Dear

Comrade Novák
[a novel]
◆◆◆

Silvia Hildebrandt

First Edition, 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Silvia Hildebrandt

I thank my editors Sarah Brown and Olivia McDaniel for forging my drafts into a novel. Sorry for dealing with my
procrastination, my comma issues, et cetera. I could not have published this novel without you.

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the
publisher.

Cover photo © Craig Whitehead

Font Kachusha © Vladimir Nikolic

Font Capture it ©Koczman Bálint

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

◆◆◆

There is no such thing as a private life in the Socialist Republic. There is no such thing as a homosexual. No such thing as love.
Not a single case of AIDS occurred in the East. Those corrupt Western ideas simply don't exist in a perfect world.
 In 1980s communist Romania, three school graduates form an unusual friendship:young Attila, who's in love with his 45-year-
old teacher; Tiberius, son of high class secret police parents; and the gypsy Viorica, who is forced into a marriage arranged when she
was four.

When a conspiracy scandal throws their life upside down, all three of them will have to choose their sides: for or against the
cruel tyrant Ceaușescu.

A story about conspiracy and revolution, love and hate, and the strong power of friendship.

◆◆◆

[Contents]

Prologue

Chapter 1. Class of 1979

Chapter 2. The Lonely Shepherd

Chapter 3. White Winter

Postscript
 Prologue
◆◆◆

Friday, 12/1 1989

They call him Attila the Hun, Falcon of the Steppe, Hunter of Faggots.
Oddly enough, his first name really is Attila. When he was young, his parents,
his friends, and the whole village gave him the nickname “Attiko.” But now, no
one dares to call him like that anymore. All too aware of his amazing career in
the secret police, no one believes he's only twenty-seven years old.

His interrogations last fifteen minutes; the time it takes to play Maurice
Ravel's “Bolero,” which Attila always uses when working on a subject. Over the
years, he turned his job into an art, every second perfectly choreographed,
beginning with a calm voice, asking about the weather, how nice the sun is
shining today, isn't it? Pretending to be your friend, only to introduce more
instruments, more inquisition tools the louder the music plays, to get the
information he needs in the last thirty seconds. Blasting in a grand drum finale
crushing and breaking the human mind.

Nobody breaks men faster in the cellar offices of the Securitate.

On this day in December, he's called for his hardest job. Only Attila the Hun,
the specialist, can crack that task. Only he can reveal the intrigues from the inner
circle of the military, the betrayal from within. Only he can interrogate a fellow
comrade from the first class garrison of Timișoara.

Attila has his special routine. Leaving his office, he grabs his blood-stained
leather gloves and marches exactly five steps down the corridor. He puts the
gloves on right before he touches the handle to the little room with no windows
and soundproof walls. He doesn't look at his subject when he enters. They have
to observe him, to look upon him. No words are spoken, as he puts the LP record
on the player and the clarinetist tricks them into thinking that this is a joyful and
light occasion, just a formality.

He doesn't deviate from this routine on this day in 1989, as he aims for the
chair in the middle of the dark room. After he clears his throat and turns on the
table lamp, this is always the first time he looks at the man seated in front of
him.

But on this day, the first day since he started his career, he gulps, he gets
nervous. The first man who makes him, the High Inquisitor, anxious. He knows
exactly who is sitting there. His best friend since kindergarten. Save him, his
heart wants to say. Finish him quickly, his survival instincts tell him.

“Tiberius Nicolescu,” Attila takes a deep breath.

“Hi there, Atti.”

Attila fidgets with a paper, his arms shielding his body. He can't look in the
eyes of the man in front of him. He'd fail, this task can't be fulfilled. This is the
end. He can't destroy his best friend from childhood. He thought he could, but it
seems impossible now.

“Nice career. High Investigator of Timișoara. Who would've thought that,

huh?” asks Tiberius, ex-Căpitan of the Red Army, charged with plotting the
murder of president Ceaușescu.

“I am the one who asks questions here,” rumbles Attila's voice along with
Ravel's snare drum.

“Uhhh, now I'm afraid. Okay, as you wish. You can ask me anything. You
always start your gig with some small talk about the weather, don't you?”

Attila's tongue is tied up. He can't move. A rage grabs its claws into his inner
organs.

“So, ah, it's unusually warm for this time of year. Ten degrees Celcius, slight
drizzle, no snow. Wind from North-West.” Nicolescu's eyes hypnotize him, hold
him captive. “Or that's what I've heard in my windowless underground cell.”
 “You're lucky we didn't send you to Moscow.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'm grateful for that. I bet they don't play music there while
they crack your bones? Nice record. Still the same I gave you as a present for
your fifteenth?”

“What did you do on October 20th?” Oh, this doesn't go as planned. Attila
feels his confidence leave him every second, every minute the music raises.

“October? I don't know anymore. You tell me.”

“Does the name 'White Winter' ring a bell?”

“No, should it?”

Attila opens his mouth, but Nicolescu cuts him off before he can speak. “Of
course it rings a bell. Who doesn't know what the 'White Winter' is? People love
gossip. It's a group who conspires to commit Ceaușescu's death. I bet they'll soon
make a telenovela out of it, it's so popular in the yellow press.”

“They had a meeting on October 20th.”

“Oh.” Tiberius's eyes widen, in a mocked expression of shock. “How do you

know, General-Major? That's some big news. Why don't you tell your Mareşal?
Or... hm... did you attend that meeting too? Ah, well yes, now I remember. You
were once a dedicated member of that group, too. We've been missing you for
years. What kept you so long? Family? Your job? Were you finally brainwashed
by those motherfuckers in the Department?”

“You were seen at their meeting point on October 20th. And the week before
that. We observed you attending their groups for half a year.”

“Yeah. Don't you find that thrilling, hm? Perhaps I'm an undercover agent,
nah?”

“You were not our agent. Nobody enlisted you to do this. You were there on
your own decision.”

Tiberius scoffs. “Yeah, there are some plans in the military even you don't
know about. What makes you think you can spy on everything?”
 “I can.”

Nicolescu pretends to be chewing gum. “Oh, so you have no secrets? You

know everything about every citizen in the Socialist Republic? But tell me, does
your boss know about your... little hugger-mugger?”

Attila gulps, he balls his hands to fists, back straightened. “They know
everything.”

“I'd bet all my money they don't. Or you'd not be here.”

“Don't mess with me.”

“Yeah, okay. But they weren't suspicious why you kept on asking about the
files on Mr. Károly, chemistry teacher in 1979 in Timișoara. You know, the one
who got killed because of some ass-fuckery? You knew him? They are aware
you knew him so well?”

“I know his story. He was our teacher and he got rightly killed for his
propensity.”

“They know why you freaked out when you saw him hit by a car? And ain't
you nervous that your boss saw that photo in your wallet, you know the one.
Depicting your lover? What did you say to him? 'Oh, it's my cousin.' Cousin my
ass.” Nicolescu yawns. “Oh, the record stopped by the way. Wanna change to B-
side? It's so quiet without the music here.”

The fifteen minutes are over. And both comrades Novák and Nicolescu are
deep in the trenches.

“No music anymore.”

“So it's only you and me. Showdown at High Noon?” Tiberius winks at him.
“Yeah, I like that. You've seen Star Wars? Reminds me of the last movie. They
showed it legally you know.”

“I will get you for mocking me like this.”

“Oh, no, you won't, Darth Vader. I know the information about you which
will set me free, don't worry. So...” He pretends to stretch his arms, as if he woke
up a few minutes ago, as good as he can for being tied to the chair. “When will it
finally snow, whaddya think? No real winter without sleighing, huh?”

Attila stands up, arranges his glove which slips while he fidgets with it, and
makes a move for the door. “I'm not through with you.”

“I'm looking forward to our second date, sweetheart.” Nicolescu blows air-
kisses. “Buzi, buzi, it's one to one in the grand finale. Who will win? Who will
make the first mistake? Man, I am in for this. The first time an enemy is equal to
me.”

Attila gets out of the room and doesn't close the door behind him. While he
goes back to his office, trying desperately to show confidence in his steps, he
still hears Nicolescu's laughs. “Goal! Goal for Nicolescu. And Novák goes back
into defense. It's a long throw-in, everybody knows he's an excellent striker. But
he's surprised by Nicolescu's defense. Will he break through it? Will he throw his
ball in without an offside? It's only half-time and we're thrilled for the second
half. There can only be one winner. And one loser.”
 Chapter 1
◆◆◆

Class of 1979

Chemistry; Friday's last lesson, Attila's worst school subject. Three weeks
into the year, they're taking a test and he has no clue whatsoever about the
chemical structures of the alkaline he's supposed to draw. The exercise sheet is
smudged, almost blank, scribbled notes without form or any coherent sentences
but mere words, guesses. He bites his left fingernail down to the skin. Halfway
into the lesson, it starts to bleed and he gags on the metallic taste. Like a
wanderer stuck in quicksand, his pleading eyes search for the little bulky man
reaching his forty-fifth birthday soon — Prof. Károly Viktor, his teacher, his
educator, his secret lover.

Károly has a habit of roaming the middle rows of seats like a lion, hands
behind his back, eyes ever perceptive of his students. Here and there, he would
interfere or grunt if an answer doesn't please him. Back and forth, back and
forth, from the teacher's desk to the back of the room, where the Periodic Tables
hang near the exit door.

Attila waits until Károly passes him and then folds a little paper with the
note “Need 1c), 2a)b)e), 3,4,5” until it isn't recognizable as paper, and nudges his
best friend Tiberius Nicolescu, who sits one row in front of him. Tiberius knows
exactly what this means. He quickly turns around, receives the crumpled piece of
paper with the hidden note, turns back; all in a glimpse of a second, before Prof.
Károly can catch them.

And Attila waits, pretends to calculate, to write. But instead, he paints the
numbers of the questions with his ink pen.
 “Ten more minutes”, announces Károly and Attila puts on a confident smile
as he unfolds Tiberius' return note with the sketches of the cycloalkalines and a
“Dude, you're a dumb idiot.”

Furiously, Attila adds Tiberius' answers to the exercise sheet. When the bell
rings, he isn't fully finished, but it has to be enough. However, only a few people
are really good at chemistry: the talented hardworking diligent nerds and those
special people whose parents are members of the Communist Party.

Tiberius Nicolescu belongs to both groups.

But in the Scoala Politehnica, he's the only Romanian student to attend a
Hungarian lyceum in a highly separated society. Every nationality has their own
school: Romanians go to Romanian schools, Hungarians to theirs, and Germans
learn in an all-Teutonic educational world. But being a son of secret police
agents brings certain duties with it. And nobody dares to question or mock him
and his nationality here, because everybody knows he's assigned by the
Department for Inner Security to keep an eye and ear on the students'
mischievousness.

Attila shoulders his school bag, rushes to the desk and hands Károly the test
back, face bent down, not able to look at him. Outside, he doesn't wait for
Tiberius to chat but flees the building, into the autumn sun of Timișoara City.
The train which would transport all boarding school students back to their home
villages for the weekend leaves in the evening. He has plenty of time and he
doesn't want to waste a second.

On his special Friday walk through the streets, he passes Piața Operei,
always sneaking into the little record store in one of the adjacent side streets,
scrolling through LPs he knows he never can afford. He listens to them for
twenty minutes, a single side, in the little shop with the wooden walls and the
strong odor of green lacquered window frames. Then he's off to buy a sandwich
for noon, thinking about the soft, sweet eclairs and savarins from Café Opera,
soaked in syrup, which he can't afford either.

From Piața Operei he follows the tram route along the Orthodox Cathedral,
crossing the river Bega, until he arrives at the four-story building on Bulevardul
Mihai Viteazul, hidden by wild grown beeches. A thousand telephone cables
spanning the city streets like spider webs, and rusty steel fences painted red. The
doorbell buzzes like a broken television and he isn't sure if there's someone at
home already — Attila was fast today on his route — but after a while, the rusty
metallic door opens. The stairway is dark; no one cleaned the windows and so
they don't allow much light in. On the second floor, he enters the apartment and
quickly closes the entrance door.

“I just got here ten minutes ago,” says a voice coming from the balcony.

“I know. Was so uninspired to kill time today,” Attila responds and lets his
bag slide down his shoulder. One second after that, Károly Viktor appears,
smooth in his beige suit and burgundy tie he wore to school today. Although his
fading hair is a bit ruffled from the ride home, he's elegant as always. With big
steps, he passes the hall, checks on his paintings as if they're his afternoon
students. He halts in front of Attila, but doesn't hesitate to cup his cheeks with
his hands, letting his fingers play with the brown locks, and kisses him.

“How was your seventeenth birthday?” he asks him, brushing his ear with
his lips, tickling his cheek with his beard.

“Boring. Too much cake and annoying parents, aunts and uncles. I missed
you.” Károly's touches send shivers to the bone. The summer holiday has been
too long. He missed these Friday afternoon encounters so much, being kissed,
having coffee and cake in the living room stuffed with books and music records,
under the warm blanket on the leather couch. He loves lying in Károly's arms.
He loves his suave scent which takes him away beyond the border, into cities he
only can dream of: Paris, Rome, London. Cities he still believes only exist in
imagination.

“I sucked so bad at today's test,” he says and a tingling sensation spreads on

his skin where Károly kisses him.

“I'll give you a five for trying. I'm sure your friend Tiberius had some right
answers.”

Károly chuckles as Attila inhales sharply and looks at him with his big blue
eyes.

“Don't think I don't notice you two cheating,” Károly replies with a smirk
and Attila leans in for another kiss, starved out like the crusty dried earth after a
summer without rain in the Puszta. “Would you mind waiting in the living room?
I have to go change clothes.”

“Sure.” Attila loosens his tie and sucks in the atmosphere of their lover's
hideaway they'd spent so much time in. As always he's massively impressed by
the meters of bookshelves in every language. He once took out a book, scrolled
through it carelessly, and that was the first time Károly had become angry at
him. “You can't use a book like that. You'll smudge the pages and break its
spine.”

“What? One must see that these are for reading and not for mere
decoration,” he replied with an unsure smile.

“I don't like it when they look like garbage.”

Knowing now, how pedant Károly can be, Attila observes a single book
lying on the coffee table, open, the wind from outside slightly blowing its pages
like long blades of grass. He takes it, closes it and notices the cover is an
unspectacular shade of white with a strange handwritten title on it: “White
Winter.”

“You started reading a new novel?” he asks as Károly comes back. Without
saying a word, he takes it out of his hands and puts it back in its place on the
shelf, ignoring the book and the situation as if it never happened. Closing the
case once and for all, he puts a kiss on Attila's lips, with so much pressure Attila
is actually surprised to be squished like that.

“Tomorrow's your big day to become a man, isn't it?” Károly asks and puts
on a strangely shy smile. Does he notice how harsh he behaved some seconds
ago?

Attila rolls his eyes. “Oh no, not you too! Everybody is annoying me with
that crap. It's just another winter pig slaughter.”

“But this time you'll wield the sword, not your father. You'll be knighted, you
mighty warrior of the steppe,” Károly laughs while he massages Attila's legs.

“Ha, ha. Et tu, Brute?” He sighs. “No, seriously. My parents act so proud and
they tell half the village what cakes and shit they're baking for my big day.
They're making more fuzz about it than they had for my birthday ever. But they
don't notice I couldn't care less for their pseudo-noble celebration.”
 “Poor boy. Nobody understands you.”

When Attila's class director announced the name of their new chemistry
professor last year, he imagined a senile, militaristic autocrat. The first lessons
were tough indeed as this Mr. Károly Viktor seemed such a well-educated, strict
and demanding teacher. A change occurred around the winter holidays when
Attila couldn't stop thinking about school, about a school subject he normally
hated. He lay awake thinking about his teacher, the precise way his hands
arranged Erlenmeyer flasks, test tubes, his distinct way of holding the chalk
when writing on the blackboard. The strong veins on the back of his hand, his
gestures radiating sophistication, life experience, tenderness. He ceased to hang
around with Tiberius during recess, listening to his best friend's adventures with
girls. Instead, he lingered in front of the chemistry staff room. Perhaps Károly
would come out and he could ask him a question about homework? Perhaps he
could hide behind a corner and observe Károly marching down the hall?

It didn't take long until Károly noticed that Attila always was within reach of
him.

“Do you need extra tutoring lessons in chemistry?” Károly asked one day in
spring. Attila affirmed with a nod, chewing his fingernails.

He couldn't remember when they first met outside of school, but Károly had
this little apartment on Bulevardul Mihai Viteazu, where he lived during the
week while teaching. It changed from a simple private lesson to something more,
as they soon discovered that their feelings for each other were mutual.

Attila made the first move; his hand let go of the pen, came to rest on
Károly's arm and stayed there too long, but Károly didn't brush it away. He
allowed it, and after a while, his own hand covered Attila's.

The spring of 1979 saw them kissing in this apartment, which became their
home, their temporary home for Friday afternoon. Lips on lips, a sweaty
student's uniform against the teacher's suit.

In May, shortly before the long summer holiday, Károly's hand wandered
down Attila's back. He almost died. But then Károly stopped.
 “Drágám,” he whispered into Attila's ear, “I don't know if this is a good idea
for you. I don't want to hurt you.”

Attila was frightened and unsure. He didn't know why Károly started to
speak about being hurt, but he sensed that this was a border, something only
adults did and understood. Something like working or filling out complicated
forms; something he didn't want to do yet, to prolong as long as possible. He'd
heard Tiberius boast about what he did to girls in bed and surely Attila didn't
want to defile his relationship to Károly with that. He knew Károly had a wife at
his home village near Timișoara and he was sure they did it, but merely out of
obligation. Their love, on the other hand, was purer, better, more elaborate than
that and it needn't any of the dirty stuff.

But as his seventeenth birthday drew near, he grew curious about the things
Tiberius and his other friend, the gypsy Viorica, had jabbered about endlessly, on
summer days at the lake, swimming in the warm water and lazing about in the
yellow grass.

“The magic word you're searching for is sex,” Tiberius told him with a wink,
biting on a cigarette he'd stolen from his parent's house.

“Why, I always thought the magic word's love,” he replied and they burst out
laughing.

After all, someone who is just interested in sex wouldn't have said, 'I don't
want to hurt you.'

“You're not hurting me, but let's wait until my eighteenth birthday, will
you?” Attila said to Károly after that, “It'll make a great birthday present for both
you and me.” He leaned into Károly's hand and together they swayed into the
kitchen.

Listening to the classic channel on the radio now, they're eating two eclairs
from the Café Opera, and Károly puts on a record with their favorite Tango
music.

“Tell me again about Paris, about the sights. Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe,
the Louvre. I can't get enough of your stories,” Attila demands. It's not enough
that Timișoara is called Paris of the East — well, it had been called like this ages
ago, before the decline of the economy — no, Attila's big dream, the compass of
his life, is reaching the West, to live in Paris with Károly. Together, not needing
to hide anymore from a regime who wants to put them in jail for merely holding
hands.

“Well, the Eiffel tower is much bigger than you would expect. And the
streets are dirtier and loaded with garbage, you wouldn't know that you ever left
the East. And really, the pigeons are a nightmare.” He sits down, never letting go
of Attila's hands, drags him onto his lap, then embraces him and massages
circles on his back. “You still wanna go? I mean, if we're not killed at the border
that is, huh?”

Suddenly Attila's mood plummets with the feeling as if he'd planned his
birthday months in advance, refined every little detail only to get one rejection
after the other. Still, Károly doesn't take his wish seriously. He makes fun of the
idea, of the plan. But it's no joke for Attila, he's deadly earnest about it,
passionate and feverish. “You don't think we can do it? You don't think we'll
make it to the West?”

“Joj, drágám, I don't want you to get shot.”

“I won't. You'll see. There's no way they'll get us.”

“Oh, drágám, drágám, just promise me you won't do anything stupid, okay?”

The only three trains on Friday that leave for the boarding school students'
home villages are the eleven-o'clock, the twelve-o'clock and the eighteen-
o'clock. If you're fast and leave early, you almost can make it to Gara Timișoara
Nord by foot, but Attila waits until the last minute and then he hurries out of the
building to the bus station, running to the already halting double-decker,
shouting, and in the last moment — he almost had his hands squished by the
shutting doors — he makes it. Out of breath, shaken by the driver's sidestepping
maneuvers through the streets pregnant with potholes, he doesn't find a seat at
this time of day, meeting with the commuters who also head for the direction of
their weekend homes in the surrounding suburbs, towns, and villages.

His tired eyes, burning from the sweat running from his forehead, never
leave the sight of the Bulevardul where Károly's house is located. You can see it
getting smaller and smaller as the bus rides away, leaving the Faculty of
Electrical Engineering behind. Only when it turns at the junction to
Vladimirescu Tudor-street facing the river Bega, does he lose sight of their
lover's nest and feels a deep, deep sting in his heart, as if he'd been stabbed and
deprived of his home.

Another week until the next chemistry lesson. Another endless week at home
and at school, waiting, sneaking to catch a glimpse of Prof. Károly Viktor.

It's magical how Attila and Tiberius would always find each other on the
over-crowded platform. Of course they have their arranged spot where they wait
for each other to meet. But more often they'd randomly run into each other in the
middle of the station, at a newspaper stand, at the restrooms.

“As if a chemistry law drives us together,” Tiberius always jokes.

“Spare me with chemistry,” is Attila's typical answer.

“You're late,” Tiberius says as the train rolls in and Attila throws a candy
paper into the trash can. “Where have you been?”

“Uhm,” Attila rubs the back of his neck, sweat makes his hair and hands
greasy, “I was at the cinema.”

“Uh, the cinema, cool. Are they open again? Haven't heard for weeks they'll
play a film. Why haven't you told me?”

Attila inhales sharply and a whistle escapes his throat. “I... I didn't think
about it, sorry.”

Smiling, Tiberius puffs his shoulder. “Hey, you know how much I'm a sucker
for films. And in these days they rarely show any. How rude of you, pal.”

Attila shrugs. “Sorry.” And immediately he feels cold as if a bucket of ice

water is thrown upon him. What if Tiberius would spy and check the cinema
schedule and find out that nothing had been planned for months. What if he...?

“Hey, wanna spend the weekend here at the station? Come on. Train's
leaving soon.”
 “Ah, yeah.”

Crushed between the other students from so many different boarding schools
throughout the city, between old men and women who live on the train, always
on the tracks, always on the flight from the Miliția and the Securitate, caught
between businessmen and travelers, they finally find a compartment and let
themselves slump on the worn out leather benches, shut the door and draw the
curtain so no one can peek in.

“I hope we'll remain alone today. Remember that weird woman from last
week? With only one eye? I still can't get her stinking breath outta my
nightmares.”

“Hm,” is Attila's only reply. As much as he loves being with Tiberius, lets
himself be carried away by his light easiness, today isn't that kind of day. The
weather gets darker, clouds overcast the sun, and a melancholy mood arises in
him, making him want to be alone and contemplate.

“Hu-hu. I asked you if you managed the test today after all?”

“Um, yes, yes. I did.”

“But Prof. Károly announced this last week. And he only tested the alkaline.
You could've learned them by heart so easily. It was a steal getting a good mark.”

