fathom what it would be like to leave everything and everyone I knew behind. How, after thirty years, could someone suddenly pack a bag and walk away? There had to be some single moment of decision.
“Were there many people—?”
“At the grocery store?” The ice cubes popped and crackled as he poured the warm tea over them.
“No. In your country. Were there many trying to leave when you did?”
“Yes. Then, before, after. There were always stories, from as early as I can remember—people hiding in the seats of cars, in wine barrels; people escaping by sea, through underground tunnels, even by hot-air balloon.”
“But what happened to the ones who didn’t succeed? Did they end up in jail?”
“Some did. But soon there weren’t enough jail cells for all those trying to run. And to improve his image with the West, the dictator released all but the most dangerous opponents. Anyway, it didn’t matter. We’d become our own jailers. We were so used to being watched, we began watching ourselves.”
I N N ICOLAE AND A NDREI ’ S class there was a student by the name of Ion who had succumbed wholeheartedly to the influence of the dictator and expressed his devotion by betraying others. Still in his early twenties, Ion already looked like the comedic image of a rising bureaucrat, in his imported clothes, always reeking of cologne.
He was the one who had reported Nicolae for handing out samizdat leaflets a year earlier. So when Nicolae was summoned again in February, they assumed that Ion was the one responsible. Four months before Andrei and Nicolae’s defection, three men in heavy coats approached Nicolae as he walked toward the university engineering building. A routine check, they said, and escorted him on foot to a small apartment near St. Stephen’s Tower, one of several rooms the Securitate leased around Baia Mare.
Nicolae was directed toward a desk in the far corner and told to keep his coat on and remain standing. The room was horribly overheated. But he tried to appear calm, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the room’s dimness. Minutes passed and finally an officer emerged from the kitchen holding a plate of dumplings. The officer sat down at the desk, removed a pair of cufflinks, rolled up his shirt sleeves and began eating the food with his fingers.
He ate with his eyes fixed on Nicolae. Apricot syrup dribbled onto the wood surface. The officer’s moustache became sloppy and wet. The room seemed to grow warmer. Why did the officer insist on eating so slowly? Nicolae wondered. At last, the officer wiped his fingers on a napkin, reached for his notebook and began to fan himself, revealing the silver roots of his dyed hair.
The interrogation was quick. A round of questions, seemingly random, but precise. Nicolae was kept standing, and his mind took a zigzag course as he tried to follow and then anticipate the abrupt changes of subject. The officer’s tone was direct, his face inviting and amiable. Nicolae knew that they were trying to disarm him; replacing shouts and threats, his interrogator’s informality and false camaraderie was disconcerting in its own way.
“…no more Solzhenitsyn?”
“…copy of Saul Bellow?”
“…brother-in-law, a backroom abortionist?”
“…practise chemistry like your esteemed father?”
“…anti-state activities?”
“…contacts in the West?”
To seem co-operative, Nicolae would nod or shake his head. When it was unavoidable, he gave brief answers.
“…a fiancée?”
“And children?”
“…your duty to replenish the population?”
Next, he was given a blank piece of paper and commanded to write down the name of every “dissident” he knew. Nicolae picked up the pen, pretended to think for a moment, then handed back the pen, shaking his head. The officer returned to his seat and stirred his coffee, clinking the spoon against the cup.
The immunity Nicolae had experienced for being the son of a long-standing Party member was eroding.
Two
“Were there many people—?”
“At the grocery store?” The ice cubes popped and crackled as he poured the warm tea over them.
“No. In your country. Were there many trying to leave when you did?”
“Yes. Then, before, after. There were always stories, from as early as I can remember—people hiding in the seats of cars, in wine barrels; people escaping by sea, through underground tunnels, even by hot-air balloon.”
“But what happened to the ones who didn’t succeed? Did they end up in jail?”
“Some did. But soon there weren’t enough jail cells for all those trying to run. And to improve his image with the West, the dictator released all but the most dangerous opponents. Anyway, it didn’t matter. We’d become our own jailers. We were so used to being watched, we began watching ourselves.”
I N N ICOLAE AND A NDREI ’ S class there was a student by the name of Ion who had succumbed wholeheartedly to the influence of the dictator and expressed his devotion by betraying others. Still in his early twenties, Ion already looked like the comedic image of a rising bureaucrat, in his imported clothes, always reeking of cologne.
He was the one who had reported Nicolae for handing out samizdat leaflets a year earlier. So when Nicolae was summoned again in February, they assumed that Ion was the one responsible. Four months before Andrei and Nicolae’s defection, three men in heavy coats approached Nicolae as he walked toward the university engineering building. A routine check, they said, and escorted him on foot to a small apartment near St. Stephen’s Tower, one of several rooms the Securitate leased around Baia Mare.
Nicolae was directed toward a desk in the far corner and told to keep his coat on and remain standing. The room was horribly overheated. But he tried to appear calm, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the room’s dimness. Minutes passed and finally an officer emerged from the kitchen holding a plate of dumplings. The officer sat down at the desk, removed a pair of cufflinks, rolled up his shirt sleeves and began eating the food with his fingers.
He ate with his eyes fixed on Nicolae. Apricot syrup dribbled onto the wood surface. The officer’s moustache became sloppy and wet. The room seemed to grow warmer. Why did the officer insist on eating so slowly? Nicolae wondered. At last, the officer wiped his fingers on a napkin, reached for his notebook and began to fan himself, revealing the silver roots of his dyed hair.
The interrogation was quick. A round of questions, seemingly random, but precise. Nicolae was kept standing, and his mind took a zigzag course as he tried to follow and then anticipate the abrupt changes of subject. The officer’s tone was direct, his face inviting and amiable. Nicolae knew that they were trying to disarm him; replacing shouts and threats, his interrogator’s informality and false camaraderie was disconcerting in its own way.
“…no more Solzhenitsyn?”
“…copy of Saul Bellow?”
“…brother-in-law, a backroom abortionist?”
“…practise chemistry like your esteemed father?”
“…anti-state activities?”
“…contacts in the West?”
To seem co-operative, Nicolae would nod or shake his head. When it was unavoidable, he gave brief answers.
“…a fiancée?”
“And children?”
“…your duty to replenish the population?”
Next, he was given a blank piece of paper and commanded to write down the name of every “dissident” he knew. Nicolae picked up the pen, pretended to think for a moment, then handed back the pen, shaking his head. The officer returned to his seat and stirred his coffee, clinking the spoon against the cup.
The immunity Nicolae had experienced for being the son of a long-standing Party member was eroding.
Two
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