"I Must Betray You" by Ruta Sepetys, Chapter 64–Epilogue

Without the emblem in the center, the flag resembled our national flag of the 1800s:
Blue for liberty.
Yellow for justice.
Red for blood.

As people left work for the day, I encouraged them to join the swell of protestors. Our column expanded and became one massive surge of thousands of people. Demonstrators brought flags with holes, they carried signs.

My body had felt uninhabitable for so long. But now the emptiness was replaced by a closeness. A true camaraderie. We all felt it. We saw it in one another’s eyes. It was freedom—and it was glorious.

Ceauşescu deployed the army. They’re setting up stations.

Kids ran near our blockade, using their fingers as guns, crouching in poses like the renegades they saw in American movies.

Luca tried to negotiate with a young soldier. “Hey, put down your weapon. You’re Romanian. Your obligation is to defend our nation and its citizens.”

When the guard got to me, he didn’t search me, he merely frisked me.

After several minutes, the sound of screaming dissipated.

The room distorted. A garbled voice appeared at my ear.

I heard the ring and clank of a metal chain. A growling. Feral.

They corralled the other captives and pushed them out of the room and into a hallway.

They slapped us, over and over, prodding us to confess guilt.

I jostled over huddled bodies and wedged in next to her.

A sprawling monster the color of dry bones that lived south of Bucharest.

Brick archways. Thick metal gates. Grisly history.

“It’s the worst of the worst, reserved for political prisoners and people incarcerated for their faith. The inmates are tortured, mutilated, burned, and locked in frozen boxes.”

“I’m scared, Cristian. I’m scared they’ll torture us, but I’m even more frightened the uprising will fail.”

“The older ones, make sure they’re restrained.”
A guard pushed me against the wall and jammed his club beneath my throat. They tied my hands in front of me with rope.

The tired guards wouldn’t be able to distinguish one protester from another. One positive about bland communist clothing—many of us looked alike.

In front of us stood a white, ornate building. Decorative plaster garlands draped over each door and window.

The morning chill was balmy and the smoke-smothered streets frothed with war.

They’re holding her and a bunch of kids at the detention place your cousin was at.

The door opened a crack. A sliver of a face appeared.

If you need dressing for your own wounds, there’s a volunteer triage down the back hallway.

Hospital staff is totally overwhelmed. Many have never seen gunshot wounds, let alone treated them.

“It’s them! The Ceauşescus!” The crowd jeered, booed, catcalled, and whistled.

A throng of protestors appeared on the balcony of the Committee Building.

Each step sucked breath and energy from my diminishing reserve.

Fever sucked me in and out of mangled dreams.

“Wealth” didn’t accurately describe it. Excess, extravagance, greed, and gluttony, those words were more accurate.

Excess, extravagance, greed, and gluttony, those words were more accurate. Countless estates across the country, hundreds of millions salted away in foreign bank accounts. They broadcast a video tour of the homes, including their daughter’s, which had a solid gold meat scale and packages of imported veal for her dog.

It’s a very poignant account from Romania, given to him as a Christmas gift. It’s entitled Screaming Whispers: A Romanian Teenager in Bucharest, authored by Anonymous.

A group of second- tier communists took over.

I arrived in the reading room to find five massive stacks of decaying papers. Each stack held hundreds of pages wedged between a flimsy cardboard cover and a string binding.

The files, they were poisonous, disrupting my life and my conscience. Photos from hidden cameras, transcripts from the listening devices in our apartment.

MARIA confirms that her father-in-law is a dissident and her husband harbors anti-communist sentiments.

Her reports contained many statements that informing about dissent was not only her patriotic duty, but her maternal duty.

Her code name was FRITZI and the reports from Paddle Hands about her were denigrating and demeaning.

Her code name was FRITZI and the reports from Paddle Hands about her were denigrating and demeaning.

In addition to his reports on Cici, Paddle Hands’s reports on me were sobering and, at times, chilling:
OSCAR is no longer of use. Take necessary measures.