“Whatever. Could you please stop talking about school, you geek. It's
weekend now.” Sometimes he's so envious of Tiberius, how he's good in all
subjects, how popular he is in class, how easy he is with the girls. His parents are
first class communists, often travel to Bucharest and kiss Ceaușescu's ass, and
they've assigned him to be a spy, yet Tiberius still manages to remain some kind
of rebel and no security police cares about it. Everything he touches turns to
gold. Attila is proud that Tiberius calls him his best friend. He's no bully who
exercises his right to judge upon weaker people and gathers a clique around him
consisting of the meanest people at school. No, on the other hand, Attila is
astonished how Tiberius never loses interest in developing a deep friendship
with him, the loser. They spent countless hours two years ago when both of them
started to play the violin, practicing on Maurice Ravel's “Bolero,” the only music
that isn't restricted and available at the regular market. He reminds himself to be
careful, if he loses Tiberius, he'll lose everything. Tiberius is his rampart,
protecting him from dropping out of school, from being jailed, from being shot,
as he acts like the risky homosexual he is.

“So, your dog, Attiko. How's it going?”

“Hm, I don't know. He was very weak last Sunday. I doubt he's still alive.”

“Oh, Atti, so sorry for you. You must be devastated. You grew up with this
dog. I know how much you love him.”

“Ah-hum.”

“Okay. You don't wanna talk about it. Got it.”

Attila is grateful that a bunch of other boarders rush into the compartment
and distract the painstaking conversation. He doesn't know why he feels so off.
Something in the afternoon, something between him and Károly has happened,
that growls in his subconscious and leaves him with a dark mood. Paris... Living
together... Fleeing together... Károly didn't earnestly plan their escape from
Romania...?

“Or you're in love, eh?” Tiberius grins and Attila's heart misses a beat. The
train puffs over the bridge spanning the river Timiș. The rain drizzle forms a
thousand little pearls on the water.

“Finally. I thought something might be abnormal with you late bloomer.

Who is she? Do I know her?” Tiberius loosens the tie under his sweater and
winks at Attila. If only he would be silent, just today! How on earth can he make
up a story so quickly?

“Yeah, you've been off for months, I've only fully noticed just now. So,
what's her name?”

“Erm–, eh, K–Karolina,” spitting out the first name that comes to his mind.

“Awesome. Karolina from parallel class?”

“No, no. She's from– from the other village, from er– she's from Voiteg. You
don't know her.”

“Ha. What do you do in that hicksville? When have you ever been there?”
At this exact moment, the train comes to halt at the little station in the village
Voiteg, last station before they'd get off home, and Attila blushes. Shit, what a
weak lie.

“I– I don't know.”

“Why, you're weird today. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you've got a
secret. Must I denounce you directly to the big boss?”

Attila flinches.

“Easy, easy, just a joke. Come on, I'm sorry. Terrible joke, I know.”

They spend the last fifteen minutes of the ride in silence, observing the
raindrops running down the windows, alone after the other kids left the train for
Voiteg.

“Ah, look, Viorica's here.” Tiberius waves at the girl standing on the
platform of their hometown, her black locks falling down her shoulders like a
waterfall. As always, she wears that sarcastic smirk on her face, her puffy cheeks
wobble as she welcomes her friends with an air-kiss.

“My boys,” she says when they get off the train. She kisses each of them on
the cheek. The other passengers ogle the strange group of friends: the Securitate
son, the Hungarian, and the gypsy girl. Everyone knows everybody in this little
town, but they don't dare to gossip freely in open daylight when Tiberius is
involved — everybody knows the Nicolescus are Ceaușescu's pets.

The station is located near the cemetery and it's the ritual of Friday, when the
three of them reunite, that they smoke a secret cigarette there.

“God, Viorica, not those awful Sputniks.” Tiberius tears the package open
and looks like he'd bitten a lemon.

“Hey, I was in charge this week and I don't get the German brands like you,
comrade.”

“The paper crumbles in your mouth and it tastes like sawdust.”

“Okay, then you buy them from now on til death do us part.”
 “Great idea.” Nevertheless, he takes one in his mouth and Viorica lights
every one of their cigarettes. As always, Attila is the only one who has to cough
after the first puffs and stomps it out half-smoked.

“Hey, guess what?” asks Tiberius and leans on the bench, his gaze observing
the hills and rows of stone monuments and little death houses. “Our little Attiko
here is in love.”

“What? In love? This innocent unicorn? No way.”

Attila rolls his eyes and his feet crush the pebbles in front of him.

“Yes, I couldn't believe it either,” Tiberius replies.

“Ah. Who's she? Oh! Oh! Don't say anything. It's... It's me, eh?” She winks
at him to indicate it's a joke. Normally Viorica and Tiberius are good company,
easing his love sickness, but today they only annoy him.

“Why, Viorica. Everybody knows the Huns don't mix with the gypsies.”
Only best friends can tease each other like this, in a country where you can get
arrested for being born into the false nationality, where ethnicities are strictly
separated. Tiberius takes a deep puff from his cigarette and laughs. “Well,
wouldn't mind. As long as it's not a boy. You're not an ass-fucker, are you?” And
he bursts out laughing at his own joke as if it's the most hilarious thing in the
world.

Attila's heartbeat stops and cold sweat pours down his forehead. He
swallows down a thick lump, but tries to smile. “Yeah, imagine that. Why would
you think of me as one of them, eh?”

Tiberius places an arm around Attila's shoulder. “Only the thought of it. I
know you since kindergarten and to realize you always wanted to fuck my ass.
How sick would that be, eh? Gotta drag you personally to Ceaușescu then, huh?”

“Ha, ha. Yes.”

“Hey, boys. Enough of that sick shit. It's late, gotta go home,” announces
Viorica and tries to speak louder than Tiberius guffaws.

They say goodbye to Viorica who marches in a different direction home.

And together they head down the street of Stephen The Great, passing the empty
Catholic church in the village center. Since the occupation, it's used as a tithe
barn collecting food taxes for the Communist Party.

“Big day for you tomorrow, Attiko, eh?” says Tiberius as they hop on the
cracked stone pavement, eager to not touch the gaps, as they did since they were
little kids.

“What do you mean?”

“The slaughter day. Your initiation ritual.”

“Oh, that.” Attila rolls his eyes. “Yep.”

“So wanna meet tomorrow evening to celebrate? Shall we go to the harvest

ball? You can bring your darling with you.”

Attila stops in its movements. How can he lie like that to his best friend?
Now he's gotta live with it, always betraying him, always on the hunt, always
cautious not to say something suspicious. He swore to himself he'd never be like
the others, always in doubt if their friends, neighbors, family members were
spies. “Erm, I–, I don't know. I don't think she'll like that.”

“Well, she'll have to attend the ball in her own village anyway, won't she?”

“Yes, yes. Totally.”

“Okay.” They reach the Tiberius' farmhouse gate and he searches for the
keys in his school bag. “But let's meet somewhere. We can take our bicycles and
go for a refreshing splash in the river, shall we? Last bath before the cold
weather finally sets in. I'll bring the cigarettes. German brand. Promised.”

Attila shrugs. “Yes, sounds great. Szia.”

Tiberius does his typical goodbye wink and disappears behind the closing
gate. And Attila remains standing there for some more minutes, motionlessly
staring at the little letters underneath the doorbell, reading “Nicolescu.” A name
so familiar, so ordinary, yet so intimidating to him now. Like a gun, protecting
him from his enemies, yet a ticking time bomb, which can always backfire if he
makes the slightest mistake.
 Mihai's Village was built three hundred years ago in the enlightenment era
by the German settlers, and when the glory of the Austro-Hungarian empire and
the horrors of the Third Reich faded into the darkness of the USSR occupation,
the once prosperous town full of flowers and wonderful buildings declined into a
satellite suburb for the monstrous furniture factory.

At its barb wired wall, the gypsies have built their little shack sub-society.

This is Viorica's home.

Like the normal farms of the town's inhabitants, the gypsy shacks line up on
Strada Carpați, a pearl necklace of do-it-yourself-wannabe-mansions. But the
center of every Romanian home is the large courtyard, which separates the
longhouse to the gardens. Life happens there; from March to October, everyone
is cooking in the “summer kitchen” in the courtyard and the richer ones even
own a summer-living room. Inside, life remains dark, curtains drawn, shutters
keeping the heat out, only the sick bedridden people are cut away from the
outdoor courtyard society, celebrating their weddings and baptisms and summer
bliss.

Today, there's much bustle in the Negrescu courtyard. The flowers in the
little rose garden are trimmed, ready to be cut and arranged in vases. Tables,
benches, and chairs are crammed into a corner where the well is located. But
most of all, there hangs the smell of cakes, pies and tarts in the air, baked weeks
in advance for the great event. It's a science to schedule the cake baking, as some
pies have to ripen for a few days, and some tarts have to be made fresh.

Viorica still remembers the day in summer thirteen years ago. The courtyard
was more beautiful that she ever could recall. On this day, the marriage between
four-year-old Viorica and nine-year-old Bogdan had been arranged.

And the special day would be in one week. The preparations are in their last
moves, the insides and outsides buzz of moms, aunts, sisters, grandmothers,
dressed in house tunics and aprons full of sticky flour and splashes of egg yolks.

One month ago, they bought the wedding dress in the city of Timișoara, and
since then the five-kilo-heavy dress has its very own room in the house, a ghost
in the castle. She loves the dress. Every night in bed, she imagines wearing it,
swaying with it. But when it comes to the actual wedding, she feels like a pig led
to slaughter. Every time she sees herself dressed in the puffed, ruffled gown,
she's running in her day-dreams across the field, out of the town, fleeing the
wedding day, off to the border, off to the West.

Her husband-to-be gives her the creeps. Her sisters and relatives are envious
because she's to marry the manliest man in Mihai's Village. Bogdan's a true hero,
who marches with his axe in his hands and chops down every head who dares to
look at you in a false way. A true man, who can please his wife a whole night
without letting her breathe.

But she would practically commit murder in order to get a man like Tiberius
Nicolescu, although she knows he never had a romantic interest in her, not
because she's a gypsy and considered a rat in society, but because Tiberius is too
damn noble and wouldn't do a move on his best friend. In fact, Tiberius is so
noble and sincere that it scratches on dumbness.

He's so cute, lovable.

A boy to fall for.

This weekend is the peak of harvest season, the highest rural festivity; the
slaughter of the winter pig. Every household saved the money from working all
year long in order to get the fattest pig from the butcher. While it squeals
contently on Friday in the large gardens and plantations of the houses, it would
be dragged to the center of the courtyard on Saturday and worshiped as the god
of the winter kitchen. And while the violins and accordions of a quasi-religious,
quasi-forbidden folklore would fill the air of the country, the father of the house
rips the neck of the pig open, leaves it to bleed in the middle of the festively
ornamented courtyard, the autumn-red blood filling the dried out concrete cracks
with life.

Every part of the body will be processed for food which has to get the people
through winter.

While all inhabitants laugh and have a good time, cheering with beers in one
hand and cigarettes in the other to the dying life-saving animal, Attila prefers to
spend this day in his room, shutting out the oinks by the record player with
Ravel's march on endless repeat.
 “I'm home,” he announces, heading directly to his room at the end of the
long corridor.

“What took you so long?” The voice of his mother Izabella welcomes him,
over-toning the blissful babbles, the female relatives' festive chatter coming from
the kitchen, where the army of the house women prepare the sweet cakes.

Hand on the doorknob to his room, he replies: “I took a walk.” But it's a
mistake. His mother rushes to him, wiping her hand on her apron. “A walk? In
this weather? It has started to rain? Why, Attiko, your hair's wet. You'll catch a
cold. That's the last thing we'll need for tomorrow.”

“Hm,” he shrugs.

“Oh, and... I'm sorry, drágám, but your dog died on Wednesday. He was so
much in pain that your father shot him.”

Attila gulps. His room's door squeals as he opens it. The shutters are always
drawn from Monday to Friday when he attends the boarding school. “Okay,” he
just answers into the dark.

“I'm really sorry.”

“Okay, thanks, Mami.” Just leave me alone, he screams internally.

“If you wanna talk...”

“No! No, thanks. It's okay.”

“But if you decide otherwise...”

“It's okay, Mami, really.”

“Well then.” Her eyes gaze into his room, tracing the beams of light that
escape through the shutters. “You know, I'm always there for you. You know
that?”

“I know, Mami.”

“But have you considered... I mean, can I ask you something?”

 He puts every bit of strength together. “Yes, sure.”

“You don't think he was poisoned by this Nicolescu guy? As a warning? I

mean, I know his parents work for the department and they got him into the
Hungarian Politehnica. And you always tell me how close you are. Don't you
think he spies on us especially?”

“What the hell. Mami! He's my best friend.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but still...” She smiles at him and strokes his cheek, “You
keep that in mind, will you, drágám?”

“Yes, okay. Now, please, Mami. I'm tired.”

“Of course. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is the big day.”

When he can finally shut his door and the world out, the tension escapes the
pores of his body, floods him with shivers of anger and sadness. If only he's able
to cry and not be ripped between his rage and disappointment. Leaving the
shutters dark as they are, directly heading to the record player and his
headphones, his mind starts to race. Postponed thoughts break free like blood
sprinkles out of the neck of the sacrificial pig.

He doesn't want to go with you to Paris. He'll never leave his wife. He'll
never leave his life, his job, his status behind for you.

Attila turns the sound level up until the music blasts his ears.

Tomorrow's the big day, his big day. The death of the pig, the initiation of
Novák Attila. He'll be the one who wields the butcher's knife and transfers the
animal, the swine, half-god of the Puszta, from life to death. He'll be a man
tomorrow, a grown-up, a proud Hungarian, a warrior descendant from the
peoples of the steppe, a soldier.

Of course, this is his path.

Killing a pig, graduating the lyceum, three years of military service in the
Red Army, marrying, inheriting the house, having kids, working at the furniture
factory.
 This ancient path set by his forefathers doesn't involve an apartment in Paris
with his lover.

He stomps his fist on his desk. Another leveling up of the volume until his
inner voices are silenced, until nothing remains but the constant heartbeat of the
snare drum.

On Saturday morning there's a parcel in Tiberius' room, enthroned on a chair

right opposite his bed. Last night he heard his parents come home, a careful
rustle in the night, silent footsteps, whispers, at three o'clock, night's dead hour.

Tiberius knows exactly what's in the package. With sleepy eyes in the half-
dark room, he tears it open, very accurately, like a ceremony at a birthday.

It's a Red Army's soldier coat and immediately his chest gets broader, his
shoulders stiffen as he holds the coat in front of his body and looks at his
reflection in the mirror.

It fits perfectly.

I'll make my parents proud. I'll be a good soldier.

He clicks his heel's and salutes to himself.

I'll be a good servant for my fatherland. Keep it clean from any harm and
enemies.

One hour before her sisters and mother are awake, Viorica gets out of bed,
her heart thumping in her chest, and sneaks into the bride's gown room. There in
the middle, the white dress floats in the air, a mighty spirit made of puffed up
polyester. A haunting ghost sprinkled with kitschy blood-red lace roses.

Of course, her sisters scared the shit out of her when they told her what the
red color on a bridal dress really meant. At night, like a horror story, they told
her, not missing any detail, about the duties and obligations of an adult married
woman. They gave her tips on how to please her future husband, how she's
supposed to spread her legs and bend her hips into the right angle to conceive a
boy, a son, an heir. Every night, she has whipstitched little invisible pockets on
the inside of the dress where she hides money she stole from the people in the
waiting lines for the distribution of the weekly bread ration, day after day, a
whole year.

This money will be enough to get us three through Hungary and to Austria.

There's no doubt her best friends Tiberius and Attila would accompany her
on her flight.

In this dress, I won't get with child, but pregnant with money and freedom,
she vows to herself.

At the Novák farm, Saturday afternoon, the sacrificial pig is chased in a

choreographed knight hunting game across the courtyard. The men — Attila's
father, his uncles, his brothers and his cousins — stalemate the animal, cheering,
bawling out, whistling the hongroise, starting slow, increasing speed, swirling up
until it changes into a wild ecstatic chanter. The circle around the squealing
victim gets tight and tighter and then it comes to a halt in front of Attila.
Suddenly every sound fades. Even the crickets stop to chirp in the grassland.

Attila stares directly into the pig's wide dark eyes. Funny when he realizes
that animals have eyelashes, too, and that's the moment when he almost
crumples. The whole day, he has been building up his strength for this afternoon
and managed pretty well. But the eyelashes hit him. The blinking animal's eye
looking through him; this is not only dead meat to eat, but a human-equal life
form consisting of feelings, dreams and wishes, like him.

“Attila. That's it, my son! Now's your big day to become a man. Do it.” He
hears his father shout from the distance.

But this familiar voice is so surreal now, as if he's talking on the phone to his
son.

The only real thing in this glimpse of a second is the eye of the pig talking to
him.
 He'll never give up his life for you, Attiko, the pig says.

And with one sharp, strong blow of his sword-like knife, he tears the neck of
the hypnotized pig open and the blood sprinkles his face a deep red.
◆◆◆

“Why didn't you wanna meet on Saturday?” asks Tiberius on Sunday

evening, back in the boarding school dorm they share together in Timișoara.
“We'd made plans to go to the river. It got hot on that day. Perfect late summer
weather.”

“I didn't feel like it.” Attila takes the clean clothes out of his suitcase and
puts them in his closet. “My dog died and I was depressed.”

“Oh, sorry. Shit. Okay, that's understandable.” Tiberius can't tell when the
change happened. This weekend, last week, last year? Attila always made him
feel like a normal boy, and not the cruel security police officer as he and his
family were rumored to be. Tiberius never was sure if people really wanted to be
friends with him or if they befriended him for their own benefit. His name was a
blessing and a curse. But all that didn't mean a thing to Attila, it seemed. He was
the only one who talked to him normally, who didn't plan every word and
conversation as if talking to him was an inquisition.

When Attila revealed that he meets with a girl and when he didn't show up
last evening while Tiberius had waited for him at the river, Tiberius felt a sting in
his heart which he never experienced before. Everyone thought he was the tough
cool boy, but in fact, he would be nothing without his best friend Attila; he's his
rock in the storm, the one who makes him feel like he has a real loving and
caring family. And now what he always feared finally happened: Attila is in love
with a gal, spending more and more time with her, abandoning him. He knows
it's hypocritical because he's had a ton of girls himself, but anyway.

“What?”

“Huh?” Tiberius is torn out of his daydreams.

 “You look at me like a disgusting spider is crawling all over my face.”

“Hm, yeah.” He shrugs. “You know, you should shave more often. Beard's
getting more prominent. I guess the initiation slaughter worked so far?”

Attila throws a pillow in his direction, smirks. “Very funny.” He sighs as he

finishes the task of restocking his dorm closet. “Okay. Guess it's time for the
homework.”

“Homework? Now? You didn't do them at the weekend?”

“Nope. Since when do you know me?” As Attila sits down and takes out his
crumpled notebooks, a flutter flies through Tiberius' heart. Yes, he's known him
since forever, he knows everything about him. The secrets they shared, the
pranks they did. As eager Tiberius is to graduate and finally start the military
service, as anxious he feels when thinking that they could, no, certainly will be
separated. He wants to achieve something, to bond with the high generals, he'll
be stationed near Bucharest, among the high society of the Party. And Attila will
choose the nearest garrison to his home, the safest and easiest way to get through
a time that must seem to a boy like him as pure horror. Will they still be friends?
Will they meet on home leave? Will the few occasions be enough? On what is
their friendship built? Tiberius can't say exactly. They don't have that much in
common actually, but it's so easy, so natural to be with him, to learn with him, or
just to chill next to each other.

As an only child, the heir to his parents, the biggest political hope of the
village, he finds everything on the homely Attila fascinating. When he visits him
and his vast family with his brothers and his sister — István and Gábriel and
Ánná — he always finds a certain warmth and homecoming feeling he lacks
when he's with his own parents. Yes, Attila is more a family to him than his own,
a brother he always wished for.

Then there's the week to go through, the hell of longing for the chemistry
class on Friday. The long hours of literature, maths, Russian and — worst of all
— sports on Monday. The horror of changing in the boy's cubicle, listening to
their girls' adventures while Attila is forced to stare at their half-naked bodies.
And always — always! — Tiberius is the star of them, the one everybody looks
up to.
 When he tied his shoes, Tiberius stands up, addresses the class and declares
as if he's a speaker at a political announcement: “And may I introduce our
newest member to our beloved party of banging women? Our truthful new
comrade in arms, the one and only Attila the Hun.” Everybody starts to laugh
and Tiberius embraces Attila in a tight hug. “Initiation on every level, am I right,
buddy?”

“Yes, yes, very funny,” growls Attila and hopes the topic's set with it. He has
a horrible feeling in his stomach. Because of this joke and because of the next
two hours of never-ending push ups, pull ups, crowned with a half-hour
endurance run at the end of the lesson.

As they march for the sports hall, some boys slap Attila on his shoulders,
wishing him well for “finally becoming a man,” congratulating, “well done,
Attiko,” and then they line up in front of the teacher, the class becomes silent
and in synchronization they salute: “We swear, comrade Ceaușescu, that we will
honor and fulfill your commandment. The Party is pure and everlasting. Salvare!
Salvare! Salvare!”

Without saying a word, teacher Horváth marches down the row of boys,
inspecting everyone closely, making some remarks on their posture and
appearance.

“My dear comrade Nicolescu,” he says when he stands in front of him,

“what a wonderful example you give us today, as always. Look at him,” he
addresses the class. “That's what a faithful soldier should look like. We all
should take an example from him. Whereas...” And now it's Attila's turn, “Well.
Novák. No surprise here. Why are you standing so lanky? It's only Monday. And
why is your hand turned inwards while saluting? Do you want to mock me?”

In the last moment, Attila can suppress rolling his eyes. “No, Sir.”

“And what is with your hair? Where's your haircut? You wanna look like a
girl, eh?”

The class laughs. Tiberius next to him clears his throat.

“Forgot to cut it, Sir,” Attila whispers, annoyed by this weekly ritual. It
should be intimidating, but by now, after one year, it's only boring and repetitive.
 “Actually he was into a girl,” says one student and unwillingly his voice
resounds from the walls, comes out way too loud.

“Excuse me?” Prof. Horváth frowns, but then can't control a smirk. “You
say, this little kid here, this wastrel of a man, got his rifle into a girl?”

Yes, the obligatory laugh, louder than before. Almost unnoticeable, Tiberius
steps closer to Attila. He's the only one who doesn't laugh. “What a jerk,” he
says and Attila grins.

“So, Attila. Or shall I call you comrade Novák from now on, eh?” He winks.
“What a strength the male body draws from women, ej? Could you demonstrate
to us how well your initiation worked? Can you finally do the twenty push-ups
you always struggled with?”

Attila shrugs.

The voice of Prof. Horváth falls lower: “That was not a question.”

Eyes pinned to the cracked plastic floor, Attila takes a step forward, gets to
his knees, then on his elbows. The first five are easy, but as soon as he's reaching
the ten mark, his feet and legs begin to shiver, his back burns and every muscle
in his body hurts and cries to stop.

“Eeee-leven. Twe.... ah. Ah. Ah. That doesn't count. Do it again. Twelve.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Come on. Just as easy as doing it in the bed.”

By fifteen — Prof. Horváth's students are laughing bodily — he can't go up.

Attila clenches his teeth, strains his arms, legs, belly, back, everything, but his
body just gives up and he remains lying on the cold floor, its linoleum stinking
of past student's successes and humiliations.

“Oh come on, Novák! That can't be all? Did you even bust your nuts on your
girl or did you surrender just as fast as here?”

Attila growls, gets back to his knees, manages to stand up and queues back
next to Tiberius. “Excuse me, Prof. Horváth.”

“You gotta do your training to please your little lady, Novák.”

 “Yes, Sir.”

“And the Party, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ceaușescu, before we forget to mention it, needs strong boys and not
pussies in his army. In a year from now on, you'll know it.”

