my conscience. Human rights abuses. Propaganda. Ignorance. Draculescu.

But trust no one. Do you hear me? No one. Right now there is no such thing as a ‘confidant.’

Some people assumed Romanian was a Slavic language because of our proximity to Slavic countries. But Romanian is a Romance language, like French or Italian.

I had to “reciprocate”—that was the English word. I couldn’t let Liliana share her Christmas present and not give something back.

But what could I offer? To rig their TV antenna to get signals from Bulgaria? Not exactly on par with a Coke.

She reached under the sofa and retrieved her locked box. She opened it on her lap, contents obscured by the lid.

When Ceauşescu assumed power in the sixties, things were fairly moderate; conditions actually improved for several years.

“Listen, Ceauşescu may be near illiterate, but even I can admit that he’s a statesman and a mastermind. He’s slowly made people believe that he’s a god and we must follow him, blindly. And think about it, Cristi, he starts with toddlers. The little ones are just four years old when they’re indoctrinated.”

Compulsory volunteering.
That’s what they called it. An oxymoron. How could it be considered volunteering if it was mandatory?

Compulsory volunteering.
That’s what they called it. An oxymoron. How could it be considered volunteering if it was mandatory?

The largest and best produce was sorted for export. The deformed and mealy produce held for Romanians.

We were all too suspicious.
And that’s how the regime undermined everything.

In my notebook, I drew a diagram of the Securitate—a monstrous apparatus with huge spinning tentacles planting doubt, spreading rumors, and casting fear.

“Mistrust is a form of terror. The regime pits us against one another. We can’t join together in solidarity because we never know whom we can trust or who might be an informer.”

“You see, even out here in the street, you’re paranoid to be speaking with your own father! You’ve become a man without a voice. Mistrust. It’s insidious. It causes multiple personality syndrome and rots relationships. At home, you’re one person, speaking in whispers. Outside, on the street, and standing in lines at the shops, you’re someone else. Tell me, who are you?”

Moments of profound realization are memorable, especially when they involve your own stupidity.

Romania was full of beauty and natural resources. The majestic Carpathian Mountains, the Black Sea, the lush Transylvanian countryside.

An emaciated cow moaned in the dirt.

A carpet of flies feasted on the animal’s corrugated rib cage.

The country needed more children because we needed more workers for our bountiful crops.

The thoughts alone warranted a death sentence.

Dormant anger stirred, a scream inside me that I didn’t know existed.