Cristian’s Mother Character Analysis

The constant threat of surveillance clawed at our mother. Her hands shook. Her eyes darted. Her figure resembled the cigarettes she smoked. I looked up English words and phrases to describe her and wrote them in my notebook: Jittery. Distressed. Flustered. Freaked out.

Being around Mama was like living with a grenade. On the rare occasion the pin was pulled, she’d explode, say awful things, and then cry afterward. In our family photo, our mother peered in a different direction, as if she saw something no one else did. She constantly begged us to whisper, to keep everything secret.

“Don’t you want better for your children?” I asked.

She stopped abruptly and faced me. Her chimney of patience began to smoke.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I should want for my children. This is not a game, Cristian. It’s dangerous. There’s no use dreaming of things we can never have.”

“Who says we can never have them?”

“Me! I’m telling you! We can never have them!”

“Bunu, how do we know that these broadcasts are accurate?” asked Cici.

“Freedom of the press is democratic,” replied Bunu.

“But if Radio Free Europe was created by the Americans, how can we trust it?” whispered Mama.

My father stared at her. “Mioara, what choice do we have?”

“We can turn off the radio! It’s too stressful!” she insisted.

“It will be more stressful without information,” said my grandfather. “Bunu,” I whispered. “Do you think the regime is listening to the reports?”

“Of course! They need the information themselves to strategize.”

“His chest. The same. All ribs broken,” she whispered in my ear. “They beat him to death.”

My body was instantly cold. A rush of shock and frozen fury. I stood shaking at the side of the bed and felt myself buckling to the floor. Who did this? Who would viciously beat an elderly man? And why? My god, was leukemia not enough?

Bunu. My grandfather, my teacher, my inspiration.

My hero.

How could I ever live without him?

My mother kneeled down. She laid her hand upon my shoulder. “This,” she whispered, “is what happens to philosophers.”

“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?”

Bunu’s question lingered. Who are you?

I thought I knew my family.

It turns out, I didn’t.

Mama was an informer. She very willingly informed on Bunu, and she informed on her own husband. And my father knew. That’s why he retreated into silence. Did Bunu know? Was Mama the rat in our apartment that he referred to? Her reports contained many statements that informing about dissent was not only her patriotic duty, but her maternal duty.

The stress took its toll. The Secu took the upper hand. To me, Bunu was a hero. To Mama, he was a threat. And Cici, she understood both perspectives.