“Yes, Sir.” Every answer is accompanied by the student's laughter, like in

one of those American comedy series that his television receives when he does
the secret tricks bending his antenna.

“Sorry. Guess, it was my fault, Attiko,” Tiberius says after Prof. Horváth
dismisses his class. His voice sounds rueful.

“Oh shut up.”

“Hey. I didn't mean to mention it in the changing room, okay? I am so

terribly sorry.”

“Tibi. Save it.” Back to their classroom for literature, Attila is fed up with
Tiberius' apologies. He's not hurt by Tiberius' jokes; those are predictable, as is
Prof. Horváth's teasing, too. No, he's embarrassed by that insecure and tenderly
careful expression in Tiberius' voice.

“It's just that... I feel miserable for forgetting that you're not the person
who...”

“Good afternoon, comrades.”

“Good afternoon, Prof. Balázs.”

The door behind Attila closes with a loud thud as the teacher enters and
passes him. He can see the book in his hands, Panait Istrati's “Kyra Kyralina,” a
novel they set up as an example of what happens to men when they leave the
righteous path and choose to be a miscreant. It thrills Attila to read that tale. He
always believes it to be a true love story, one about two men, however. His heart
thundered in his body when Prof. Balázs introduced the novel, although he
taught it as a bad example.

“Oh, not that ass-fucker book again? When are we finished yet?” scoffs
Tiberius in an attempt to cheer him up.

“We swear, comrade Ceaușescu, that we will honor and fulfill your
commandment,” sound teacher and class in unison, “The Party is pure and
everlasting. Salvare! Salvare! Salvare!”

“Ass-fuck. Ass-fuck. Ass-fuck,” whispers Tiberius so only Attila can hear it.

“Okay, you're hilarious. I got it.”

“Would you mind being silent, Novák?” Prof. Balázs instructs him and
immediately his head sacks down.

“You remember on what page we'd left last week?”

One second, he hesitates, presses his lips together. He feels the teacher's eyes
piercing through him and as quickly as his rebellious mood arose, it flees just as
fast. “Yes, Sir.” His heart skips a beat when he realizes that Prof. Balázs'
complaint implies him reading the next passage out loud. Him! Reading about
the two men in love. Has the whole universe turned against him today? With a
dry mouth, raspy voice, lips trembling, he reads.

“Louder, please. I can't hear you, comrade Novák.”

“I...”, he clears his throat, “I don't want to read it.” He gathers all his
strength, “It's too disgusting for me.”

“And rightly so,” he can hear Tiberius whisper next to him.

“Disgusting? Ah, I see.” Prof. Balázs closes the novel and holds it up in the
air. “Look at this book, kids. Look at it. It is indeed disgusting. Comrade Novák
is right and I'm a bit surprised that his wits of all people have realized it. And
you know what you can do with this book?”

“What? Besides shove it into your ass?” Tiberius whistles.

 “You can take this book as an example to not stray away from the right path.
Don't be that disgusting person as described in the book. Don't go away from the
path the Party and Ceaușescu have chosen for you. Do you hear me? Don't be a
homosexual revolutionist.”

He doesn't even know what the word homosexual means, Attila frowns, the
word is just an insult for him.

It's a synonym for traitor.

On Wednesdays, they have the afternoon off. Last week, Attila used to linger
in front of the chemistry classroom and lurk into it, when students came out after
a lesson, catching a glimpse of Prof. Károly. A smile, a wink, a wave with his
hand. But today, there's a teacher conference in the meeting hall, so Attila spends
his day at the Piaţă Operei, on a bench facing the grand Orthodox Cathedral,
observing the people who go into the Café Opera. Not necessarily rich people,
but men in uniforms of the Red Army, in civil with badges of the Party, parents
with their children dressed in their young pioneer uniform. You can't walk in
there with your normal clothes, with your normal life, and with no connections.
You're ignored, or worse, kicked out like a beggar. And so he sits there,
daydreaming, while a thunder rolls, while the day gets darker, sucking in the
melancholy of the atmosphere, the air pregnant with heavy black clouds, the
wind whispering of a storm's outburst.

“I knew I could find you here.”

An all too familiar voice. Attila rolls his eyes. “Can't you leave me alone for
one single day?”

Tiberius slaps his shoulder. “No, or you'll die of boredom. What are you
doin' here? Sitting? Staring into the air?”

He shrugs.

“Okay. Wanna come in for a coffee?”

“I am not qualified.”
 “Hey, I'll invite you as my special guest, comrade Novák. Huh?”

A thick raindrop falls on his forehead, on his nose, on his cheek, rinsing into
his collar.

“How can I say no to a command from a Nicolescu?”

“Is this a compliment or an insult?” Tiberius really looks confused. How

come he still doesn't know how the others see him? How come he still wonders
why everybody is reluctant to have a deep friendship with the secret police son,
afraid to go too deep, to slip a sentence which can be interpreted as offensive,
which can send someone to the death of the Carpathian mountain exile. Yes, and
why's Attila so easy going with him, why isn't he frightened for his future, for
his life? Why is their connection, their chemistry, their bond so different?

So they enter and immediately at the front door, they're met by a doorkeeper.

He salutes and Tiberius responds with his own soldier gesture. “Ceaușescu
may be honored, comrade.”

“The Party is pure and everlasting. Greetings from Mareșal Ion Nicolescu,
first infantry division, Timișoara garrison.”

“Pleased to meet you.” And the doorkeeper waves them in, after Tiberius
obviously has said the right code and password. All Attila can do is stare in
amazement at him. Never had he been into the elaborate headquarter of the café,
the innermost secret political meeting point in Timișoara. Surprisingly the inner
decoration isn't that ornamented as the nineteenth century outside facade
suggests. The walls are colored in a dark white, the lacquered, strongly-scented
paint plastered all over the last century's neo-classical stucco and gesso pillars.
Everything from the wooden wall covering to the patterned linen wallpaper is
made equal with the paint brush.

“Won't you take a seat, Attiko?”

“Am I allowed to?” He watches every word he says, always afraid one might
have a big ear and gets the wrong end of his words. Doesn't Tiberius know that
every life is at stake when a casual listener feels like denouncing someone? Is he
that naive?
 “Come on. Sit down for once.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Wow, this whole being in love must be very confusing for you. It's like
you're a totally different person. I hope you didn't forget to use a condom.”

“What?”

“I mean, you don't wanna get her pregnant, do you? You know how the
whole thing with the flowers and the bees works?”

“Tiberius.”

He winks at him, and Attila shakes his head. Outside, the clouds burst their
gates open and splash every drop of the sky onto the earth. The people are
distracted by that spectacle of nature. Accustomed to not paying attention to
uncontrolled events, they usually ignore the force of spontaneity, but when it
happens inevitably, they're taken aback to their true selves, human beings, and
not communists in the first place.

“Man, what a nightmare. Imagine I didn't find you outside. You'd be

drowning by now.”

“Thanks for saving me, Nicolescu,” Attila says sarcastically.

“I mean, what exactly is wrong with you? It seems some evil twin has
replaced my best friend.”

“Ah, I don't know. I think...”

“Hey, over there. Show me that photo.”

As soon as Attila realizes Tiberius isn't talking to him, he blinks and in the
last moment, he slips aside, making place for a jumping secret police officer
Tiberius Nicolescu, totally in his element as he encircles a table with three
women chatting and drinking their sparkling wine. A little post card has fallen on
the ground, obviously out of one woman's purse. It shows the Statue of Liberty.

Attila observes Tiberius picking it up, while the eyes of the women flash in
mere shock and horror as Tiberius ever so slowly reads the back of the card.
When he's finished, his lips pout, every second stretching to near endless fear.
“You have a friend in the USA?” he asks her.

“Y... yes,” she replies with a shaking voice.

“Is he a Democrat or a Republican?”

“He's a... he's very active in a group of communists,” she almost whispers.

“Hm.” Tiberius pretends to clean his teeth from some lunch leftovers. Nearly
a minute goes by and everyone in the café holds their breaths. “Okay.” He hands
her the card back. “Tell him greetings from a fellow Romanian comrade.”

“Was that necessary?” Attila asks him as he gets back to their table, “You
love drama, do you?”

“A Nicolescu must do what a Nicolescu must do. Our family tradition.”

Viorica's worst nightmare is losing her teeth. Every now and then, she
dreams it and it's always the same dream. She dreads it when going to bed, for it
appears more frequently since her family got into the last stage of wedding
planning.

It starts always the same. She's at dinner and she can feel a twitch in her
mouth. It surely means nothing, just a bad bite or something like that. Then she
can feel her gums receding and like the foundations of houses which are shaken
by loose earth during earthquakes, her teeth wiggle and dance and they break in
two, only ugly stumps remain in her mouth, and she looks like her grandmother.

Since her childhood she already lost three or four teeth irreparably. One can
barely see the holes in her mouth when she speaks and laughs. But the next will
be more in the front. And then Tiberius won't ever look at her again. And how
can she tell him then that she likes him so much?

These are her thoughts as she trains her dog how to stand on two legs while
her little one-and-a-half-year-old sister waddles in too full diapers around the
courtyard, sucking on her baby bottle.
 “Hey, Viorica. I told you to change Nina's diapers! What are you doing? Her
ass will get red and bleeding. Look at that. The piss is almost running out.” Her
mother runs to them, picks up the toddler and slaps Viorica across the face. “You
have to practice. Soon you'll have one of your own. Why, Rica, what shall we do
with you? You're not a teenager anymore.” She shakes her head and sighs.
“Sorry. Sorry. It's just... I'm so concerned about you. I only want you to have a
good life.”

“Yeah, surely, Mom.” Viorica rolls her eyes.

“But Bogdan is such a good match. He has money. He's eager to buy his lady
beautiful things. Such luxury you can't imagine right now. And perhaps he
manages to take you two to Italy and live there. His family has connections
there.”

“Aha.”

“By the way,” she looks at her watch, a false china-made Rolex and tries to
prevent her little wiggling daughter from falling out of her arms, “Can you fetch
Pa from the tavern? I told him to get back at four, but it's six already and he must
go to work tomorrow.”

“Sure,” she scoffs, “Doesn't mind walking past stinky drunks grabbing my
ass and boobs. It's just my job as a daughter, isn't it?”

“Viorica. Don't be disrespectful. We're your parents.”

“Oh, why should I be disrespectful to my wise and omniscient drunkards?

You're all-knowing, I am nothing.” Before her mother realizes her sarcastic rant
and wishes to slap her again, she jumps at the gate and is out of their farm.

The way to the little tavern at the end of the village is only five minutes
long, but sometimes even this is too much for the fathers and grandfathers who
drown the reality of living a sad Eastern life.

Every time Viorica enters the bar, she's astonished how alcohol transforms
full grown eighty kilo strong men into swaying, babbling children, mumbling in
their own delirium. When Viorica finds him in a dark corner, she sits down
beside him and commands: “Come on, Pop, time to go home.”
 His only response is: “No” in a quiet, almost child-like voice, the man who
can beat her mother to look like a blue and lilac alien.

“We wanna have dinner.”

“Not hungry.” He unbuttons his shirt and fans himself with a beer coaster.
Viorica can see the moles and thick gray hair on his chest and stomach. He's an
ugly old man. And he smells so much like Bogdan.

“Mom wants you to go home.”

“She can't command me,” he mutters, louder, in an aggressive tone and his
hands beat down his drinking glass. It rolls over the table and Viorica catches it
the last second before it falls down. “See? Glass is empty. No more Pálinka. So
come home.”

“Me want another one.”

“No. No.” Okay, it's time to grab his arm and pull him up from the table. She
hates this part. It's not always necessary, but when she must do it, it'll trigger her
teeth nightmares. “Pop, come on. Mom has made a delicious dinner.”

And then it happens. He slaps her across the face. She sees it coming,
always, but never can she do anything about it. For him, it's so natural, like
knocking off the alarm clock, slapping an annoying mosquito that buzzes on his
head. He's not even conscious in his drunken delirium, so he won't ever notice
that her already loose incisor falls out.

Bogdan certainly wants some money back for this. She immediately gets
anxious and only a second afterwards the pain hits her.

“Come on, Pop.”

“Ain't no goin',” he snores and his heavy head spins on his neck.

“Hey, Negrescu, come on,” the bartender yells, “My booze is out and y'all
not even paying. So listen to your girl and get the fuck out!”

“Ah.” The growl is an animal's howl and it frightens Viorica, still after all
these years. She doesn't know if it's ridiculous or pathetic how her father tries to
grab his glass, throws it in the direction of the bar. It only flies an arm's length
until it shatters to the ground. The music of insults and calling each other words
is almost calming after that horrific slap.

“Gimme a hand, little girl,” he mumbles and she tries to steady his heavy
body as they walk out. On the difficult way home, when she's meeting the other
villagers laughing at her father, she misses Tiberius so much her heart begins to
ache. He never has to deal with such shameful things, he never has to deal with
the fear of losing all his teeth too early. He doesn't get pimples all over his face
in summer like she does. Everybody loves him, but more importantly, everybody
respects him. And he doesn't seem to care. He remains true to himself and
Viorica cries herself to sleep every night since the wedding is closer than ever.
She's so in love with Tiberius, it hurts.

“Why did it take so long? Soup's cold already,” her mother snaps, but not at
her father, no. She's angry at her, the eldest daughter, for not doing her duty
right. “You're almost a married woman. What will your husband think?” Then
she notices her missing tooth. “What the actual fuck, girl. You have the nerve to
come home like this? A few days before the wedding? Now you ain't worth your
money any longer. What're ya doin' to yer old mother?”

The lamenting continues throughout the day, the week. Like paid wailers,
like a requiem choir, it starts in the morning when Viorica's mother and
grandmother prepare breakfast, throughout the day, at lunch. There's a little
cigarette pause in the afternoon, but when dinner's ready, they're in full blast.
“What're yer doin' to yer family? You were such a promising beautiful little girl,
such a good girl. You brought us so much money and now look at you. Oh my
poor soul, my poor poor soul. Could you hand me the bowl please, oh you girl?
When did you become such a bad girl? By the way, Pop's still not at home,
again. Could you fetch him?”

In the evening, she's so done that the only thing preventing her from
shooting herself is to try to call Tiberius at his school. So when she has to fetch
her father from the tavern — his head has fallen to the table, he snores golden
bubbles out of his mouth — she asks the bartender for a telephone call.

“Only if you show me your titties,” he smiles and licks his lips.
 Okay. What's another task more? She's doing so many shameful things every
day, for nothing. This will just add to her list. So she pulls up her T-Shirt — by
now a washed out red with a sign of an American lemonade brand she got years
ago — and wiggles her breasts free out her bra.

“Finished?” She rolls her eyes and he laughs. “Hah, yes, not that pretty. You
have five minutes.” And he slams the phone on the counter.

Her fingers are sweating when she twists them around the phone cord,
nervously awaiting his voice. But of course, the first to answer is the janitor who
manages the phone in the boy's tract. Then he fetches the principal who fetches a
teacher who can't find Tiberius Nicolescu, but here's his roommate Novák Attila.

“Where's Tiberius?” she almost whimpers.

“Ah, yes, and a nice hello to you too.”

“Sorry, I– But I– Attiko. How are you?”

“We had sports today. How should I feel?”

“Yeah, my sincere condolences. Where's Tiberius?”

“Dunno.”

“Ah, okay.” She feels her hands trembling, squishing the phone. Just his
voice, she wanted to just hear Tiberius' voice. And Attila has the nerve to start
whistling!

“Man, I could use a cigarette now. But imagine the scandal here. What a shit
day this has been.”

“Yes, but did he say something? Where he's going or...”

“Who?”

“Tiberius,” she sighs. Oh, Attiko, you poor dumb weird guy.

“I'm not his secretary. He's a Nicolescu. He got some business to do? What
do I know? Perhaps he's...”
 “Your five minutes are over, girl.” A strain of her hair gets tangled between
the bartender's hairy fingers as he snatches the receiver away. “Now get your
father outta here.”

She hates her body, every part of it. She hates that her hips became so broad
when she entered puberty. She hates the thick black hair on her legs and arms.
She hates her pudgy stomach that looks like a cake with too much yeast in it.
How will Tiberius ever like her when he sees her naked? Anyway, why does he
even bother to be friends with her? She smells so awful, like the rest of the
gypsy suburb. Whatever she does, she can't get rid of the heavy bitter scent she
carries with her along with the little dark woman's mustache. Her sisters are all
much prettier than her, even her elder aunts. It's as if she got the whole bucket of
ugliness bestowed upon her, as if her mother's womb had only practiced creating
her before it concentrated on her perfect siblings. And nothing helps. Eating less
only makes it worse, eating healthy is not an option for the Negrescu's current
financial situation.

But one day, she finds the perfect solution. One distant relative brings a
German magazine with her which she could scavenge in the city. And there she
reads about the model's method of staying thin and not gaining any weight. It's a
bit difficult, the timing, stuffing it in her daily schedule, but once she gets the
hold of it, it becomes so easy, like driving the bicycle.

The first time it takes her ages and it feels so horrible, it hurts so much. She
waits for the very first occasion, going through the task over and over in her
mind. Waiting for the house to be empty when everyone is in the summer
kitchen in the courtyard. Then she tiptoes to the bathroom and shoves her finger
in her throat until she has to vomit. Exactly half an hour after she ate, in order to
keep a bit of the food in.

But as easy as it sounds, as challenging it is. The gagging reflex, the last
fortress of her body demanded to nature and survival, becomes her worst enemy
in preventing her to stick her finger deeper in.

It must be like sex, she thinks, at first it feels like a sport, a complicated
gymnastics figure, but from time to time it'll get easier, until the whole procedure
only lasts a few minutes. After two or three weeks, it's like peeing and nobody
notices her frequent leaving.
 He'll love my new look, she smiles while she throws a bucket of water onto
the dung in the toilet hole. Tiberius absolutely will be stunned by the new me.

And she slowly starts to show. Her shoulders aren't that round anymore, her
collar bones more defined, she begins to lose the puffiness of her Slavic cheeks.
The perfect method indeed.

“Wow, you really lost weight. Now you'll fit perfectly in your bridal gown,”
her aunt tells her when she visits her the next time and offers a cigarette.

She refuses. She hates the taste. She only smokes when she's with Tiberius
and Attila to fit in. Of course, she knows that cigarettes keep you thin, but that's
a disgusting method actually. “Yeah, I found the ideal diet.”

“Ah, tell me. No eggs? No wheat? Wanna know. Gotta lose some of that beef
here too,” her aunt says, the thinnest woman Viorica has ever seen.

“It's the throwing up method.”

“Ah, that didn't work for me. But you're beautiful. Much more beautiful.
Frumoasa.” She scratches her foot in which her cheap plastic pump straps have
incised red swollen marks.

Viorica plans to ask Tiberius the next time they come home on Friday, if he
notices something different on her. Surely he must pay attention to her newly
built body. Chances are good he brings the subject up by himself. But if not, she
won't take the risk of getting away with it. Then she has to push him, but not too
obviously, of course. Not too plump. And aw, how romantic this will be, like a
fairy tale, like a royal love story in those German mags she loves so much. The
gem of Mihai's Village, the prince of the secret police, Tiberius Nicolescu,
falling in love with his best friend since childhood, the gypsy Viorica Negrescu,
overcoming all conventions of politics and society. When the day of her wedding
to Bogdan comes, he'll arrive on his motorbike, and he'll rescue her, arrest that
cruel butcher, and take her to the altar. When the big day comes...

“Viorica. How many times shall I knock on your door? There's someone at
the gate for ya.” The shrill yelling of her mother awakens her from her
daydreams and she slumps off her bed, hair rumpled from tossing over and over.
She jumps into her slippers, her heart skips a beat. Could it be? Could it really be
him? So that's why he wasn't at the boarding school? That's why he didn't tell his
best friend Attila where he went? He's coming for her. Tiberius Nicolescu is
coming for her.

But it's not Tiberius who's waiting at the gate. Yes, it is a secret police agent
indeed, but not the one she was wishing for.

“Are you Viorica Negrescu?” the ugly old buff asks.

“Y... yes.”

“Have you tried to contact Mr. Tiberius Nicolescu at his school in Timișoara
yesterday?”

“Erm... yes?”

“Have you or have you not?” He lights a cigarette. She can't help but stare at
his ugly sausage fingers and his thick mustache.

“Yes, I have.”

“Why did you do that?”

She shrugs. Yes, why did she do that? “He's my friend. I wanted to ask him
something.”

“Tell me, why is gypsy filth like you friends with a Nicolescu and bothers
him in his school time?”

“I don't know?!”

“Stay away from his private matters, will you? We'll check on ya. Mr.
Nicolescu is a busy person studying for his exams and all disturbances will be
prevented immediately.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

You son of a bitch, as Mr. Nicolescu would say, she sticks out her tongue as
she shuts the gate when the agent is leaving. And a happy go to hell.
 Then the big day comes. Friday. The holy day. The end of the week he
waited for. As the class marches up the stairs to the chemistry room, his heart
knocks like crazy against his chest. It's a ritual march, like going to church — at
least that's what he imagines what going to church is like from his grandparents'
stories.

The other students rush up, complain about the test from last week, they're
making plans for the weekend, they roll their eyes about the boring chemistry
lesson to come. Tiberius nudges him, but he barely notices. His senses are driven
to one point. As he opens the door to the classroom, it seems like an organ is
playing in the background.

“You wanna come to my house tonight? Some smoking, some alcohol, I've
got a new rock music LP from the black market. My parents are in Bucharest
again,” says Tiberius as they sit down on the bench in the first row.

“I don't know if I can make it,” Attila answers and his eyes search furiously
for the familiar sight of gray hair, the trimmed beard, the prominent sideburns.
“I'll be busy in the afternoon.”

“Again? You've got some special meetings on Fridays I don't know about?”
he winks.

Five minutes pass. Six. Seven. The students get louder the more they're left
without a teacher. Attila knows Károly is often late. He's one of those teachers
which are known to be strict but don't follow their own rules. Not one of the
more popular ones.

“A secret conspiracy meeting, eh?” Tiberius scoffs at his own joke.

Eight minutes.

“No, Tibi, I have other friends too. Not only you.”

“So you're meeting Karolina? Ha, I knew it.”

“Who's... What? Karolina?” he whispers dreamily. There! The door opens

and Károly finally enters. His hair is ruffled, his cheeks are pink as if he ran a
few kilometers. Hastily he opens his teacher's suitcase, takes out papers which
Attila recognizes as the tests from last week.
 “We swear, comrade Ceaușescu, that we will honor and fulfill your
commandment,” Károly mumbles. He's somewhere else with his thoughts.

“The Party is pure and everlasting. Salvare! Salvare! Salvare!” the class
replies.

Prof. Károly's gait is hurried as he stomps to the student's benches, hands

them out their corrected tests. “Listen carefully. I can't teach today. I have to
drive to the capital in half an hour for an important conference. I'll be back next
week,” and with that he shoulders his bag, salutes, and is out.

And Attila's heart cracks open in his chest. It hurts, it burns and it leaves him
bleeding. The ache is like a slap in the face. All the excitement that has built up
through the week, all the heartbeat, all the thrill of anticipation stops in one giant
heart attack.

“Oh, cool. I got a ten. You, Attiko? Lemme see.”

Attila grabs his left hand with his right and squeezes it so strongly it hurts.
The weather today is warm but he feels like an ice bucket was thrown upon him
and he starts to shiver. No. This can't be. He waited so long. The week was so
horrible and Friday afternoon the only light at the end of the tunnel. But now the
tunnel is shut and he remains in the dark, slowly choking.

