I Must Betray You

Nicolae Ceauşescu.

Our beloved leader. Our hero. Maverick of the grand Communist Party of Romania and vampire to the necks of millions. Illegal metaphor? Absolutely.

The new portrait depicted our hero with blushing cheeks and wavy, thick brown hair. He and his wife, Heroine Mother Elena, had guided the country of Romania for twenty-four years.

Everyone was a possible target for surveillance. She, Mother Elena Ceauşescu, even decreed that balconies of apartments must remain fully visible. The Communist Party had a right to see everything at all times. Everything was owned by the Party. And the Ceauşescus owned the Party.

“Cristian,” she suddenly whispered. “Do you ever wonder . . . if any of it’s real?”

“If what’s real?”

“The things we see in videos—in American movies.”

It was an odd question. Or maybe it felt odd because I had wondered the same thing but never had the courage to say it out loud. But it also felt . . . suspicious somehow. Too honest.

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.

My stomach cramped with guilt. If Cici knew that I had become an informer?

She’d hate me.

She’d never speak to me again.

But what choice did I have?

I swallowed. I think I managed a small smile.

“Of course,” I whispered. “I promise.”

Deceit. Treachery. Hypocrisy.

I lied to my sister. The person I loved most.

But at the time, I didn’t blame myself for any of it. I blamed Him.

Romania—Serious:

Fear induces compliance. Nonconformists put in mental institutions.

Amnesty International reports human rights abuses.

Population is fed propaganda and kept in a state of ignorance by Ceauşescu and his wife (who have a third-grade education).

One U.S. ambassador resigned because Washington refused to believe reports that America has been outfoxed by Ceauşescu.

If Luca passed the university exam for medicine, he’d eventually be drinking coffee and counting Kents in the morning instead of standing in lines. He’d cure coughs, save babies from broken incubators—maybe even save women from drooping faces.

Me? I’d be a philosophical wordsmith. A poetic traitor.

“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!”

The lesson resumed.

And that’s when it hit me:

The teacher must be an informer. He informed on the students.

The school director was an informer. He informed on the teachers.

The secretary was an informer. She informed on the school director. Luca was an informer. He informed on me.

I was an informer. I informed on Americans.

How naive. Had I really thought that Luca and I were the only student informers? There were probably many. And then my stomach seized. Wait, was Liliana an informer?

“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?”

“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.”

“How are you?”

I stared into my lap, thinking of everything that would bring tears. When my eyes moistened, I looked up at the agent. “I’m not . . . well.”

“That’s understandable.” He nodded. “Medicine was given to your grandfather. But I was told he was quite far gone and suffering severe mental disorders.”

Mental disorders? No. Bunu was mentally sharp until the very end.

Parasitism. That’s what they called it. People who opposed the regime were parasites and mentally ill. This idiot was calling Bunu a parasite. The irony.

I couldn’t wait to get to school. There would be chatter, discussions, plans. Cici and my parents were full of fear rather than fortitude. I missed Bunu. He would know what to do and how to do it.

But school that day was a morgue. Cold silence. Blank faces.

Comrade Instructor spoke the same waste of time, wooden tongue nonsense. I couldn’t understand it. Had no one heard the radio reports? Did they care nothing for the brave people of Timișoara? Were they too scared, or just programmed to believe that they were owned by the State and could do nothing about it?

“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?

The Ceauşescus’ trial lasted less than two hours. The chief military judge delivered the verdict in minutes. Crimes against the people. Genocide—guilty. Sentenced to death.

4:00 p.m. Executed.

Beloved Leader and Mother Elena, shot by firing squad near a military toilet block. Their death was televised. I stood, staring at their crumpled bodies on the gritty screen. After decades of prolonged suffering, the hasty finality felt confusing somehow. Was that how it was supposed to end? So quickly? I suddenly had an odd, lingering sensation, unsure of what I was feeling. Did we have the full truth? What exactly had happened—and how?

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.

But now I’ve arrived at Paddle Hands’s apartment, and I’m ready for answers. I’m ready to put the past behind me. I’ve knocked.

I’ve heard his footsteps, and I can smell the cigarette smoke. It’s happening.

This is it.

He’s going to open the door.