“Ah. A six. That's not bad actually.” Tiberius packs his school folder and his
pencil case into his backpack and waits for Attila to do the same. He only
manages it in slow motion, eyes wide as if he saw a terrible car accident
happening right before him.

The train ride home to Mihai's Village is cruel. Every rattling of the wagon,
every screech is especially meant to mock Attila. It sounds like laughter, mixed
with Tiberius' endless babbling. “Is Ánná at home this weekend? I haven't seen
her for a while. I know she's busy with her job, but nonetheless. Man, why must
she be Hungarian? I would have married her twice already if she had the right
nationality. Can't come home to my parents with a Hunnic fiancée.”

Attila is grateful that Viorica doesn't wait at the station. They're early today
and he can't have another friend to bury him under their chatter.

As he arrives at the gate to his farmhouse, he needs some time to put the key
into the lock and immediately he's met with an uprising buzz of dog barks, the
cookoorookoo of the hens in the back garden and the shouting of his mother:
“Who's at the gate? Who's at the gate?”

“It's me, Mami,” he rolls his eyes. It is always annoying to come home on
Friday evenings after the wonderful bliss of the Timișoara love apartment. But it
is almost unbearable to appear so early unexpectedly, and to explain why and
how come and for what reason.

The gate squeaks as he opens it and his mother in her apron welcomes him
and Tiberius.

“Attiko, school's out already? So early? When did that happen the last time?
Oh my God, I am getting so nostalgic. We don't spend much time together since
you attend the boarding school. Szia, Tiberius, how are you? Are you two
hungry? I made some soup. You wanna eat with us, Tiberius? Come, eat with
us.”

“Mami.”

“Come, come. I made so much soup. It's enough to feed half the village.
Come in.”

“Mami!”

“Is Ánná at home?”

“No, but she said if she can make it she'll be there in the afternoon.”

“Then I'll come,” Tiberius grins and Attila rubs his forehead as if he
developed a massive headache. No more people please, he can't stand that many
people talking and talking without end: Tiberius and his mother and later his
father and his siblings, when he only wants to lock himself into his room and
blast his ears with the Bolero.

“Oh, but I forgot. Your parents, Tiberius. What will they say? Do you want
to use our phone and tell them so they won't... worry about you?”

“They're actually not at home this weekend.”

 “Ah, okay. Again? They were away only last weekend. You're too often
alone at home. You should visit us more. We always have a place for you here.
One kid more or less, I don't mind.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Novák,” he blows an air-kiss to Attila who shows him his
middle-finger, careful so that his mother wouldn't see it.

As they disappear in Attila's room, the time spent is better than expected.
Almost, as in the old days, when a Prof. Károly, a Timișoara apartment and
Friday afternoons in the city didn't exist, they watch the series “Dallas” together,
laugh at the badly translated subtitles, playing rock-paper-scissors to stipulate
whose turn it is to angle the antenna when the reception becomes poor. Every
now and then Attila's mother pops in to ask them if they have enough snacks, if
they need more lemonade to drink, if they're already hungry, if she should warm
up the soup again because it's still so long til dinner will be served. He must
admit, he likes the heart-warming annoyance of caring parents. It reminds him of
the carefree time when being in love didn't play a role in his life at all. A few
years ago, Tiberius had spent almost every day at the Novák's house, whereas
Attila barely knows the interior of Tiberius' farm.

But the magic of a perfect buddy's afternoon is swept away when Attila's
mother announces Ánná's arrival.

And there she is. Perfect and flawless as always. Red-brown hair in perfect
locks, framing her face like a silky waterfall. She's wearing her accurately ironed
business dress and every powder dab, every mascaraed eyelash tells about
success, popularity and integrity. She's actually something like the female
version of Tiberius Nicolescu. Always good in school, in almost every subject,
perfect grades, smooth pimple-less skin, no matter in which clothes she dresses,
she can almost wear anything. The only thing that catches the attention of
Mihai's Village is why, at twenty-two, she's not already married and pregnant
with her third child.

“Ah, what a stuffy afternoon. It's still so hot,” cookoos her surprisingly high-
pitched voice as she sits down at the dining table in the living room. In every
house, the table is the center place of the family. That's where the important
discussions, the get-togethers, the parties happen, but most importantly: where
all the meals are served; breakfast, lunch, afternoon lunch, dinner, second dinner,
and endless snacks. “My make-up must look horrible right now. Attiko, how do I
look? Come on, be honest, darling.”

He takes a kipferl, a mini-croissant, and tosses it playfully into her face.

“Ugly, as always.”

She laughs at her little brother. She likes to tease him too and she knows he's
in that stage of age where he's annoyed by everyone, but he'll always be her baby
brother.

“Are you kidding me? You look great. You only want us to tell you that,
vanity lady,” Tiberius laughs.

“Aw, you.”

“Ánike, do you want something to eat? Shall I bring you different pastries?
Or do you want fruits? Do you want an apple?” Izabella storms into the room,
fills them up with her parental care, and flies out, hands always coated in flour.

“So how's the office going?” Tiberius asks and Attila is eager to grab a book
that's randomly put on a side table, buries himself in it, to avoid witnessing their
sappy flirtations. But he immediately regrets it. The book is the Hungarian
catechism, it can't get more boring than that. After a while, he's drifting off to
sleep and a hard smudge in his face awakes him again: Ánná tossed the kipferl
back. “Hey, Attiko, can you get us something to drink?” asks his sister.

“Can't you get it yourself, lazy bum?”

“Asshole.”

Actually, he's content to flee the scene. As he enters the kitchen, a thick and
comforting smell of gravy hits his nose.

“The noble couple wants lemonade,” he mumbles while grabbing a fried

potato wedge.

“As soon as I can, darling, as soon as I can.” Izabella stops in her dough
kneading. He feels her gaze upon him as he scrolls through the newspaper in
search for distraction. The day is a roller coaster and it wears him out. The
excitement of seeing Károly, the downfall when he already left after a few
minutes, the great afternoon with Tiberius, and now another let down as his best
friend turned his back on him for his sister.

“You want to tell me something, Attiko?”

“No,” he growls.

“Come on. I know when something's off. Since last week actually. Hey.
What is it? Bad grades?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“Hm. I can imagine what it is, but I really, really, really don't want to be that
mother who points it out or who interrogates her children about that.”

“Then don't.” He tries to smile, but Ánná's voice disturbs him: “Hey,
bartender. Where are our drinks?”

“Ánná. He's not your butler.”

“Sorry, Mami. Just a joke.”

“You know, you can tell me everything? You know that?” she puts her hand
on his shoulder and almost whispers it.

“Yeah, I know. It's okay. Just tired.”

Finally, she leaves him alone. From the kitchen, he hears the chatter of his
home-coming father and a few minutes after that, the loud bad sex jokes from
his brothers Gábriel and István roam through the house. Gábriel once had serious
ambitions to be an engineer, but after an eventful career as a drug addict, he
ended up as a cashier in the beverage store in town. And István lives the
comfortable careless life of a widower who inherited a fortune from his late
wife.

Oh great, just great. Why do they have to be here on this special day, when
Tiberius Nicolescu is also there? Now, they would make a feature-length evening
discussion about Novák Attila's sex life. They'd want to know everything no
matter how their mother begs them to not hassle their little brother. And he has
to come up with some stories about his girlfriend, make up a whole different life
and identity.
 And indeed: when he comes back to the living room, they're all lined up at
the table facing him, the star of this gossip. Ánná and Tiberius sit left side, closer
together, and he bets they're holding hands under the table. His two elder
brothers sit at the large side of the table, already drinking cups of wine, saluting
him. “Hey, what have I heard? Little baby brother has had his real initiation,”
István winks, and Gábriel's snorts: “Baby Attiko is now a porn star. Who
would've thought that?”

“Shut up, you assholes,” he sighs while his father slaps his brothers with the
newspaper. “Guys, come on, behave. We have a guest in our house.”

They sit down to eat, everyone but Izabella who always buzzes in and out of
the living room, muddles to the kitchen and back, bringing more to eat, more to
drink, serving her husband cigarettes. The noise is getting louder and louder as
everyone is having their own little conversations. “So, Attiko, what have I
heard? You've got a girlfriend?” his father asks. He gleams at Tiberius and his
best friend shrugs with a wide grin on his stupid face.

“Erm– yeah. I have a girlfriend.”

“Ha.” His father's smile is wide, his blue eyes sparkle. He's the ideal Dad
figure, always proud of every poop his kids make. “So?”

“So what?”

“Tell me about her. Who is she?”

“Ah... we only met a few times. I don't know her so well yet.”

“You have to invite her here to meet us,” his father chews on his pork, gravy
shines in his gray beard.

“Yes. I don't know. Perhaps. I'll ask her.” Attila feels a cold fright and a hot
shame burning on his forehead.

“So, Tiberius,” his mother addresses his friend, who is deep into
conversation with Ánná, “Your parents are on a business trip again? Much work
to do right now?” Only Attila observes the nervous tone in her voice.

And instead of an answer, Tiberius kisses his thumb and index finger, like
the cuisine chef on the Vegeta package. “That pork is delicious, Mrs. Novák.”

“Of course. Attiko slaughtered it himself.”

“Ahhhh, he's an adult now, my baby son, eh,” József, Attila's father, grabs
him into a tight embrace. Although the mood seems light-hearted, everyone can
sense the tension, the caution, the thoughtfulness of every word spoken. Well,
everyone but Tiberius: the reason of the underlying stress. He's occupied
admiring Ánná's waterfall locks and her hazel brown eyes and she's flirtatious
too. And as distracting as the evening is, suddenly a deep ache forms in Attila's
heart. The sudden splash of loneliness pours over him. A slight change in the
atmosphere, atoms and molecules wrongly bonded, and the certainty hits him,
takes away the social joy of a slightly awkward family dinner: One week.
There's one whole week until he'll see Károly again, seven endless days. Five
school days and a never-ending weekend stuffed with eating and babbling and
siblings. A whole week packed with Tiberius' rhapsody about Ánná.

When it's time for Tiberius to go home, his parents usher Attila to see him to
the door. The night is dark now, a chill is crawling in the air, the cicadas are
chirping, dogs are barking. From the distance of the town's center, Attila can
hear the tottering sing-song of some drunks.

“Hey, Attiko, wanna meet tomorrow at my house? Finally to show you my

new LP?”

“I don't know,” Attila takes the cigarette Tiberius offers him. Smelling the
smoke on him, his mother will panic and bark about his health, but why should
he care anymore? He's an adult now, so let her freak out. “We'll see.”

“Can you bring Ánná with you? Or tell her that she's invited?”

“Why won't you tell her?”

“Why don't you just do what I tell you? I'll report you to the Securitate for
high treason if you don't bring Ánná with you, I shit you not.”

As certain as he knows that this is a joke, he can't laugh. A bitter smile dies
on his lips and he's so so so so tired of Tiberius' pseudo-intimidating jokes and
his friendly, overexcited smile, and his affection for Ánná and hers for him.
“Hey, don't you say that again or it'll finally happen. Know what Mami always
says? Stop making faces, or it'll stay like that.”

“So, are you ready, son?” His father sticks his head into Attila's room the
next morning. Oh, how he hates being interrupted when listening to music. Not
even the headphones help. His parents are addressing him anyway.

“Ready for what?”

“For the hunt. I told you yesterday, Attiko. Today's the big deer hunt. And
the first time you're coming with me as a full grown man.”

Attila rolls his eyes. “I'm coming next time.”

“Nah, nah. Come on, don't be shy. Get your boots. And, hey...” József blinks
at his son. “You get a shot of our finest Pálinka, what'ya think? Can't say no to
that.”

“Yeaaaaah, can't say no to thaaaaat,” Attila apes him after he shut the door.
Slurping, he searches his boots and puts them on with no motivation. This is so
horrible, being ripped apart from his beloved music, from pitying himself, from
bathing in lovesickness. He can't listen to music tonight, because he's invited by
Tiberius and he refused so many times, now he finally has to go. And the
afternoon was his only light in the tunnel, escaping from reality through Maurice
Ravel and Tchaikovsky.

“What takes you so long, honey? Come on.” And his father has the nerve to
rattle at his door.

“Coming.” God, there's no private life growing up in such a big family, even
if your elder brothers and sister have fled the house. It's even worse. Now, his
parents cling even more to him.

“So, have you packed everything? Your bullets. Do you have your bullets?”
József asks him when he's out of his room.

“Put them in your backpack.” In the last second, he can oppress a yawn.

“And your cap? Your photo camera?”

 “Check. Check.”

“Oh, drágám,” his mother rushes into the hallway, “Are you wearing your
warm pullover under that coat? I heard it's gonna rain and I don't want you to get
sick.”

“I'm fine, Mami.” Okay, this nightmare is killing him already, before it has
properly begun.

“And have you dressed in your warmest underwear, so your dick's gonna be
cozy and warm?” his older brother Gábriel laughs as he strolls out the kitchen in
his pajamas, munching on bread.

“Aw, come on, Gabe, we didn't tease you like that when it was your first
time. So please take care of your little brother's feelings.”

“His first time. Sure, sure,” Gábriel chews and József's pat on the shoulders
signals the marching off.

Attila hates how his father celebrates every little annoyance like a beloved
festivity ritual: loading the truck, getting his coat in order after he's seated,
putting the key into the starter. Surely, he'll die of boredom.

“Ready, son?” he asks him with that cheesy pesky proud grin on his face.
Attila does him the favor and smiles a little while nodding.

They only drive for a quarter of an hour, outside Mihai's Village, to the
hunting ground near the furniture factory. József switches off the engine and
breathes out loudly as if he drank a refreshing gulp of water on a hot day. “Joj,
joj, son. I'm gettin' so nostalgic now.”

Attila closes his eyes. Please let's finish this quickly so we can go home.

“This is the last time I'm introducing one of my sons to hunting. And now,
all of my kids are grown ups. So bittersweet.”

Attila only shrugs. Such talk makes him uncomfortable. He's only seventeen
for fuck's sake.

“And apparently it takes you kiddos so long until you gift us with
grandchildren, hm? Not a single indication in that direction, neither from István,
Gabe, nor Ánike.”

“Ooookay.” Here it comes.

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Sorry to bother you with such cheesy parent talk. Come
on, let's get some beautiful antlers.”

Attila slumps out of the thirty-year-old jeep into a mud puddle. The wet
loam stinks of a pigsty. He notices his socks are actually really too thin for this
autumn weather and he wishes he had dressed in his warm winter coat.

“But first of all,” his father announces and fumbles in the truck, “a special
something to increase the anticipation?” Not waiting for an actual answer, he
takes out two little shot glasses and a bottle which contains a crystal clear liquid;
the real men's beverage. “Here. Cheers to you, my son. Cheers, Mister Novák,
Sir.”

Attila watches his father as he gulps down the burning schnapps and sighs
heavily with a face as if he bite a lemon. Why does everybody drink this peasant
garbage if nobody likes the taste? he asks himself. But of course, you have to if
you want to be a real man, a trustful comrade. You have to follow the rules,
whether they make sense or not. And don't ask questions.

“Oh, have you heard that?”

“Heard what?”

“A pheasant. That hoot is so significant.”

“Of course it is.”

“Come on, son. If you see him fly, you gonna shoot, okay?” József doesn't
ask him, but pours another little cup of Pálinka for Attila. He cannot stand it
when his father does that. He cannot stand that over-friendly smile and the over-
proud pat on the shoulder. “Ah, come on, son. It's only two shots. Not so much.
You have barely tasted it. At least five of them. See, there are only a few drops in
that small cup anyway.” He cannot stand that his father doesn't understand him;
he doesn't like that awful poor man's drink, and his father never will understand
that he prefers fine wine from France. His father never will understand why he
dislikes the traditional Hungarian folk music and dances, but listens hours and
hours to “music so outdated that even their composers are dead for centuries.”
How many nights has his father racked his brain over Attila's ambitions after
school and the military? His own son, composing music, that's unprofitable art,
why wouldn't he seek a high position in the furniture factory and stay in Mihai's
Village, near his parents, because, oh, every one of their child has fled the house
already, and how can they survive without their little baby son?

“Another cup, Attiko! Come on. What's a hunt without drinking, eh, son?”

And he'll never understand why there's no Karolina from the neighbor
village.

“You know, when we were hunting with my cousin and his mates, we were
so drunk, we slept the night in the woods and only three days after... There,
Attiko. Look. Haha, what a corker.”

Attila looks up and sees a colorful pheasant flying in the distance, far away,
above a group of bushes and a dying bent tree.

“Big time, Attiko, big time,” his father laughs but Attila hears a slight
drunken lisp. He stumbles as he fires his first shot and of course misses the game
bird.

But as soon as Attila hears the explosion of the bullet, his senses alter, as if
someone has put his glasses on. The rush of the wind, the rustling of the dried
late-summer grass, the shriek of the bird, all this changes into music. He sees
colorful red tones, he smells the direction to which the bird is flying. His skin
prickles. Everything but him and his prey ceases to exist. It's only him and the
pheasant and his shotgun.

“Attiko. Forget it. It's too far away. We'll get another one.”

But no. Attila pins the escaping bird with his eyes. It's flying to the West,
right to the border to Yugoslavia. And he can't let it flee.

The weapon is surprisingly light when he lifts it to his shoulder. He smells

the leathery scent from the straps and the metallic odor of his own instincts, the
taste of blood rushing through his ears.
 “Don't waste your bullet on this one. There are plenty of them.”

I'm a hunter, a Hunnic warrior, Falcon of the Steppe, he smiles.

His first shot kills the bird. It falls vertically to the ground and is no more.

I love this gun. It's my music instrument and the hunt is my masterpiece. This
is my determination, he pants as his father reaches him and embraces him,
laughing and smiling and putting wet kisses on his cheeks, ruining that glorious
moment.

Why didn't they show up at the station? Viorica almost cries as her sisters
pick and pull at her wedding dress, her locks, the little plastic roses which are
spilled everywhere. She waited for hours yesterday. The last day before she
entered the prison of marriage with Bogdan. She wanted to see her friends, one
last time in freedom, one last time before a new era. And so she waited one hour
at the village station, some other boarding school students rushed out, filled the
place with chatter and laughter and her heart made a little jump. For a few
seconds, she forgot her fate, she forgot about the next day, but soon the platform
cleared of people and Attila and Tiberius weren't there.

In her head, she thought it over and over. How she'd bring Tiberius to notice
her thinner body, how she could make him acknowledge it.

But no Tiberius Nicolescu and no Novák Attila showed up and now she's
dissolving in her enormous wedding dress like a sugar cube in hot coffee, and
her aunt combs her hair so tough her head hurts.

“Wow, the dress fits perfectly,” her mother clasps her hands, “I feared you'd
outgrow it as you always do. But look at you. Thin and elegant, a real lady. If
only you hadn't lost that tooth! What shall we do with that? What shall we do
with that ugly smile now?”

She flinches as her mother plucks and arranges the red roses on her dress.
On the inside, there's the money sewn in and it would mean a total catastrophe if
anybody would find it. She looks around the bridal room, to the huge orthodox
tapestry of Our Beloved Mother and cannot help but think that Her dark hooded
eyes are judging her. Why did you lose your tooth, the Holy Lady's voice from
the tapestry seems to yell at her, you made my Son sad. Now look at him, at his
sorrowful eyes. It's all because of you.

“Look, girl, here's the red shawl I inherited from my mother,” her
grandmother rushes in, accompanied by a bunch of toddlers, a shiny oxen-
colored roll of fabric in her arms. “Your mother wore it too and it'll look
beautiful as a veil. Frumoasa.” She spits three times in her face to show her
affection and to acknowledge her beauty.

“Okay, enough of that. She could look so much better,” her mother snaps in,
“Now come. Time's running out and we don't want to let Bogdan waiting in the
church.”

It's a little comforting when she leaves the farm and sees the bridal carriage
waiting for her on the street. For a little moment, as she's helped by her family
into the vehicle, she rather feels like a gypsy queen and not the hog she really is.

The day is beautiful, the sun is shining and so many people are gathered
outside their homes, fence-chatting, cheering the bridal carriage as it rolls
through the street. If only the time would stop. If she could carry on like that,
just rolling along the Strada Carpați, and never arriving, remaining a bride, and
not a married woman, her family marching behind her, the queen's people.
Before they turn to Strada Corsarii, a well-known run-down pick-up crosses her
path and she catches a glimpse of Attila's face. A hill consisting of dead animals,
pheasants, a deer, and a few rabbits, is loaded in the hold. As their eyes meet, she
waves to him and she's sure he has seen her, but he ignores her.

But how strange his eyes look. They are nearly red, but not as if he cried or
caught a cold. No, his blue irises have turned a deep ruby color, like her shawl,
as if he was cursed into one of those strigoi monsters from her aunt's nighttime
stories. Is he sick? Thus, did he arrive earlier from school, accompanied by
Tiberius, and that's why they didn't meet? Yes, it must be it. They didn't forget
her. They only had issues of their own. They don't hate her. And her heart starts
beating faster. Perhaps Tiberius will rescue her after all. Perhaps he's already
waiting at the church, routed out Bogdan and now he's waiting for her, the new
Mrs. Nicolescu.

But no Mr. Nicolescu waits in front of the little wooden church, only the
male entourage from her family. And they didn't bother to dress up, but are
wearing lazy undershirts and summer T-Shirts, smoking, laughing about dirty
jokes. And Bogdan is waiting inside, like a dragon who shall be fed with a virgin
sacrifice soon.

Her mother and grandmother have to put much effort to help her out of the
carriage. She doesn't want to leave. If it means that she can avoid Bogdan, she'll
be happy to spend the rest of her life in that thing.

“Ah, come on, Viorica, we're already so late,” her mother nags.

“Watch out when you dismount. Don't step on your dress,” her grandmother
tries to encourage her.

She still feels beautiful in her expensive dress as she's dragged through the
aisle by her father, although he's still smelling of liquor and cheap cigarettes, and
her mother is making irritated noises.

As soon as her bad eyes can recognize Bogdan, her heart stops. His smile
could be called nothing but dismissive. He has the ugliest thin head with
ridiculously huge sharp ears and his short haircut makes him look like a demon.

“What took you so long, woman?” are the first words he's spitting out at her
as soon as she's standing next to him.

She cannot answer, not even a sassy reply.

“And what's with those ugly dots on your dress?” he pulls at her skirt,
stronger and stronger. And she only prays for a merciful death. Please, for all
that's still holy, my God or who you are, send a lightning bolt down to earth and
burn me.

“It looks so cheap. Your family promised me a bride in Italian clothes, not
made in China. How embarrassing is that for me, you think, eh?” He slaps her
face and it makes her stumble. Yes, she's used to slapping, but his huge hands are
different. So much stronger, so much more brutal than her mother's puffing. He's
still grabbing the layers and layers of tulle, and the second after she manages to
steady herself, the dress rips apart.

And it happens what should happen. The fissure reveals one of the many
little sewn-in pockets containing the money she saved for her and her two
friends to flee the Socialist Republic. Like a slump of mud, it falls onto the
ground and the gleam in Bogdan's eyes is the most horrible thing she has ever
seen.

“What shit is that?” He kneels down and grabs the money. Viorica wants to
scream, to bite him, to choke him, but she cannot move, she cannot breathe.

“What the fuck. So much money? And you were hiding it?” He stands up
and marches to her. All her instincts tell her to flee, but her feet in her enormous
high heels are glued to the ground. “There's more, heh? Is there more? Speak to
me, you bitch.”

The ripping sound her dress makes, as he tears it apart layer for layer, sounds
like her skin is yanked from her body. Another bundle of money appears. And
another. And another.

“Oh, you hid a fortune from me, you slut.”

When it's over, she's standing in her underwear. Nobody says a word, the
hissing laugh Bogdan makes is the only sound in the church. The priest ogles
them; he's well known for enjoying little drama scenes and ugly gossip.

“You wanted to hide that money from me, pussy? Oh, you'll pay for this. I'll
make you pay for being such a naughty slob.”

Tiberius, her inner voice cries, where are you? Why don't you save me,
Tiberius? Why don't you save me?
◆◆◆

“Novák? Novák!” Attila almost falls asleep as he hears his teacher speak his
name. “You lazy boy, hey.” A cold heavy thing is thrown into his direction and
misses his face, but scuffs a little scratch into his cheek. It's Prof. Balázs' keys.

He hisses, opens his eyes and sees an unknown man standing next to his
literature teacher. “I need him for about five minutes. Just some formalities,” he
says and Prof. Balázs nods.
 A few seconds pass and the whole room is dead silent. All eyes are staring at
him and then he almost laughs out loud. “Oh, so I should stand up?”

“Very funny, Novák.”

Concerned by Tiberius' pitiful look, but also thankful for the welcome
opportunity to avoid another “Kyra Kyralina” reading and rambling about
homosexualism, he's escorted to a little office at the end of the classroom
corridor. The heater buzzes, but it's cold in that seldom used chamber stuffed
with used metal desks.

“Mr. Károly is your chemistry teacher, isn't he?” the man asks him and
suddenly every drop of blood is drained out of him. He has to get everything
together to keep breathing, to calm his voice. “Yes, he is.”

“Since when?”

“Last year.”

“So you know him quite an amount of time?”

Attila only can nod.

“You know him a bit personally?” The man raises an eyebrow and Attila
feels the urge to vomit. What shall he say? What is he ought to say? Will he get
alive out of this?

“Erm... not much. We only have class on Friday.”

“Hm,” Scribbling sounds of a fountain pen, endless seconds pass. He's left-
handed, Attila automatically observes and is astonished how in this horrific
situation his brain can focus on such unnecessary details.

“Is he an open person?”

Attila's lips move but he can't get any words out.

“Does he tell you students much about himself, his private life, his family?”

“No. He's... reserved. Introverted.” Damn.

 “Can you remember some story he told you? Just one?”

“Erm.” The hardest task is to steady his hands, to not play nervously with his
fingers. “Once in a while, he tells us about his holidays in Budapest.”

“Budapest.”

“Yes,” he confirms and sees his vis-à-vis roll his eyes.

“Do you know who accompanied him to Hungary?”

“I think...” And saying that is harder than anything, thinking about it more
tedious than the thought of a political difficulty Károly might be in. “His wife I
think.”

“You think? He doesn't say it? No anecdote about Lady Károly in the
Danube city?”

He caresses the little wound Mr. Balázs' keys have cut and shrugs which he
finds the perfect method for portraying himself as dumb. It has been a tip from
Tiberius once. “If you're dumbass with the Sec they won't get ya,” he told him.

“So you don't know anything about your teacher, do you?”

“No, not really. Can I go?”

A heavy sigh is the answer. The agent scratches his balding head and
dismisses him with a careless wink of his hand. “Sure, boy. Not the brightest
candle in class, eh?”

“Yeah, guess so,” he replies, hands in his pockets, back hunched. When he's
out at the corridor, he releases his breath and almost chokes on this saliva. He
has to steady himself on the wooden moulding because his legs are so twitchy.
Károly. Why did they ask about Károly? Do they know something about their
secret affair? Did they spy on his Friday afternoon encounters? Does Tiberius
know something? The Nicolescus?

He's back in class and feels like crawling to his seat. Nobody, not even the
teacher makes a comment or asks questions. The only one to react to his
presence is Tiberius who winks at him. “So?” he whispers.
 “So?” His voice is still gasping.

“Was it bad?”

“I hope not. But you tell me.”

“But what did he ask?”

“Novák. Nicolescu. Silence please.”

“Yeah,” Tiberius waves at their teacher and bends over to Attila's seat, “So
what did he ask?”

“About...” Attila's eyes stare at the plain white of the class room's wall and
they burn from not blinking. “About our teachers.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“Novák.”

“One teacher particularly?”

“No!”

“Novák! Would you please shut up.”

“Just the usual survey at the beginning of the school year?”

“I don't fucking know.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tiberius hisses, “why are you so nervous? They can't lay a
finger on ya. You're under my protection, remember? So calm down, pansy.”

But it's not himself he's worried about. He can sense it in every nerve of his
body.

Károly is in danger.

Throughout the week more and more students are called out of class and
brought back about half an hour later. Some make a clownish scene out of this,
coming back into the room mockingly pretending they were at war. The
Securitate can be an absurd institution sometimes, corruptive, impulsive,
inconsistent. But it doesn't prevent them from being cruel and over-active in their
interrogations.

The Friday chemistry class passes in silence. Everyone is worn out about the
interruptions and by now, it seems to be a serious matter with their teacher, and
not a joke anymore. Károly barely addresses his students, distributes exercise
sheets, gives them the order to read random pages in their book. He seems to be
much thinner and paler and Attila recognizes red busted veins in his eyes.

For the first time in months, chemistry minutes crawl by like hours.

But then everything happens in a woozy rush.

Attila hasn't fully entered the apartment and closed the door behind him
when he's met with Károly's arms. He embraces him, presses him to his chest
and kisses his neck. But there's a slight sad ineptness in his movements, a
bittersweet tone in his moan.

“I missed you. I missed you so much,” he hears his teacher breathe into his
neck. “Aw, don't go. Stay, please stay with me. I need you to stay with me.”

Has something happened? Something to do with the interrogation in class?

Is Károly in trouble? The apartment is a mess, he hasn't seen such chaos from the
neatly Prof. Károly Viktor ever. Suitcases are lying around on the floor, creased
papers with coffee stains are stacked on the dining table, he even recognizes the
chemistry exercise sheets from earlier and half of them are tossed into the trash
can.

“Did... did something happen?” Suddenly he feels like a childish intruder,

who asks his father a question he's too young for. And Károly's reaction is not
pleased. He raises his eyebrows and his face color turns red. “No time for
chatting. No time for anything.” He pushes Attila away and clears his bookshelf.
“Of course it was my wife. Of course, she denounced me,” he mumbles, “No
time to lose. We'll meet tomorrow, okay? You go home and pack a suitcase and
then we'll meet tomorrow. Tomorrow's the big day. We're fleeing to Hungary.
Can you do that? Can you meet me tomorrow at five in the morning?”

Attila feels dizzy, his head is spinning. What did he just say?

“I don't...”

“Damn, Attiko.” Károly's grip is hard as he crushes Attila's arms. For the
first time, he hurts him. “Don't be stupid. We gotta act quickly. And you must
decide what you wanna do.”

“But... my parents, and... my friends.”

Károly remains silent for a few minutes. Then he kisses Attila. “I love you,
Attiko. This is our chance to have a life together. Do you wanna come with me
or not?”

He has dreamed of this moment, he has imagined it a thousand times in his

bed when he couldn't sleep. Week after week he grew impatient. When will the
moment come? When is their love real? And he imagined what he wanted to say
at this life-changing, beautiful hour.

But now he cannot say anything. And if he listens closely, he can hear the
ticking of a time bomb.

“I love you. Tomorrow, we're out of this sick country and we'll live together
in Paris,” Károly has said. He hadn't left any room for doubts. Then he thrust the
white book with the red title into Attila's hands. “Here. Bring this with you.
Don't lose it. Take care, it's important. Tomorrow, drágám, tomorrow.”

Attila's head almost burst by that thought, he almost has to vomit on the
pavement when he waits for the bus.

“Hey, Attiko. What are you doing here?” he hears a familiar voice and
flinches. Tiberius! It's really Tiberius. What does he do here? He didn't spy on
him, did he?

“Tibi.”
 “You've been at the garrison, too? Why the hell didn't you tell me?”

“The garrison? What garrison? Why?”

Tiberius slaps him jokingly on the shoulder. “Today was the open day at the
Military Garrison of Timișoara. You're also applying there after military service?
Awesome. But why didn't you tell me?”

“I, erm–, I wasn't at the garrison, I–” But the words die in his throat. From
the corner of his eyes, he sees the metallic door open in the distance, the familiar
door his hand has touched so many times. Why does his heart suddenly burst in
his chest? Why is his breath ragged from one moment to the other? It can be any
of the inhabitants. But, no, it's him! It's Károly. He leaves the apartment building,
his teacher's suitcase in his hands, and Attila melts by that sight. His mouth is
dry and he has to put all his strength together to not start running to Károly.

“How cool if we'll both stay near Timișoara for the service. That's gonna be
a fun time.”

Now Károly opens the rusty fence. Attila can almost hear the screech of the
unoiled hinge fifty meters away. A sound so deeply stamped in his conscious, in
his life, that it triggers a warm feeling in him. His eyes never leave any of
Károly's steps as he rushes to the traffic light. Would he meet him, is he heading
to the bus station? No, of course, he's not. Károly knows exactly that he waits for
the bus to Gara Nord and certainly heads for the other direction.

“And guess what idiot I met there. You wouldn't believe... Attiko? Atti.”

“No! NOOOO!”

The little gray Cadia has nothing special. So rusty and outdated, even for
Romanian standards. But the driving curve seems so perfectly calculated as if a
race driver is aiming for the best round. There's no sound, no screech or bang as
it hits Károly full frontal. The world remains silent, the car stops for a few
seconds, before it rearranges on the street, turns and drives away as if nothing
happened.

“No! No!”

“Attiko, what...? Holy shit? What was that?”

 What did just happen? Why can't he breathe? Károly will die like that, he'll
die! Somebody has to help him, why is nobody helping him, why is nobody
calling the ambulance, why are the people ignoring the dying man on the street?
Attila chokes and wants to scream, but only a squeak escapes his throat, like a
pig in the slaughterhouse.

“Atti, what's wrong with you? Attiko?”

Tiberius' grip is so strong that it hurts him, flashes to his bones. And then the
tears begin to flow, out of control, mingled with a snort. He hears his cries and
screams but doesn't recognize his own hopeless voice. No, it's not a voice, it is
pure despair.

“A horrible accident, Attiko. I didn't know you– I didn't know. Hey, look.
The bus arrives, come– Attiko!”

Tiberius' arms hug him from behind, drag him away and he fights him, beats
his elbow in Tiberius' stomach, desperately wanting to get free. But Tiberius is
too strong.

“Atti! Atti, what are you– Shiiiiit. Get on the bus! NOW!”

“Let me go. Tiberius.”Attila feels the snot rinse into his mouth, tastes the
bitter salty glibber, screaming for air, screaming to not suffocate, like a baby
does his first breath.

“They are here. Get on the bus.” Tiberius balks him along, tosses him up to
the bus' steps. But it's not easy and Attila struggles and refuses and tries to jump
out.

“Attiko! Stop it and get the fuck into the bus.”

“No, let me out!” he yelps but the doors close.

And the bus starts.

The ride home to Mihai's Village glides down in shock. Like statues, they sit
on the train bench and look into the nowhere. As they get off at the station,
Tiberius takes Attila's hand, almost crushes it, and pulls him away. They pass the
tracks, hide into the fields near Strada Corsarii. There's no tree on the wide plain
land, only the yellow grass of the Puszta and the over spanning sky, locking
them into a world under a dome set by the Communist Party, meter-thick
nonexistent walls preventing them from escaping.

“You, son of a bitch. What did you do? Why was the secret police after
you?” Tiberius yells at him and breaks the silence. His hands are clenched to
fists, aimed at his best friend and they shiver. He has to control himself to not
punch Attila in the face.

“What?” he whispers hoarsely.

“You didn't notice, you fucker? There were Securitate agents on the
Bulevardul. They turned in our direction. We were lucky the bus came. I can't be
sure, they might have followed us on the train. Any minute now, they can find us
here and– du-te în pizda mătii. What did you do? Why was Prof. Károly
murdered and why did you– why did you...?” In an instant, Tiberius' hazel-
colored eyes widen. He inhales sharply and Attila stares down at his feet,
defeated as if standing at the tribunal, ready to get fired at.

“You,” Tiberius spits the word out. Angry saliva flies into Attila's face,
“You're a faggot. You're one of those. You fucked our teacher, you pervert.”

“We haven't slept together yet,” slips out of him. Both friends are now ready
to start a fight, a thunderstorm building up in the air, the dried grass hissing in
the cold wind.

“You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch.” Tiberius' high-pitched voice cries.

And then Attila breaks down. His apathetic face crumples, his calm
breathing hyperventilates and he tumbles. The realization hits him hard, slaps
him against an open wound that spills its pain to every part of the body after the
protecting adrenaline of shock fades.

He's dead. Károly is dead. His lover, his love, his life. They made plans for
tomorrow, for the future, their future together. And now this future life was cut
away like an infected limb.

They'll never be together again...

 “You son of a bitch,” Tiberius' whimper snivels, and his flashing eyes
redden. “I shall report you. You're a criminal, you're a foe to society, you're...”

“You don't understand,” he replies through gritted teeth, “I loved him. We

loved each other. I loved him, I– I loved him.”

“Attiko.”

“I loved him so much, so much,” Attila sobs. “You're my friend, Tibi. You
understand me, do you? You're my friend. Please.”

“Shit! You're a faggot. Shitshitshit,” Tiberius spits out his whole anger.
When the thunder ceases, his twitching hand reaches out for Attila, hesitant,
loaded with full electricity of a lightning bolt that sets the grassland on flame. He
touches Attila on the shoulder, a desperate try to comfort him and a desperate try
to reach out for something that's already lost.

Many minutes pass before anyone says something and then Attila whispers
so quietly that Tiberius has to ask him to repeat it. “But how? How shall I
survive this? They know now. They'll get me. Tiberius?”

Trying to bite down his panic, Tiberius rubs his lips, he swirls around,
searches for an answer on the plain grassland, the inexorability of the Banatian
steppe, frozen in winter, dehydrated in summer, always and every day struggling
with death. “Shit, Attiko.”

“They'll get me, won't they? They know. They know... Tiberius, help me. I
don't wanna be killed by the Securitate.”

Tiberius sighs. His mind is spinning like crazy.

“How, Tiberius, how?”

“Would you please shut your mouth, you son of a bitch. I'm tryna think
here.”

Like a village idiot, Attila nods. Tiberius buries his head in his hands. In the
distance, he can hear a gunshot. Is there a venison hunt going on or a manhunt?
One can never know in the East.
 “Okay,” Tiberius finally announces and bites his lips, “Okay, okay. I got it.
I'll introduce you to the Sec. I'll tell them... tell them you wanna be an
apprentice, an undercover agent spying on Hungarians. Tell them... you helped
spy on Prof. Károly or somethin' and you were brilliant, a true Romanian
Securitate man at heart, and you need to work for them.”

“What? I didn't...”

“You just lie. Lie or die! It's that easy.”

Attila remains silent. Something in his bright blue eyes dies.

“You're gonna become one of them. It's the safest when you're directly under
the eye of the beast. Ah, shit, hope those dumbasses buy that crap or you're
done.”

Attila's tired eyes are the confirmation.

“You're gonna become an agent. You're gonna hunt down the ass-fucker
traitors. You gonna become the straightest comrade there ever was. And you're
gonna live.”

When the soldiers come for them, little Attiko died and Attila the Hun, the
shooting star of the secret service, Hangman of Faggots, is born.
 Chapter 2
◆◆◆

The Lonely Shepherd

Viorica. 1983

After two stillborn sons and a miscarriage, Viorica loses faith of ever
pleasing her husband. She can't seem to do anything right. She can't keep her
teeth, she can't keep her weight, and she can't bring her children to life. As a
woman, she is a complete failure.

Her former friends from childhood, Tiberius Nicolescu and Novák Attila
don't seem to be interested in staying in touch with her. She attended their
Baccalaureate parties, but they only chatted with her for five minutes and were
otherwise eager to ignore her. Why did she ever think their friendship would be
different than others? That it would exceed the boundaries set by society? A few
times, she tried to call them at their garrison, but they dismissed her.

So be it. To them, she was only the odd gypsy girl, a curiosity they could
bust about with their real friends. However, she always gets excited when she
reads or hears news about Tiberius or Attila. She's hurt by their rejection, and
deep in her heart, she's still lovesick for Tibi, but she can't help but be nostalgic
thinking about them.

Now, she's waiting for her doctor's appointment at Mihai's Village Center,
and scrolls through the smudged newspaper, when she reads it: “Novák Attila. A
Magyar becoming a true Romanian Socialist servant.”

Oh boy. That shy and innocent little cutie pie is now working for them. And
look at that picture. Those grim light blue eyes she always found so scary. That
hard mouth, as if the lips were sewn together. The furrowed brows, the hard lines
on his face. God, that man is only twenty-one years old, and he looks awful,
Viorica notices as a nurse sticks her head into the waiting room and spells out
her name. Disgust on her face, her lips twitching. Viorica is used to it.

She's left waiting for another hour in the doctor's room and then after ninety
minutes, the same nurse announces: “Sorry, but the doctor's very busy today.
Here are your test results.” With the paper tossed at the desk, she's out, no
handshake, no goodbye.

Of course. Who wants to examine a gypsy closely? Who wants to care about
her? She's no real human in their eyes. Perhaps she should try the vet; betcha,
she'd be treated better there.

Pregnant. She reads the paper as if she'd read a shopping list. It isn't exciting
anymore the fourth time, and she saves it in her head next to “Toilet paper's out.
Don't forget to buy another bag.”

Loaded with purchases for the next day's meals, and a certain queasy feeling
in her stomach, she enters the house Bogdan promised to build for their family.
But to this day, four years after the wedding, some rooms still don't have outside
walls, the roof is not yet complete, the toilet is a hole in the ground, and the
concrete is so uneven she can't hope to hang a family picture on the walls ever.
Well, perhaps she'll never have a family after all. So what's the point in worrying
about the house's completion? She can't keep her promise to birth children and
Bogdan can't keep his promises to finish this construction area. Seems like the
perfect couple.

“Home,” she announces into the smoke-thick air. As always, Bogdan's

brothers are here. They also live in this ramshackle, half of them are broke, half
of them are junkies, and all of them are drunk. There's no private place for her in
her own house.

“What took you so long?” barks Bogdan as she unpacks her groceries.
“We're hungry here.”

One of his brothers is half-naked, dressed in a dirty undershirt, marching to

the fridge and taking out a bottle of beer. The television is playing some Cuban
telenovela. She always wanted to watch Dallas, Attila gushed about that
American show without end when he was still at school. But in this area of the
village, the self-made antennas barely catch the Romanian channels.

“There are still some cans of ravioli in the pantry.” The pantry is an old large
ice chest, sunk into the stream in their courtyard.

“But I don't wanna eat cold ravioli,” he gripes and is cheered by his brothers.

“Oh, yeah?” She knows better, but she can't control herself. She can't just
leave it be. “Look here. See what that mighty black thingy here is? Oh, what can
it be? What can it be? Is it a vehicle? Is it a magic booth? Noooooo. It's a stove.
And guess what you're doin' with that shit?”

She saw it coming. But every time, still, it startles her. As though her mind
refuses to get used to it. The ever prominent slap. It'll be followed by a
nightmare when Bogdan will act out his anger in bed. His brothers whistle and
laugh.

“That's it, Bogdan.” “Show that bitch how dumb she is.” “Come on, ride her.
This TV is crap. Wanna watch some real thing.” “Te ling in pizda.”

She wants it to be over soon, so she hurries into the courtyard. Pulling up the
ice chest by the ropes is a hard task and it takes her nearly ten minutes. The
padlock is rusted and with every meal, it's harder and harder to open it. She
quickly heats some cans and after she served it for her husband and her brothers-
in-law, she runs out of the kitchen before she can see the swines gorging above
their troughs.

The spring weather is nice and warm today, so it's fun to spend the day
outside, cleaning and cutting carrots and potatoes for the evening's Ciorbă soup.
When she feels like falling into a trance from her domestic and satisfying task,
alone in the bright sun, a shrill voice disturbs here.

“Bogdan. Bogdaaahhhaaan! Are you here?”

Who's that? She's never heard that voice. Its owner begins to rattle at the iron
gate and Viorica is afraid the supporting pillars will unscrew and fall out.

“What do you want from him?” she snaps, opening the gate, surprised by
what she sees. There's a teenage girl, not older than sixteen. Her makeup is
overdone, the lilac glitter eyeshadow smudged as though a child played with its
mother's belongings. The eyeliner is crooked and the red lipstick everywhere on
her teeth.

Well, at least, she still has all her teeth.

“Who are you?” She's never seen that chick.

“But don't you know?” That doll nearly stumbles in her enormously high
heels as she waves her hand in a horribly annoying teen gesture.

“No. I don't know,” Viorica imitates her baffling voice and her fishy lips.

“Ima his bride.”

“Oh yeah. Good to know.”

“He said I shoulda come and we'll set the wedding date.”

“Uh-hu. Well, I'll look into his schedule and see when he's free, yeah?”

“Oh, that would be nice. Are ya his secretary?”

She clears her throat. Oh my God. “Kinda.”

“So tell him I was right. Because Ima with his child. Can't wait to gift him a
son.”

“Okay.” Viorica doesn't know why she feels sad and offended by that. She
doesn't care about Bogdan, about him being her husband, about his fidelity. For
her part, he can have a harem and she would be pleased that he'd leave her alone.
But that girl, she's still so young. Besides all her teenage dumbness, she's still a
kid! “He's kinda busy now,” she replies and is reminded of the nurse earlier at
her doctor's, “I'll tell him you were here. Good day to you.” With that, she closes
the gate shut.

Okay, that's it. That's the straw which breaks the camel's back. The day has
come to realize her plan that's brewed so long within her. She'll only pack a few
things. She won't need much, she doesn't own anything precious besides her
ripped wedding gown. But that nice pink dress with the yellow flowers, that's
what she certainly wants to take with her. It had only cost a few Lei, and the
plastic fibers sometimes smell awful when she's sweating, but she loves it so
much.

And she's sure Tiberius will love her just as much when he sees her wearing
it. In the afternoon, she'll take the three-o'clock-train to Timișoara and make her
way to the garrison although she has no idea where it's located. Yes, he won't
answer her phone calls, he won't answer her letters, but perhaps his position does
permit him? But she's sure, if he sees her in person, he'll be thrilled to meet her.
Perchance, he longs to see her again, but doesn't know how to address her?

She's not so sure about her child. What will he think? One moment, she feels
certain he'll love it as his own, but then she tells herself to not worry much about
it: she'll lose that baby anyway, before she will be showing.

“I forgot to buy salt,” she says but only earns a careless wave of Bogdan's
hand and a “Stupid bitch.”

Well, leaving Bogdan is the easy part. She was never afraid of that. Of
course, once he'll realize his wife managed to leave him, he'll be the scorn of
town, but she'll be kilometers away by then. What made her postpone her plan
was the concern of what will happen when she's standing right in front of
Căpitan Tiberius Ion Nicolescu.

But angst grips its ice-cold fingers into her guts at the station. She looks
around her, any minute expecting that Bogdan and his brother's entourage are
coming to hunt her down. Her wits know they're nothing more than drunkards
passing out in the kitchen and smoking one cigarette after another. But she's
frightened to death nevertheless. Only when the train is leaving Voiteg, the
neighbor village, she can ease and breathe out. With all the sorrow leaving her
body, she feels the urge to use the train's bathroom. And on her way back to her
compartment, almost crushed on the cramped train — a kid's ice cream is spilled
on her pants, some stinky elbow bumps into her back, she's squished to the
window — she recognizes a familiar face.

“Hey, it's you. Atti. Hey.” she calls and only then does she think about what
she's done. He's now a secret police agent. Look at him in that intimidating gray
uniform, look at that serious face under the cap. How on earth did she dare to
call him like that, how did she dare to think he's still friendly to her. He'll
probably arrest her. “Excuse me, Sir. I didn't...”

“Viorica, eh?” he lights a cigarette and offers her one. She shakes her head,
replying: “Pregnant.”

He shrugs. “So what?”

Yeah, so what? After all that thick tobacco fog at her house, what's another
cigarette more? But she still refuses, she doesn't want Attila to think bad of her.
“So, you've been at your parents, Att... Mr. Novák?”

“Bought my father a new hunting jeep. Gabe wrecked the old one, finally.”

She enjoys him talking like that,. She feels his same urge to be the young
boy again, to jabber and complain about his family. There's that certain sadness
in his eyes she has never seen before. But then, he stands up and looks in the
other direction, away from her, as if he remembers it's not appropriate to talk to
gypsy scum.

“How's your Mami doing?” she asks, though she knows better to not bother
him anymore.

“Good,” he replies.

“Erm–,” she hesitates, sighs heavily. Her heart skips a beat. But it's her big
chance, her only chance. “Are you going to the garrison?”

“No. Why?” he asks dryly and she notices for the first time his new strong
adult body scent. It reminds her of her father and she steps back.

“Um, I wanted to visit Tibi. Good ol' times. Is he there, at the garrison?”

“Ts, yeah,” he scoffs, “You'd rather find him at Ánná's apartment, that
naughty asshole.”

“What, he... what? Ánná, your sis?”

“Yeah, my bitch.” He sounds so rude. But it's not the innocent teenager
attitude anymore. He seems so aggressive, so... manly, but how? He always was
that cute little Attiko-boy, who wanted to become a famous violinist.

“But why is he living with your sister?” she asks although she knows better
and her heart suddenly stops.

“Guess what? They're the new Romeo and Juliet of our time.”

“Oh.” She has to force herself to breathe as a hot and cold shower of shame
and disappointment is splashed upon her. Tiberius and Ánná?

Well. He always was a womanizer and Ánná is the most beautiful woman
Viorica has ever seen. So it's just natural they're drawn to each other. She should
have known.

Her mission is now pointless. But she can't go back, Bodgan will probably
kill her. Or worse. What shall she do now? Where will she live? She has no one
to contact, no one in the City to seek for help.

Now, she's rootless. A vagabond, a real gypsy.

“Wish you all the best. And, ej, it's Major Novák by the way. Szia.”

Viorica is overwhelmed by the Station Gara Nord and the sheer amount of
tracks and trains. Paralyzed by the people running, the sound of whistling and
puffing and shouting, she studies the bus map for almost an hour before she finds
the street where the garrison is located. Proud to have gotten the right bus
number and the right halt, only to be told by a soldier Căpitan Nicolescu isn't
there.

Nearly crying, she mumbles to herself: “But where can I find him now?
Where can I find Novák Ánná's apartment now?” The soldier at the entrance
gatehouse laughs: “The telephone book, you bitch. Everyone's listed in the book,
no one can go underground.”

When Viorica hears a key turn in the apartment door, she wants to die, she
wants her heart to stop beating right now and her body to fall to the ground. With
a snap of the finger, be dead and not face the glorious sight of this glorious man,
Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu; those beautiful warm hazel eyes in a perfect face
that seems more like a painting, the hair ruffled, still in his morning routine,
freshly shaven, his uniform jacket open, the collar framing his strong neck like
an ancient god. She has never seen a man more handsome than him, not on the
TV, not in any magazines.

If she died right away, she wouldn't have to face the shame, to feel her
worthlessness standing in front of that powerful man, wasting his precious time.
If her heart stopped now, she didn't have to face his questioning expression while
he looks at her, trying to remember who she is and why she's here.

“Viorica,” she somehow manages to introduce herself. Not knowing what

else to do, she offers her hand. Should she bow down, should she salute? Should
she run away? “From Mihai's Village.”

“Ohhh. Yes.” He smiles politely, “Yeah, yeah, of course. Little Rica. Hey,
hey, how are you? I didn't recognize you, you look so different.”

“Dyed my hair blonde.”

“Must be it, yes.”

Do you like it? she longs to ask, but her lips can't form any more words. A
chirping voice interrupts her thoughts; it's Her Royal Highness Novák Ánná
Katalin, Attila's sister, Lady of the Steppe — a woman like Princess Diana is
nothing compared to her.

“Tibi? What's taking you so long? Who is it? I need you to gimme a hand
with that dress.”

“Too bad, Rica. We're off to work. Can I do something for you?”

Good question. Can he though? And what? She's stranded in the city,
pregnant, left her violent husband, no place to sleep and a hopeless love she can't
let go.

“Okay, sorry to bother you, Sir. Have a nice day.” She turns away and takes
the steps down but can still feel his gaze on her. And after she arrives at the first
floor, his voice is calling: “Hey, Rica. Just a sec. Come up.”

She practically flies up the stairs. Arriving in front of him again, a splash of
nauseousness overwhelms her when he blows his smoke into the air of the stuffy
staircase. “Often around this area?”

“Erm– yes, yeah.”

“Could you do me a favor?”

She tilts her head and her heart will explode any minute now. “Sure.”

“Could you pay our dear friend Attila some little visits? You know, he's so
alone at the Sec building and I or his sister rarely can hang out with him, we
have so much work to do. I bet he's so lonely there without his gang.”

“O– Of course.”

“Just talk a little bit. Keep us up to date with his life. We really miss him,
and he's not a person who loves chatting on the phone.”

“Will do,” she whispers, nearly moans.

“I don't know... Ask him if he needs a cleaning woman so those department

motherfuckers won't get suspicious or somethin'. Don't wanna get you in trouble.
Here. Here's the address.”

“Yes.” Her head is spinning as she receives the little note. She feels dizzy,
partly because of the pregnancy, partly because of his smile. “Okay, fine. Now I
really gotta get dressed. Come again at eight in the evening and we'll drink a
little Pálinka together, for the sake of the good ol' times. Bye, bye.”

The Department Building is not an unconquerable fortress as she thought it

would be, but more a boring office block, and never will she believe that the
workers here can be more dangerous than tax accountants. Sitting in the tram,
she nearly pissed herself by the thought of entering and getting kicked out, spit
at, being called names, or worse. But the worst thing that happens in the first half
hour, while she tries to orientate and search for a Novák Attila, is the almost
pitiful expression on the faces of the people passing by.

Sitting on a bench near the mighty steps leading to the first floor, hands on
her stomach — Why, that pregnancy is the worst by far, never did she feel so
miserable before. But this is a good sign, isn't it? — she suddenly hears stomping
boots, yelling, the buzz of a heated argument.

“Baszd meg. A kurva anyád, faszszopo geci.”

It's him, there he is. She can't be mistaken, no other person dares to curse in
Hungarian here.

“Major, be careful, Sir. I am so sorry, Sir. So sorry. Watch out. The blood.”

“You should have tied him up better. He wiggled himself free, that
motherfucker bit off my finger! Look at that shit, kurva életbe.”

“I can't think of what has gone wrong. I am so sorry, Major.”

“He really. Actually. Bit off. My. Finger.”

“My fault, totally my fault. Excuse me, Major.”

Now she can see the two men appearing at the steps: Attila jumps down,
nearly flies like a bat, like a strigoi, his left hand red with thick black blood.
Another man in uniform — his co-worker, adjutant, how do you call it? — swirls
around him.

“Hold still, Sir. Let's get you to the nurse, Sir. Let me bandage it
temporarily.”

“Get your stinking hands off me, szemétláda.” He takes a handkerchief out
his pockets and wraps it around the finger stump. “Bazd szájba a jó kurva
anyád.” And then his eyes, those striking light blue eyes, fall on her. “Huh?
Viorica? You're here? What a coincidence.” He lights a cigarette. “Are ya spying
on me, bitch? Oh, no, please, don't worry. Just a joke, you know me,” he adds as
he sees her flinch. “What brings you to the Sec? Look, what happened today at
work, huh.” He holds his bandaged hand in the air, almost proud. “Anyway. Shit
day at work.”
 “I, erm– I wanna make a living in the city. And, erm– wanted to ask... It's
because I don't know any people, that I am addressing you. But someone said...
they are always in need for a good cleaning woman here.”

“Oh,” he snorts, “Yes, yes. You're so right. Always short of good, loyal
cleaners. And how nice to have someone from Mihai's here, what nostalgia.”

“Sir, we should head to the nurse and then quickly back to work. You have
an appointment with the Mareșal in half an hour.”

“Yes, Iliu. I know. Okay, Rica, it's your lucky day. You can start right now.
Please do me a favor and clean room A/47 for me? Sorry for my mess, but...
yeah... I know you're a tough woman and will be perfect for this job.”

“Of course, Mr. Novák.”

“It's Major Novák,” the adjutant snaps.

“Of course, Major Novák.”

In room A/47, there's blood everywhere and she can't imagine how on earth
it got to the higher wall and the ceiling. Her arm pressed to her nose to shield her
from the smell, she has to use the hose to clean everything. They said once a
month she has to repaint the walls. She doesn't think about what happens here.
She has not the slightest idea what Attila does for a living, but well, it's men's
business. She's just the cleaning woman and a former friend, and she wants to be
a good friend and not ask questions. And most of all, she wants to please
Tiberius, to make him happy. She feels reborn and useful as she rubs sanitary
alcohol on the examination chair. She's in the city, she has a serious job, she's
with her friends again. A whole new life, a better life. The beginning of
something glorious, the three of them together again.

Her workday is done when she takes out the garbage which consists solely
of syringes and heads in the tram back to Novák Ánná's apartment, her heart
fluttering in her chest.
 “So what did that old motherfucker tell ya?” Tiberius asks while munching
on his bread. The table is set beautifully, a little rose in a vase, the tablecloth
clean and ironed and she's proud of it. Ánná didn't stop to compliment her for
this.

“Nothing special. He was busy.”

“Such a workaholic, that pooper,” says Ánná and pours herself and Tiberius
a glass of wine. When it is her turn, Viorica holds up her hand and refuses.

“Oh, why not? It's a good one, a Hungarian Tokaj. Nobody says no to a
Hungarian Tokaj.”

“You're very kind, but I don't want to drink.”

“Hm,” replies Ánná, busy with cleaning leftovers from her teeth.

“Hey, if you get the chance, look or ask him about books, will ya?”

“Books?” She glances at Tiberius, confused by his eagerness to continue

talking about Attila, “Why books? What– Okay, I'll ask him.”

“Well, he's an aesthete, loves classical music, classical paintings, great

Russian tomes, War and Peace, you know. That's the key to his heart.”

“Okay.” The salami tastes awful. The smell makes her hyper-sensitive
pregnant nose curl and her stomach turn around. But even more, when Tiberius
stands up, takes his uniform jacket from the chair and dresses himself, she wants
to gush her stomach contents on the floor.

“Time to go to the garrison. What a pity. I wanted to stay longer and talk
with you a bit more about Mihai's Village and the folk there. Anyway, tomorrow,
yeah? Shall I drive you home? Are you staying in a hostel or somethin'?”

“No. No, I...”

She can't believe Ánná notices her difficult situation, she can't believe she of
all people helps her out. But of course, she's not only the most beautiful woman
in the world, but also the kindest one. Ánná shakes her head looking at Tiberius,
then winks at her, bonding over the ignorance and insensitivity of men. “Hey,
wanna stay a little longer here? I really need someone to take care of the
apartment. I have a single room one floor up, you can stay there if you like. See,
my cleaning skills are miserable, especially for windows.”

“Would be glad to.”

“Okay, ladies.” The keys rattle as Tiberius takes them into his hands, his
strong, big hands. “Gotta go. See ya,” he salutes and gives Ánná a goodbye kiss
on the mouth. It breaks Viorica's heart, but at the same time, she can't be angry at
Ánná as she always thought she'd be.

When the door is shut behind him, she helps Ánná doing the dishes. It
doesn't take her long until Ánná asks: “What month are you in?”

“Ex– Excuse me?” She nearly let a plate fall into the soapy sink.

“You're pregnant. What month?”

“How did you know?” Viorica's eyes widen in shock.

“I saw you at dinner. You didn't look like you were feeling all that great.”

“Yes.” Immediately her hand is on her stomach. It began on the train, right
after she left Bogdan and felt safe, that she bonded with the little human being
growing in her body. For the first time, she calls the little something her child,
her baby, and doesn't associate it with her husband's cruelty and violence.

“You're fleeing from something. You look very tired, rushed. You have
nowhere to go?”

“Yes, exactly.” She almost feels like crying. “And I'm so ashamed to misuse
your hospitality, your generosity. You don't want a gypsy in your home. I'm sorry
for bothering you, I'll be off and back in the morning for my cleaning job.”

“No, no, no. Stay. What a Hungarian would I be if I looked down on

gypsies? We're folklorist gypsies, too. Descendants of a nomad tribe, also
foreigners in this country. We're in the same boat, you know.”

“I see.”
 “Or so the history books tell us.” With her clear and loud laugh, she takes all
tense out of the situation. Viorica feels comfortable with this woman she knows
since childhood, but with whom she never talked before. She likes her, feels a
warm flush in her heart, but at the same time, she's so jealous. “I really should lie
down, I should rest. I'll be cleaning your windows first thing in the morning.”

“Okay, great. Wait, I'll give you the keys to the room in the attic.”

Two hours in the morning, she works on Ánná's apartment. The lady's messy
lifestyle makes her sympathetic, but a pain in the ass to keep it clean. Then, she'll
buy groceries, prepare dinner for the evening, for the Royal Couple. In the
afternoons, she's off for the Securitate Building at Bulevardul Corsarii, shreds
Major Novák's paper trash, cleans office A/47 once in a week, sweeps the floors
in the wing reserved for the Directorate for Internal Security.

“I should hire you for my own laundry. Ánná's very pleased with you, she
told me.” Viorica flinches when Attila addresses her one day. He's always quiet,
writing in his files as though no one is in the room, as if she doesn't exist, and
she's too intimidated by the broad man this once cute boy has grown into.

“Yes, Major, Sir. Would be my pleasure,” she whispers, lips trembling.

“But I should inform you. My bachelor's apartment is a mess,” he says and

slowly puts the cap on his ink pen, as if he's filmed for a movie where it's
essential to get a slow motion of that little gesture. And why did he pronounce
that word so strangely?

“Like sister, like brother,” she manages to joke and she's surprised it makes
him laugh. And then: “How's your hand? Does it still hurt?”

“My hand?” He looks at it as if it doesn't belong to him. “Yes, much better.

Not a big deal. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Anything else?” he
raises an eyebrow at her when she keeps standing awkwardly into the doorway.
Well, she just has to ask him. One simple question, a casual small talk. Can you
recommend me any books? That's what Tiberius has told her to say. That's her
mission, such a simple one. And she feels so bad she can't fulfill that easy task.
Her best friends work for the Army, for the secret police, they face unbelievable
horrors every day. They have to accomplish missions too difficult and
complicated to even understand. And she can't ask a simple question.

“No, nothing. See you tomorrow, Major, Sir. Have a nice day.”

The air in the little attic room is hot and stuffy as summer moves along.
There's only a sink near the door and no toilet, so she's allowed to come down
into Ánná's apartment and use her bathroom. But it feels like heaven, compared
to the unfinished building at her home, it's a palace. Although her heart aches
when she can hear Tiberius and Ánná make out below, she loves hearing them
laugh, she loves the buzzing of the television, she loves both of them. She makes
sure to always leave fresh flowers at the dining table in the kitchen and she
receives little presents, too; lovely smelling soap, lipstick, chocolate, pregnancy
clothes. She knows it's all from Ánná, but she pretends that from time to time,
Tiberius, too, thinks of her, when he sees something in the shop windows he
wants to gift especially to her.

In the safe haven of this room, she feels so happy like never before, she feels
as if for the first time she belongs to a family, a strange family of three grown
adults, although she gets money from them for her cleaning services.
Throughout the summer she has three jobs, cleaning both the Novák's apartments
and the Department Building, but never was she more relaxed and had more time
for herself. She has the muse to lie in bed in the evenings and watch her belly
grow. Stretched by the other pregnancies, it's well rounded at five months and
the belly button already plopped out. She always tried to hide her swelling
before, but now, she sits on the edge of her bed, in front of the mirror, opens her
blouse and caresses the firm bump, maintains the skin with body lotion Ánná
gave her. It's the first time she talks to her unborn kid, the first time she enjoys
the movements. This is not another gypsy village baby, it is a child of the City. In
the dark of the night, when she can't sleep because of the baby's movements, she
pretends to herself that it's Tiberius', that he can't wait to hold his son in his arms,
that Ánná is excited, too. Quietly, she sings lullabies and begins to call him
“Attila Nicolae.” That's the name for her son, the perfect name for a child born
into a loving community of friendships. An elegant Hungarian/Romanian name
that indefinitely links that boy to the Nováks and to Tiberius.

“You're having a baby?” Major Novák Attila observes one day in August
and smiles that strange smile where he exposes the lower line of crooked teeth.
“Congrats.”

“Thank you,” she replies and puts her hands on her belly. She loves that this
gesture comes automatically now. In her former pregnancies, the growing
stomach only was a fat annoyance she wanted to get rid off as quickly as
possible.

“Tell me it's not Tibi's baby?”

She inhales sharply. Oh my God, that agent is too good. He even knows her
most secret thoughts. “No. It's not his. He's in a relationship with your sister
though, isn't he? You told me so.”

“Yeah, well, don't say that out loud here. But yes, that's true. Although he is
and always was a naughty little boy who does any chick with a heartbeat.”

“Hm,” she whispers. His statement is cutting through her daydreams like a
knife. “No, it's not his.” And then she wants to be polite: “And how's your, erm–
relationship going?”

“Well,” he lights a cigarette and it bugs her that he still offers her one,
although she looks definitely pregnant by now, “I prefer books to people.”

There it is. The chance, the opportunity. Her patience paid off and the
fulfilling of her mission for Tiberius presents itself now on the silver plate. She
truly feels like a secret agent herself. “Books?” she stammers, “I want to start
reading one but I don't know a good one.” She hates how stupid this comes out.
“Can you– recommend something? Something not too long or complicated?”

“I always thought you were an illiterate,” Attila frowns.

“No, I went to school for three years.”

“So,” he shrugs, “Don't worry about over-hyped names. You can always read
Tolstoy's War and Peace. At its core, it's only a simple love story really. An
over-stretched dime novel.”

“Okay.”

“Ánná must still have my edition I once lend her. That bitch always forgets
to return my possessions. Could you bring it to me after you finish it?”

“Will do... Major Novák.”

“Excellent. Now I gotta go for room A/47. Gonna clean it in an hour, will
ya? Szia.”

“Wow, how does being pregnant feel? It looks so uncomfortable. I can't

imagine how women ever survive that,” Ánná remarks at dinner after Tiberius
went for the garrison.

“I'm doing fine, thanks.”

“Is it your first? And who's the father?”

“I, erm– I ran away from him. He beat me and...”

“Oh my God, you poor soul. So that's the reason. Okay, say no more. I'm
sorry for asking and reminding you. God, how awful can men be?”

“Yes,” she takes another bite of the cake she baked. Ánná seems to enjoy her
company and with every week passing by, they become more and more friends,
doing girly stuff. She helps Ánná painting her fingernails, she cuts her hair and
gives it a wonderful ashen blonde color. They spend evenings in front of the TV,
scrolling through women's mags. Never has she felt happier. “Are all men like
that?”

“Oh,” Ánná laughs. “No, I don't think so, no. My father, for example, is the
nicest man on earth. And Tiberius... well, he can be a pain in the ass sometimes,
but he's nothing less than a darling.”

A silence falls upon them. Viorica senses that Ánná wanted to add
something, but stopped in time. The radio plays ABBA, the soft wind from
outside swooshes in and there's a certain presence in the room, like a ghost.

“But true, many men are assholes,” Ánná breaks the spell and continues
talking, “My older brothers can be vicious womanizers who don't care what
they're doing to their poor girls. But Attila...” Her striking eyes focus on a point
behind Viorica, staring on the white wall. A cold shiver runs down Viorica's
back.

“Attila. He may act like a dickhead, but deep in his heart, he's an innocent
little flower. A good guy, but stressed and overworked by his damn job in the
stupid Department. Poor boy to be in such a high position in that dreadful
organization. I can't imagine what his motivation was when he chose that career.
Yeah,” she sighs heavily, “he always wanted to be a musician or an engineer at
the factory. But now, he's too busy to drop a simple 'hi' on the phone.”

“He said...” Viorica gulps, “He said you still have one of his books. War and
Peace?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Does he want it back? Can you give it to him? That would be
great. I only read a few pages, it was so boring and I forgot about it. But don't
tell him that, will ya?” Ánná winks at her, smiling, and the tension is dissolved.

After Ánná went to sleep, Viorica enters her attic room, the book in her
hands, and falls tired onto the bed. The humid heat is almost too much to bear, so
she wets small patches of clothes and puts it on her forehead and on her belly to
ease the discomfort. Moving is much more difficult now, and it takes her twice
as long to do her jobs, but luckily, no one minds how quick she is with her
cleaning.

She opens the book on some blank page and reads the little scribbled note on
the upper right edge: “For my dear son Attila, the artist in our family. All the
best for your fifteenth birthday. May all your wishes come true. Your Mami.”
Her reading skills are too bad for any other passages from the actual novel —
she doesn't understand a word and can't distinguish all those Russians names and
parental names — but that short note touches her heart deeply. Does his Mami
know her little artist boy got one of his fingers bitten off? Does she know how
lonely he looks sitting at his desk, the Romanian flag at his back, the six
telephones in front of him? Does she know his body can't manage to compose a
real smile as if his face had undergone a surgery and the muscles can't properly
function now?

And that's when she feels a strong kick against her rib cage and she can see
her belly take a strange form as her son moves in there. He'll be born in
December, she has roughly calculated. Every day she imagines it: she's lying on
this warm bed, Ánná and some nurse swirling around her, caring for her and her
baby, letting her rest and bond with the child, while peaceful snow covers the
world outside. What will he look like? She can't imagine him not having any
resemblance to Tiberius or Ánná or Attila, although she knows that's dumb
wishful thinking. How will he grow up? Into what kind of man will he grow?
Will she gift him a book on his fifteenth birthday too, with a similar short note?
“My dear son Attila Nicolae. This once was your uncle's favorite novel. Your
aunt and I found it boring, but I hope you'll love it. Your maică.”

Tonight is a special occasion and Ánná demanded nervously that the food
and the table decorations should be excellent. Tiberius is bringing a colleague
from the Army with him and they will be talking about “very important stuff.”
And she, too, has to attend the dinner, because she can chat about Major Novák
Attila's reading habits. She does not know how on earth she deserves to attend
such a formal meeting, for the only thing she's done is to give him back the copy
of War and Peace and make up some story of how she liked the plot.

She's demanded to come in at nine in the evening. Although she's exhausted

from her daytime jobs and the active boy in her is moving and kicking, she drags
herself down and buzzes the doorbell. From inside, she hears laughter, a lively
conversation going on, she can smell tobacco and alcohol, the radio plays
American disco music.

It's actually Tiberius himself who opens the door for her and makes her feel
like a Cinderella with that smile that's meant especially for her, a glass of Raki
and a cigar in his hands. “Hey, Rica. Nice to see you. We've actually just talked
about you. Come in, come in.” She's disappointed that he doesn't offer her his
hand, but steps back with a twitching expression on his face as his eyes fall on
her belly. She remembers the days before her wedding when she was on her
special diet and eager to show him her new model figure. That's irrevocably over
now.

“How– er... how are you?” He makes a poor attempt at commenting on her
pregnancy.

“Fine. Everything is going well.”

“I'm glad. You'll still be working for us after the... birth, won't ya?”
 She gulps. She hasn't thought about that. “Sure thing.”

In the kitchen, Ánná is busying herself with serving cakes and salty snacks.
She looks like her Mami; Viorica vaguely remembers Mrs. Novák being the
ideal mother figure; in the background managing her large family, making sure
they're cared for. It's an old saying that with age, you're becoming more and
more like your own parents. She dreads that prospect.

“This is Viorica Negrescu. From my hometown. The Department cleaning

woman,” Tiberius introduces her to a man, sitting in full Army uniform at the
table. She notices Tiberius mentioning her by her maiden name and can't decide
if she should be maddened or thankful. But the slight touch of his hand on her
back as he nudges her to sit down, is enough to delve all her anger away.

“Ah, Victoria, yes, Nicolescu told me about you. How are you, Victoria? Oh,
I see, a happy bundle of joy is on the way.”

“I'm fine, thanks,” she bites her lip and tries to bend away as a cloud of cigar
smoke is flying into her direction. “It's Vio-rica actually,” she adds quietly, but
no one can hear her.

“Want a shot too?” Tiberius asks and clinks his fingernail on the little
schnapps glass.

“No, but thank you.”

“Just a little sip. Come on, baby will sleep better, eh?”

“Okay.”

“Ha, ha, I knew it.”

She searches desperately for Ánná, her eyes pleading,. But Lady Novák's
face is plain, emotionless, a bust of cold marble with two round cold icicles
staring into the nowhere. And in this moment, she resembles her brother so
much it's frightening.

“So, when's the due date, Victoria?” the Army colleague asks and she begs
him to stop pretending to be polite and to let her go.
 “December.” Her lips tremble as she says it. All those people in uniforms
she's seeing the whole day, all the tight tension in their voices; her two best
friends she used to hang out with and doing pranks together act now like
execution commandos; all this is too much for her. Everyone is speaking as if
they want to hide everything from the others, speaking in metaphors or not, and
it's confusing her, making her feel idiotic.

“December, ha. How appropriate is that?” He clasps his hands.

“I don't know?” her mouth says before her brain can stop her. Damn.
Woman, come on, you're not stupid, use your wits. These are highly official,
highly dangerous people. They ain't the cool teenagers anymore.

“December's always a good time for a change, isn't it?” Tiberius asks and
lights another cigarette.

“Erm, yes, I like the winter, too.”

“How's living in the big City, Rica?” Tiberius asks, “Are you content? Or
wanna go back to the tranquil village?”

“It's awesome... Căpitan.” Ánná had told her, no, had drummed it into her to
call him like that tonight.

“I heard you're quite a workaholic. Maintaining buildings, eh?” the Army

officer asks, “Tough work, but as I look around here,” he whistles, “You're doing
an amazing job.”

“Thank you...”

“General,” his commanding voice ends her sentence.

“General,” she adds breathless. She knows that it's the second-highest
position in the infantry and her heart starts beating like crazy. Her hands get
sweaty and she wants to flee this apartment, this building, this city.

“And your other job? It's the most demanding, isn't it? Bulevardul Corsarii is
a challenge, ej?”

“My boss is very kind to me.”

 “Your boss?” The eyes of the General are gleaming, Viorica can't say if he
notices that he clenches his teeth as a raptor ready to bite his prey.

“Major Novák Attila,” she says and immediately looks at Ánná who nearly
lets a new bottle of buzz fall to the ground. How on earth can such a common
name sound so daunting?

“The Hun. I see.”

A silence falls on the strange meeting group and Ánná refills their glasses.
This time, Viorica is glad for the Raki.

“How's that old fella, Rica? How's he doing?” Tiberius breaks the ice.

“Good, he's good. Much work, complicated things to do, I think. But he's
good. His hand is better.”

“His hand?” The piercing dark eyes of the General practically hurt her like a
cut.

“Yes, it was an accident at work. But I don't know how he lost that finger.”

“Oh, what a man your brother has become, ej?” Tiberius' skin around the eye
wrinkles as he laughs and slaps Ánná on her butt. She ignores him, but Viorica
can see her jaw muscles working as she tries to remain calm.

“He's taking that Mr. Securitate bullshit quite seriously, isn't he?”

“Well, he's one of the best they say. He's a Hungarian, so, I think, he has to
prove himself even more?” She's proud of her answer. For the first time during
this conversation, it feels like her intellect is even to theirs.

“Yeah, but is he still a Hungarian, still a man of the Puszta?”

Now, all people in the room look expectantly at her, Tiberius and Ánná and
that General. They wait, they forget to blink, they hang on her lips as if she were
the president's wife.

“I... Erm– I...”

 “You see...” Tiberius rubs over his beard stubble and his finger traces
imaginary lines on the tablecloth, “I don't know if you've heard about it.
Certainly, you haven't. Sorry for assuming it and confusing you. But there's a
little... political group called 'White Winter.' It's– It's a kind of free time
organization for members of the Communist Party, Army, whatnot. Get it?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Well, nothing too special, really. We meet, we discuss what can be

improved at our workplaces. Introducing new furniture, for example, repainting
the walls. Get it?”

She thinks she gets it. But the way he looks at her makes her feel unsure.
Why is his voice so tense telling such simple things? Why is he gesturing as if he
discussed a secret war strategy?

“It was founded way back in our youths, when we were still at Mihai's. I was
assigned by my father as a watchdog in my former boarding school, my
chemistry teacher was in that group, too. But shortly before military service I felt
strongly drawn to their cause and changed sides. Small world, isn't it?”

“Yeah...”

“Actually Attila... Major Novák also belongs to us. And that's why I asked
you to talk to him a bit. See, we're concerned about him. He hasn't attended any
meetings the last two years, he barely calls and visits his own sister. Things like
that make us worry about that poor boy. And we wanted to know if he still
remembers the 'White Winter' or if he's simply too busy or fully booked out?”

“I can ask him tomorrow.”

“Oh, no, no, no. No. Ah, sorry, don't want to... bestow too much work on ya,
Rica. I mean, you're very... very pregnant. You need rest apparently. I don't want
to keep you longer at Bulevardul Corsarii than it's necessary.”

That's when she feels a kick in her belly, the baby stretches out in her,
presses against her organs and her bladder, so forceful her whole back and hips
hurt as if she had a contraction. She grabs the wooden laths of her chair and
slightly bends over backwards to try to ease the pain, but not too much so they
won't notice. From the corner of her eye, she sees Ánná opening a window, but
it's already autumn and the wind coming in is too chill to keep it open for longer
than a few minutes. From the street, she can hear a loud engine rattle, probably
from a truck, and the noise feels like someone is stabbing her with knives.

“Is everything alright?” Tiberius asks finally.

“Yes, yes. It's nothing. Just the baby moving. Happens more often now.
Nothing serious. Sorry.”

“Anyway. If you find the time or if the topic comes up... Could you ask Att–
Major Novák if he still reads the novel 'White Winter' or if his job is too
demanding to allow him much free time? He'll get the reference, okay?”

“Okay,” she manages to moan.

“Very good. Oh, please, you can go to bed if you like. I see you need some
well-deserved rest, hm?”

She's seen to the door by Ánná who looks pale, but doesn't say a thing, only
mumbles “Good night.” Falling into her soft bed after that evening feels like
heaven.

But the pain doesn't go away after she slept for two hours. As she wiggles
herself up in a sitting position at night, her muscles press against her bones, the
baby stretches himself again as though he wants to rip her stomach open and be
born out her belly button. She feels the urge to push but surely that's only
because her bladder is full. She doesn't want to go downstairs and use Ánná's
bathroom, not yet as she still can hear voices from down below. That General is
still here. So she lies down again and closes her eyes, presses her hands against
her firm stomach, massages the skin and immediately the baby becomes calm
and she drifts off to sleep.

The next time she awakes to a whole wet bed and curses herself. How great,
that's what happens when you refuse to go to the bathroom at night, just great.
But she's so tired she doesn't want to do anything about it now. I'll change the
sheets first thing in the morning, doesn't matter, she tells herself and falls asleep
again.
 Only to be awakened by the sound of an ambulance siren and the feeling as
if she's on a train, rolling on the tracks. Back to her village? No. Oh no, don't
drive her back, she wants to stay in the city. Bogdan will kill her!

“We heard your loud groans and there was blood on your bed, so we called
the paramedics,” she hears a familiar voice say. It's... yes, it's Ánná. Another
rolling sound. A slide door is being shut, a car door. And then black again.

The air smells like snow and antiseptics when she awakens in the morning.
What a wonderful clean odor that is. And the bed is dry, freshly washed, the
bedclothes starched.

“Could you stand up and dress yourself? We need the bed for another
patient. You're okay now. Can go home, no problem.”

Viorica opens her eyes by that deep demanding woman's voice. After a tiny
second of orientation she realizes she's at the hospital. So strange, she feels so
strange. So... light and thin. And she looks so... different. What...? Her belly.
There's no huge round swelling under her duvet. But how...? Of course, that's it.
She has given birth.

“And my son? Where can I fetch him to take him home with me?” she asks
with a tired voice.

“Your son? What?”

“His name is Attila Nicolae. That woman... Miss Novák is her name, she
must have come with me in the ambulance. She must have told you how to name
him.”

“There was no one in the ambulance and there's no boy by that name in the
nursery. How ridiculous to name one's son like that? Hungarian and Romanian?
Ha.”

“But then...” Why does her heart skip a beat, why does she feel so cold
suddenly? “But then he hasn't a name yet. Then he must be a baby without a
name. Where can I find him then?”
 “Ah. Now I get it,” the nurse scoffs. “Yes, you were pregnant when you got
here. But we decided to immediately burn the baby. Assumed you wouldn't want
to look at it one last time, see? It wasn't a boy, but a girl. Is that what you mean?
Must be still confused by the painkillers, woman.”

A girl. A dead-born girl.

It slowly sinks in. And she begins to feel numb and eager to leave the
hospital, get back to Ánná's apartment, get back to work, get back to Tiberius,
back to... normalcy.

Okay, another stillborn child. There must be something wrong with her
womb then. Or something wrong with Bogdan as his kids seem to not make it
out alive. Because now, knowing it was a girl, she can't imagine that child as
Tiberius' anymore. Girls always resemble their fathers the most, she knows, and
she's glad the hospital staff quickly took care of that ugly thing.

“We named her Viorica after you. Had to scribble some name on the papers
for the records. Need the certificate for your folders?”

“No. Thank you. It's fine.”

When the worst bleeding eases up, Viorica resumes her cleaning jobs.
Without her growing baby bump, Ánná stops gifting her the little presents.
Unsure what to tell Tiberius about Attila and seeming she only remembers facts
he isn't interested in, she's being ignored more and more at their apartment. They
care less if she's around vacuuming the carpet or cleaning the windows, while
they kiss on the couch, while Tiberius squeezes Ánná's butt under her skirt,
while he's eager to undress her blouse and pull at her bra straps.

“Shall I cut your hair and perm it? It has grown so long already,” she asks
Ánná one day, while Lady Novák sits in her kitchen at the open window,
smoking a cigarette with sleepy eyes.

“Hm? What? No, thank you.”

“But you gonna visit your brother today. Am I remembering it right?”

 “Oh,” she yawns, “Yeah, guess so. But it's okay. I'll arrange it into a
ponytail. He's seen me worse.”

Viorica is concerned by the dark circles around Ánná's eyes, by the pale face
color, the dull hair, the bony arms that look like she hasn't eaten for days. The
greasy layer of tobacco is everywhere in the kitchen and Viorica knows what
that means. Tiberius has been stationed in Bucharest for a year, and Attila acts
even stranger than he used to recently. For such an independent strong woman,
Viorica is astonished how Ánná lets the men in her life dictate her wellbeing.
But then, by the course of her stay in the city, she learned that not all things are
as magical as they seem: when he's drunk, Tiberius can act like an asshole,
nearly slapping his girlfriend, shouting in frustration: “Why am I still Căpitan of
the damn Army and this magyar motherfucker's Major in the Sec?”

Ánná can be clingy and self-pitying.

And then there's Attila. The Hun as she heard some co-workers talking.
Aloof, brooding, waspish, severe and humorless. She can't understand why this
zippy boy she once knew grew up to be a man like Major Novák.

With Tiberius gone and Ánná hanging depressed in her apartment, the life in
Timișoara has become dull over the course of the winter, like the atmosphere at
Happy New Year, after the celebrations, after the glitter and sparkle of the
Reveillon night. Viorica senses this might be a turning point in her life. She can't
— and she doesn't want to — be the Cinderella for the Communist aristocracy
anymore.

The 'White Winter' group. Everybody is talking about that. Will she find a
purpose there, a motivation in life besides searching for a man who treats her
like a human being? Can she act as a rebel, like Ánná? Will she find satisfaction
in working for a greater cause, she, the simple gypsy cleaning woman? Not
educated enough, but discreet and with a strong will?

One day in January, as the snow falls heavily outside, she dares to try it out.
Win or die. She has nothing else to lose.

“Major Novák. Can I ask you a question?”

“Hm,” he mumbles, concentrated on his papers, his left hand awkwardly

holding his cigarette between his good fingers and the stump.
 “Do you have a... erm– promotion for me? A new, more demanding job? A...
bookish one?”

“What? Like a librarian?” he smiles and only after a few seconds she
realizes it's a joke.

“Kind of. A seller for... written information.”

He raises one eyebrow and blows the smoke into her direction. How
ridiculous; she once called him a unicorn and mocked him for coughing too
much on the cigarettes they shared at the cemetery. “An intermediary?
Distributor?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She gulps. “I'd be glad to serve you more than just... cleaning
the floor and doing your laundry, Major.”

“You're sick of the fed marks in my underwear, hm?”

Her face catches fire and she can feel her cheeks burn with shame. She'll
never get used to his rude jokes and references and she never will know if it's
meant to get a laugh or to test you.

“Actually I have something for you,” he says, not mentioning those

disgusting things any further. He stands up, searches in his drawers and hands
her a little piece of paper that looks like a bookmark. “Give this to Dr.
Antonescu at the university. Tell him I liked his essay and I'd love to read a
sequel.”

She takes the note out of his hand, out of his surprisingly warm and soft
fingers. His nails look extraordinarily beautiful and clean, manicured. She never
noticed they were so bonny and the loss of his left little finger weighs much
heavier on her heart now. She can't help but wonder if his mother already knows
about the accident. How will she feel about the missing body part? The finger
she had caressed when he was a child, the hand she had kissed and blown upon
when he'd hurt himself as a toddler.

The moment stretches and she knows he notices her day-dreaming.

My, oh my, he has no real friends, it strikes her, no real life, no relationships,
and she feels so much pity for him. “Will do, Attila,” she finally says.
 And this time, he doesn't correct her.
◆◆◆

Attila. 1986.

Attila's first date with Sublocotenent Sergiu Tudorescu is an official

appointment. They book a table at the Café Opera and bring their papers with
them; lists of the inhabitants of the county of Timiș, those who have connections
to the Ukraine, made phone calls, or are known to have relatives there. Their
mission is to record all activities which could over-exaggerate news of an
accident at a nuclear plant near the city of Pripyat. Every piece of information,
every rumor, every news must be solely approved by Mareșal Nicolescu and his
department and not concern the population more than necessary. An X behind a
name means that the person on The List is soon to be terminated from their job
and relocated to a tiny village in the Carpathian mountains. Those are the most
dangerous ones; intellectuals, activists, troublemakers. An A indicates that they
can be easily intimidated or silenced by a single interrogation of the famous Hun
in room A/47. The T — Attila chose that letter because it reminds him of the
truest servant of the state, officer of the Red Army, Tiberius Nicolescu — means
this person is clear.

Yes, Tiberius... When was the last time he saw him? It must have been years
ago. Was it 1983 or 1982, with Tiberius on home-leave and their meeting in
Mihai's Village, chatting, drinking in the summer heat, smoking at the lake,
almost like the old days? They promised to meet again soon, but one thing led to
another — their busy jobs, their promotions, lovers — and a second get-together
was postponed and postponed and postponed.

“You're deep into your thoughts.”

Attila is startled and nearly falls off his chair. “Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles,
“Sorry. Where were we again?” he scrolls through his papers, his thumb
smudges the names written in badly printed ink, the very thumb, which can
crush the lives of the people enumerated on The List.
 “The General's really nervous about that whole Chernobyl incident, isn't he?
Can't understand why he's so crazy about that.”

Attila shrugs. “We're already distributing iodine. If even the news stations
announce radiation levels are much higher than normal, then it's a serious thing.”

“Valentin loses it,” Sergiu describes their boss' new attitude, “He's paranoid.
A chemical accident in the Ukraine. So what? The factory in my hometown
cracked almost every week, exactly on Thursdays. Nothing to blow one's stack
over.”

Every time the waiter approaches them, he sneaks around the tables, eager
not to get any slivers of their conversation, nevertheless, he strains his ears for
any insider news from the high-class officers.

Attila remembers the first day his boss introduced Sergiu as an adjutant. His
facial expression insanely sturdy, almost too sturdy, and Attila laid awake in
paranoia wondering if Sergiu was, in fact, an agent spying on him. The
Tudorescu family had suffered from the Germans in the Second World War and
there's no one more dangerous than a damaged introvert full of hate.

“Orders are orders, okay. But this... This is plain idiocy. Valentin is a fool in
a frightful position. He has too much power and only the ability to use it for
stupid things. Distributing iodine. As if it's the apocalypse. I think you should get
the position, Attila. I don't know why you're still not Head of the Department.”

Careful now, Attila strains his muscles. This can be a trap. Every question,
every small talk can be a trap. What music do you listen to? What books are you
reading? Do you get along with your neighbors?

The whole of everyday life in Romania is a trap.

“I'm not versatile enough to lead a department,” he says. “Okay.” He puts the
paper aside and rubs his eyes, leaving smudges on his reading glasses. “I think
I've had enough. Let's call it day, shall we?”

They part, a casual goodbye is said at the front of the café, surrounded by the
officers of the secret police, their wives clad in expensive fur coats, while
beggars without legs crawl at them and pray, beg for a donation.
 Sergiu kicks one of them and scoffs. “Timișoara is dirty today. Where are the
road cleaners? Are they on strike? I'd check that if I were you.” With a salute,
he's gone and Attila lights a cigarette. He takes out his list, looks around, writes a
sloppy “A” behind Sergiu's name and heads for the tram to take him home.

The city is overcrowded and so is the trolley. Gas was cut short last week
and there are barely any cars on the streets. The seats are full of people in
bootlegged tracksuits carrying a ton of plastic shopping bags with Russian letters
written on them. One woman loses ice cream out of her bag, but she doesn't
notice it. She stares out of the window while a pink colored puddle forms in the
aisle. The other passengers try not to look at it, they stare in the other direction.
Don't say something, don't see too much, don't do something dangerous, don't
get involved with people you don't know.

It's the first hot spring day, summer's in the air, but so is a thunderstorm.
Attila can feel it in his bones, although he hates that nature affects him that way.
The flourishing trees make him restless and he wants to ventilate the winter
stuffiness out of his body and his mind.

Perhaps he should give it a try. Go out tonight, search for some adventure. It
got easier with every year in service, he gained not only more money but more
immunity. It's one of these days where he senses the urge in his loins to visit the
secret gay bars of the city.

As he enters the trolley, he doesn't show his ticket, he only nods, the badge
on his uniform is enough of a ticket. Although there are so many people
standing, half of them shift, wiggle and are eager to offer him a seat. Gone are
the days when he had to be careful not to be squished among the passengers
when he drove off to the Gara to catch the train home. Now, he belongs to the
upper crust of the Socialist Republic of Romania. His uniform is a shield, an
armor classifying him to the noble knightly cast, and the bump where one can
see the Tokagypt-58 in the holster is his sword to make the peasants respect him.

As soon as he arrives at his street which is located in the more noble Iosefin
burrough of Timișoara, he lights another cigarette. He doesn't want to go straight
into his apartment. Although he knows he's one of the few privileged people who
can turn on their heat and water supply any time they like and get comfortable
furniture almost for free, he hates being at home. It's too silent, too lonely,
nobody to wait for him. He doesn't have a large couch like the other officers in
their family houses. There's only one small dining table in the kitchen and a
middle-sized bed in a sparse bedroom.

But there are books. Books everywhere, almost every wall in the living room
and the office is piled with bookcases and boxes full of paperwork.

Plates and cutlery with crusted leftovers are stuffed into the kitchen sink, but
all the document files at his desk are stacked in an orderly fashion. His cleaning
woman doesn't ask questions, she won't engage in small talk about his family
life. But perhaps she notices that the cement facade he has built over the years
can crack any time. He has to be careful. How wonderful was it to be careless
when loyal Viorica still worked for him. But gone are these days. Where might
she be now? He totally lost track of her.

There's a shift in the weather as he gets out of the shower. Hailstones are
crashing against the window of his bedroom as he folds his uniform together and
opens his closet. He has no clue what to wear. A suit? Jeans, a buttoned-up shirt
or not? It almost feels like going on a first date.

The sun brightens up as he heads outside, with his ruffled un-gelled locks
he's almost unrecognizable as he turns into Georgescu-street. The entrance door
looks unspectacular, and the house is a villa like any other in the street. But only
he knows that its bowels are something special. And now, as he doesn't wear his
uniform anymore, he's a whole different person. Nobody makes way for him on
the street. They shout and show him the middle finger as they bump into him,
walking the barren street, minding their own business and not caring about other
people. He doesn't wear a mask, yet he's disguised in his everyday clothes, black
pants, a pullover in loud colors, a green plastic jacket one size too large.

He enters the little bar through the back door and the crappy disco dance
song smacks him in the face. The music is declining too, everything is falling
apart, he thinks as he leans on the bar.

“Good evening, brother. D'ya wanna order something?”

“I feel tired from work. What do you have to uplift me?” he asks the
bartender.

“The same as any time. Raki, Țuică, Vișinată, Pálinka. Have some strong
shot to boost you up, then everything is possible.”
 With a little hand gesture, he orders a cherry schnapps and after he drinks it,
his eyes gaze above the crowd. He tries to recognize something in the dark bar,
observes if there's someone who catches his interest. Here are mostly young men
who enjoy their time and don't care about rules or laws. It's a new group of gay
rebellion, and he can swear on Karl Marx's “Manifesto” that he interrogated at
least two people. But there are elder men also, married men perhaps, who drown
their weekly wages into the well-deserved drunkenness of the weekend, escaping
from a dull home and wife.

“Not so many as it used to be,” he's disturbed in his thoughts by the barman,
“Gas prices are high. Who can afford to go out anymore? These are the hardcore,
mostly rich people. I bet they're all secret police members.”

“Hm,” Attila growls as he takes another shot from his strong burning drink.
“They're all homo up there, ain't they?” he smiles and doesn't know if it's a joke
or not.

“Surely. I won't wonder if Ceaușescu himself fucks his little soldiers from
time to time.”

Attila smirks. In the real world, during the day, this comment would've
earned the bartender a shot in the head.

“Yeah, he's a naughty man. Just look at Elena. She makes every man a
homo, doesn't she?” His laughter is strained and forced, his right shoulder feels
so tight and he has the certain feeling that something's off here. It's not his
private self that alarms him but the Securitate officer in him. And a few seconds
after his stomach rumbled, he can place the feeling. There, that dark-blonde hair,
too much gel, the squared face, the edged jawline, the prominent wart in the nose
fold. He cannot be mistaken: it's Sergiu. It's really actually Sergiu.

And now cold sweat pours down Attila's forehead. How should he act? What
role should he slip in? Is he the victim, a comrade caught in forbidden activities
in a little gay bar? Or is he the executive, the secret homosexual, catching a
colleague in society-threatening surroundings? What shall he do? What shall he
do? His fingers rub through his locks, they rip out some hairs and he can feel the
stickiness of his sweat on his skin.

“Hey, hey, you're here too?”

 It's too late. He's already been spotted. And Sergiu's smile is merciless.
Mercilessly friendly.

“Yeah,” he salutes, “I heard the booze is phenomenal here.”

“Oh, the booze.” Sergiu winks. “You know what, Novák? Next round on me
to thank you for taking me under your wings. What'ya think? Hey, barman, two
Țuică please. And not the crappy homemade one, okay? My cousin went blind
from that once.”

“You can drink your shit at home, this is a serious bar,” the bartender replies
laughing. Attila manages to raise one corner of the mouth indeed, but his skin is
prickling and itching from the tension.

“Didn't know I'd meet you in a gay bar tonight, Colonel. Noroc.”

The little glasses cling and Attila waters his mouth with the plum liquor.
Where will he spend the night? In bed having intercourse or in jail waiting for
his sentence to death? “Still waters run deep, comrade,” he finally replies.

“So true. But we're in civvies here, ain't we? It's more fun this way, eh? No...
secret police thingy, you know what I mean.”

“My lips are sealed.” Attila quaffs off his drink and sighs. “I'm not good at
flirting though. Always scare off my crushes. I'll let you do the chatting stuff.”

“Not good at flirting? I bet you ain't, always so serious as you are.” Sergiu
winks. “If it ain't for your wonderful and thrilling blue eyes, no one would ever
look twice at you.”

“Wow.” He drinks the last drop of his booze. “Is that an insult or a
flirtation?” He can feel the liquid kick into his blood, he can feel it in his heart.
He's focused on detail now and observes the little cute sweat pearls on Sergiu's
forehead. The room is steamy, summer is approaching and his flirt's lips look so
promising, so sweet to kiss. Summer flower's odor lingers in the air and you can
almost forget that there are no seasons in communism, no odors, no feelings, no
religion, no men being in love with other men. It is an ordinary Friday evening
in the Eastern part of the world. No more, no less.

“Your eyes are also pretty,” he finally replies and scoffs, “See? Not good at
flirting.”

“Hah,” Sergiu laughs. One of the few honest laughs Attila has heard in the
last years. “Yeah, yeah. But let me see. Are you a good kisser?”

Attila is startled. What did he just say? Has he heard him right? Sergiu wants
to kiss him? And before he can fully realize what's happening, Sergiu leans into
him, he closes his eyes and presses his lips against Attila's.

And it feels so good. To be kissed. And to kiss back.

Sergiu is a man who can make a secret police agent forget he consists of the
one and true Party and that he solely exists to please the Great Leader. He
changes Attila the Hun, the Hungarian intruder in the Romanian political system,
who has to be more Romanian than the Romanians. He carves the little boy out
of the hard marble that is the Colonel.

When they arrive at Attila's apartment in the dark of the night and close the
door behind them, they can't wait any longer. They undress each other and Attila
tosses Sergiu to the wall. He can't stop kissing him and feeling his body under
the shirt.

“I've never seen you smile actually,” remarks Sergiu, “It's still so
uncommon. Looks like a grimace.”

“I can stop if you want me to.”

“I'll get used to it, promise.” Sergiu fumbles on Attila's belt buckle, “But it
looks creepy, you gotta know.”

“Shut up,” Attila growls grumpily and he adores it when Sergiu laughs.
“Hey, that's an order. I wouldn't disobey if I were you.”

“That's– that's so... Oh my God.”

And then, words are out of place here. They switch to the bedroom.

After they had sex, Attila lights a cigarette and is surprised by his coughing
sounds, which remind him of an old man, of his grandfather.

“You Hungarians seem so cute and innocent, but you're quite the aggressive
people, aren't you?”

“We are descendants of the Huns. Don't forget that,” rasps Attila.

“Yeah.” Sergiu sits up and traces the freckles on Attila's shoulders with his
fingers. “Can you not sound like the Securitate Colonel, just for one minute,
okay?” Before he can end speaking, a pillow is thrown into his face. “Hey.”

Attila never realized how he'd enjoy laughing and being silly. It's like being
seventeen again. Well, he's still young and vital, only in the middle of his
twenties, a kid really. But sometimes he feels so old and worn out, as though all
the world's weight rests on his shoulders alone. Like the political survival of the
Socialist Republic is solely up to him. This evening is so light-hearted and easy-
going. He doesn't want it to end. He doesn't want Sergiu to leave. And the words
nearly slip out of him as his lover dresses in his coat.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Why, you can be clingy. No one stays overnight after the first date, you
know that. Gotta leave in the night's darkness. It's safer.”

“I love danger. And I can serve some midnight snacks.” He does not know if
that sounds sexy or intimidating or ridiculous.

“Hah,” Sergiu bursts out. “Colonel, I give you a five for trying. You can
improve your flirting skills, though. But it's a good start to work from here.” By
the reference of school grades, Attila freezes. He's thrown back in time, but now,
it's no longer pleasant. The Politehnica. Lessons. Teachers. A certain memory
nags on his soul, wants to break free into his consciousness, but he closes it
away.

“Or... well– Midnight snack sounds like something I...”

“Nevermind. You should leave. See ya tomorrow.” Attila opens the door for
Sergiu and raises an eyebrow.

“Ah. Okaaay. Those are some mood swings, huh?”

 “Good night, Serge.” And for one last time, he smiles, no, he tries to smile.

“Do you wish to repeat this soon?”

“Yeah. Good night, comrade Tudorescu.”

“Good night, Colonel.” And the door is shut right onto Sergiu's nose.

Their next date is much easier. Colonel Novák grows accustomed to having
a private life again, and, in addition, a happy one. With the train, they head to a
thermal bath near Sacoșu Turcesc, outside the city. Spreading their towels in a
secluded corner, Sergiu hogs the little barbecue area and gathers sticks and
branches for the fire. Attila loves loves loves that smile on Sergiu's face, his rosy
cheeks as he jumps and runs in and out of the bushes, he loves the look Sergiu
casts him, he loves those mesmerizing gray eyes. He even allows his locks to
spring free out of their strict Communist hairstyle.

Sergiu holds his hands up in front of him, as though he were photographing.

“Vai de mine, the great Attila the Hun on his vacation. That would make some
headline in the papers, eh? Gotta watch out for paparazzi though.”

“The paparazzi's been taken care of,” Attila announces in a dry voice and he
himself doesn't know if that's some sort of joke or not. Sergiu sighs heavily and
rolls his eyes. “You workaholic! Relax. Domnele, relax.” He takes out small
plastic boxes with vegetables and raw fish wrapped in paper. “I thought I'd take
care of the food. I don't want you to play the great hunter here. It's our day off,
okay?”

Attila nods and brushes away a few mosquitoes that want to settle on
Sergiu's cheeks. In silence, they are hypnotized by the growing fire, and Attila
watches Sergiu dreamily as he pierces the fish on long wooden twigs. He lights a
cigarette and inhales deeply and thinks, yes, he can live like this everyday. Is this
finally a life he can be happy with? Is Sergiu a boyfriend to call a life partner?

“Hey, what're yer doin'?”

As if stung, Attila withdraws his hand from Sergiu's hips. “Sorry.” He let
himself be carried away too easily. But, God, he so deserves it. Just for one day,
he can be a happy man, can't he?

“Anyway, did you bring your famous Hungarian peppers with ya?”

“Yikes. I hate those.”

“Ah.” And now it is Sergiu who bumps him, who can't take his hands off
him. “I should have known it. Why on earth did I ever assume that the severe
comrade Novák would be a fiery magyar? You're not that hot. Well, but you
have a nice booty.”

“Anyád picsája.”

“Du-te Dracu.”

The whole afternoon goes on like this. They eat their barbecued fish, they
swim in the basin, they let their skin dry in the hot summer sun next to each
other on the grass.

“What are you reading?” Sergiu's voice startles Attila as he was nearly
falling asleep.

“Poetry.”

“Wow. Please, no more details. I'm overwhelmed already.”

Making sure that nobody observes them, he tries to tickle Sergiu. “Petőfi
Sándor. You'd find him boring.”

“Ah, yeah, Hungarian poets. Use too many acute accents for my taste. My
eyes get dizzy reading those motherfuckers.”

The approaching evening announces a chill in the air as they pack their
things together and head for the train station for the ride back to Timișoara. They
share a compartment with a family with loud kids. On any other occasion, Attila
would have ordered them out. But now, he just wants to sit at the window and
stare outside, knowing Sergiu's near him. The mother's never-ending ranting
actually amuses him: “Alex, stop hitting your sister in the guts. Andrea, would
you please shut your mouth while you eat? Alexandru! Stop getting your pants
down. Vai, you kids bring me into an early grave.”
 He thinks about his own big family, his parents, his siblings. Could he risk
bringing Sergiu with him to the next family meeting? Casually introducing him
as “ah and that's my boyfriend by the way, Mami and Tati” as if it were the most
normal thing in the world? How would they react? Of course, Gábriel and István
would endlessly tell their bad faggot jokes, but Ánná? Would she approve? Attila
wouldn't mind his brothers to be irritated, but it'd be a disaster if Ánná would
turn against him for his sexuality.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks his boyfriend.

“Five sisters, can you believe that? I'm the only boy. And the youngest at
that. Gotta tell ya, they are some chicks, phew.”

“Oh. Okay. No, I have only one sister. But I really like her. We're close.”

“No way.”

“Yes, yes. And two brothers. Having brothers is not easier, I tell ya.”

“Alexandru. Behave yourself. There are men from the Department. You
gotta behave in front of them.”

“We were unmasked, Colonel,” Sergiu winks at the mother who looks
intimidated now. “Don't worry, we're off duty, Ma'am.”

“How did they recognize us? We're in civil after all”, Attila asks as they
descend at Gara Nord.

“Well, dragă, the way you talk, the way you sit up ever so straightly with
that stick in your ass, you can't hide your profession.”

“Hm,” he growls and shoulders his backpack.

“I mean, you are a person of public life,” Sergiu continues to talk as they
search for their way out in the crowd of families, beggars and students, “Attila
the Hun. Something like a movie star. Except no one wants an autograph from
you. They're all too frightened you'd smite them to the next wall.”

“I'm not that bad, am I?”

 Sergiu shrugs and grins as they search for two seats in the tram. “I always
liked the villains more than the heroes.”

At the entrance door to Attila's apartment, he asks Sergiu: “Wanna come

up?” And he doesn't mind that is sounds like pleading. Such a perfect day and he
doesn't want it to end here. He doesn't want to be alone now. He has been alone
for far too long.

He can see Sergiu thinking, deciding. He looks around him, his eyes gleam
worried. “Ej, but promise me you won't trick me into work. All that Ukraine
affair is making me sick. I can't look at another picture of those ill people
anymore.”

And there it is, he can sense it: his smile, looking friendly and happy
actually. He feels light and careless as they enter his apartment.

“Why, gotta take a shower. I stink like I've...” His hair is ruffled, Sergiu's
wanting and impatient hands open his belt, his jeans, unbutton his shirt so
quickly he only realizes what's happening when he's half naked already.

“You're like a Bonnie Tyler song, Colonel. You know that one?”

“Hej, wanna mock me? You said you didn't like the heroes.”

“Ah, yeah. Nevermind.”

That night is perfect in every sense. It's the first night Sergiu stays til the
morning approaches. The first night Attila spends with a boyfriend — not a
crush like his teacher once was, not a one night stand of which he's had so many.
Not an affair or a boring admirer. But his boyfriend.

Yes, he can dare to introduce him to his parents soon.

This is something serious.

“What took you so long? I wanted to talk to you right away,” Attila shouts
into one of his phones, that one which is reserved almost entirely for Ánná.
 “Sorry, but not only you have work to do. Sweetheart, your Securitate
manners don't work on me, asshole,” she laughs into the phone while munching
on something.

“Yeah, you bitch,” he answers and is relieved to hear her voice like that. So
relieved there's someone who can call him like that, comfortably, without
shivering in fear of getting quartered.

“Okay. Shoot.”

He catches himself playing with the phone cord as if he were a teenage boy.
“Wanted to visit home this weekend. You gotta come with me.”

“Ah, nah. I have a date.”

“What's being served? A Tiberius?” he growls into the phone.

“Oh, come on. Don't judge. I'll always count on you. You understand me,
right?”

He bites his lips. It had been a few years since he was so nervous. “I need
you to come with me. Please.”

“Okay, but why's that?”

“I'm...,” he sighs and presses his hand against his chest. Oh God, his heart
feels like it's going to explode. “I'm bringing someone with me.”

“Ah-ha. Who is it?” She snorts into the phone, “Karolina from Voiteg??”

“That never gets old, does it?” Attila waits until she's finished with her
teasing, and continues matter-of-factly, “I met him at work. He was assigned to
me for a special project. We're together for something more than six weeks now
and I wanted to show him my hometown.”

He stops speaking and everything is quiet. He waits for an answer, listens to

Ánná's breathing sounds and he practically can hear her brain rattling. Should he
say something, ask her something? Did she understand him? Or was the
reception just bad? Is she still on the phone? Perhaps she's not angry and only
waits for him to speak? She's not angry, is she? But why should she be angry?
She understands him, right?

“Ánike? Did you catch it?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Pretty well,” she babbles.

“So now you know why you have to accompany me. I really want him to
present to Mami and Tati, but you gotta be there as a bumper.”

“Ah,” he hears her little moaning sounds which indicate her getting serious.
“I don't know, Atti. I don't really know. It's...” Again a long stretch of time
passes in silence, then: “But it's forbidden, is it?”

“Your relationship with Tiberius. It's not that approved either.”

“Okay, you're right. Oh, but, Attiko. Agh.” And there it is: “You're a
homosexual? You?”

He doesn't know what to reply to that. They both know that this phone call is
safe as Attila has cut the cord to his boss for this occasion, and saying that word
doesn't mean a death sentence. But does it mean a death for their good
relationship?

As he opens his mouth, her twittering voice rushes down like water from a
faucet. “Okay, okay, okay. Got it. No, I have to proceed, okay? That news is not
easy, I mean... Sometimes I assumed it, like why's that little pooper such a pansy,
but yeah... Sometimes it was so obvious. So obvious of course. Sorry, I just have
to... It just has to sink in, you know?”

“Well, it wasn't easy either when I found out about you and Tiberius.”

“Oh God,” she sharply inhales, “But you never were in love with him? Did I
steal him from you, ha?”

“God forbid. I have zero interest in Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu.”

“What's... what's his name?” Her voice is so low he has to ask her to repeat
it.

“His name is Sergiu. Serge. I love him. He's not a one night stand. He's my
boyfriend,” he says, playing with his pen, doodling some squares and rhombs on
his papers.

“Oooookay.”

“I'll take the train in the afternoon. Four o'clock.”

“Ah, I don't know. You should do this on your own. I will be needless,
anyway.”

“Please come with me. What will it take for you to come with me? A new
car, bigger apartment, new job?”

“No. I am satisfied.”

“If you won't come with me, I'll be whistling to Ion Nicolescu about your
little liaison with his son.”

“Deal. I'm coming.”

Attila always thought that move to be kitschy, but now he's doing it himself.
It's like becoming a character from Dallas, it feels so unreal. And as always, he's
not sure if it's ridiculous or a gesture of affection. But as soon as he catches
Sergiu in a dreamy and absent moment, he sneaks behind him and places his
hand over his lover's eyes. “Guess where we're going for the weekend?”

“Huh,” Sergiu sniffs, “Promise me it's not the Gulag.”

“No, no, no, you're so stupid.” He's piqued by everyone repeating the same
joke over and over. “I'm more than meets the eye. I'm not only Attila the Hun.”

“Well, carrying a famous name can be tough sometimes. So,” Sergiu lights
Attila's cigarette and takes one out for himself, “Where are we going?”

“To my parents. I want you to meet them. I want you to come with me to
Mihai's Village.”

“Hm,” Sergiu chews on his tobacco, “that's some surprise here. But why?”
 “Ts. So simple. I want to present my boyfriend to them.” It sounds so odd,
when he says it. He can sense it himself. But he's so overwhelmed by his
feelings, he hasn't felt that for a long time.

“I am your boyfriend?” Sergiu asks and the way he pronounces that

question, staring with glassy eyes to the wall, mouth open, as though he was
caught cheating on his homework.

“I love you, Serge.” Attila says it like any other sentence he voices in these
four walls of his office. Like a contract, an attorney's speech, like one of the
many death sentences he casts upon his subjects. “I love you. I want my parents
to know. You mean so much to me. They should know it.”

With nervous eyes, Attila watches Sergiu blow out his fume, then stomping
it out as if crushing an ant, again and again and again, long after the blue-yellow
glimmer is gone.

“We won't get arrested if we're... declaring our confederation?”

“Hey, promise. Won't tell my boss a thing,” he crosses his fingers and
manages a confident and relaxed smile. Or so he thinks.

“Would be fun,” Sergiu shrugs, “But I won't ask your father for your hand in
marriage. That'll be too rushed for me. Gimme some more weeks,” he whistles
and Attila smiles and kisses him. A long, long kiss that makes his heart flutter.

The ride to Mihai's Village in the overheated train with the broken air-con is
spent in polite conversation. Attila can tell Ánná's working hard on not staring
too much at Sergiu. Her questions about him, his family, his hobbies, et cetera,
seem forced, but it's better than nothing. As they pass Voiteg, she and Sergiu
have found a subject they both are interested in and it's growing into a pleasant
meeting, but the need to disembark from the train interrupts the burgeoning
friendliness.

Attila is sweating as they arrive at their farm's gate; he decided to wear his
gray uniform with all the badges and insignia, as it makes him more confident.
But now he's soaked in his own perspiration, being baked by the merciless
Puszta summer sun. Sergiu wears a casual shirt with sleeves folded up and oh
my God, he looks so gorgeous and he loves him even more by the minute.

The uniform doesn't protect him today from getting nervous and it doesn't
keep him from being smooched by his mother's kisses as she welcomes them.
“Oh my, what a surprise. I was so glad when you called. It has been years since
you two visited me. Well, you're such busy important people now, ej? But, oh so
glad, you could find the time. And I'm so happy you brought a friend, Attiko.”

“He's my... he's my colleague,” he introduces him. It's not the right time yet
to say it. It should be a calm moment. He wants to announce it and not to
mumble it out in passing.

They take a seat in the courtyard, Izabella is serving them a ton of cakes,
Ánná compliments her mother on her new purchase, a porch swing.

“Oh thank you, drágám. This is the new fashion, you know. Your brother
actually gifted me this. Wasn't it nice from him?”

“Which one, Mami? That little baby here?” she laughs, seats herself and is
surprised by the fling.

“Yes, Attila, of course. The other ones... barely call me since they're in
Germany.”

A little silence covers the good mood, a little gray cloud on the otherwise
bright summer sun. But it soon flies by. They're being served Pálinka, and more
cakes and tarts, and salty snacks, until the housewife finally sits down, too.

“Won't you take off that coat, Attiko? I'm getting baked by just looking at
you.”

His answer is a distressed moan, and as soon as he opens his mouth and
wants to say the magic words — he is my boyfriend, Mami — wants to say them
to his mother first, before his father arrives, wants to test them on her, she
addresses him and babbles on: “So, Sergiu. May I call you that? It's so good to
see my son bringing home his friends. You know, he's such an introvert and
hermit, and since he completed school, his social life is quasi-non-existent. Your
coming makes an old mother so very happy, you know.”

“Mami. You make him uncomfortable,” Attila mumbles.

 “No, it's okay. Thank you, Missus Novák. Pleased to meet you, too,” his
boyfriend replies and lights a cigarette.

Attila nearly chokes by the thought of smoking now, and instead of that, he
crams one cupcake after another into his mouth, his eyes searching desperately
for Ánná's help.

And she gets it: “Attiko has some news to tell, Mami. Don't you?”

“Oh, really? What is it?”

He inhales sharply. Okay, here it is, the moment. The big moment. He side-
eyes Sergiu, who doesn't seem awkward at all, but smoking relaxed and at ease
with this quirky situation. “Erm– I... I wanted to say... that– I have something
important to tell you, Mami.”

“Ah. Oh, no, wait.” She stands up and nearly swooshes the tablecloth down.
“Wait. I have something on the stove. Let me finish that first and then I'll have
the time to listen at rest. Okay?” And she rushes into the farmhouse.

“Well, I need a cigarette now,” Ánná sighs and Attila feels the urge to knock
the table over and all its cakes and tarts and kipferl and pretzel sticks.

“You better be some good sweetheart, Serge, I'm missing a date with mine
for this,” his sister mumbles as Sergiu lights her cigarette.

“Oh, shut up, you two. Please.” He rubs his forehead, sticky from the sebum.

“I'm not saying anything.”

When Izabella returns, Attila has to build up his confidence again, so the
conversation centers around Ánná, her promotion, about the changing of
Timișoara. They talk about István and Gábriel and that's never a good time to
load more sorrow on their mother, so Attila leans back and only listens.

“My oh my, so sorry, Atti. You wanted to tell me something. Please. I'm
listening.”

He gulps. Takes off his coat and loosens his tie. And — of course! — in this
moment he hears a key rattle at the gate and his father rushes in with big steps.
“Heyho, what a surprise to see you two here. My greetings.”

Sergiu stands up and offers him his hand. Before he or Attila can introduce
him, Izabella blurts out: “This is Serge, Attila's colleague from work.”

“Nice to meet you. Very nice. Hach.” József rubs his neck. “But why today?
So sorry, but we had an accident at the furniture factory and I have to leave for
the hospital and write some insurance papers. Oh, why did it have to happen
today? So, so sorry, I can't be with you tonight. Can we repeat this next
weekend?”

“Józsi, can't you stay for half an hour? Your son wanted to tell us some
important news.”

“Ah, no, sorry. Gotta change quickly. I'm already out. Sorry, Attiko, I'm
really sorry. Keep it for next week and I'll have time for ya.”

Attila's rage grows and bites him as he witnesses his parents rush in and out
of the house, hears his mother's heels click on the stone tiles of the courtyard,
tilted from the severe earthquake a few years ago. He hears the chained dog bark
by all that noise and buzz.

“Well, that doesn't go as planned, hm?” Ánná winks at him and he knows it
is meant as giving comfort, but it annoys him still.

“But your mother's baking skills are superb. It was worth it. Yummy.”

“Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” his mother asks him on the doorstep.

“Bathroom,” he grumbles and flees into the coolness of the house, right into
his old teenager room, which still looks the same as on the day he left for
military service. The old record player is still set on the nightstand and he desires
nothing more than to lie down and dive into the world of music, shutting all the
universe out.

Instead, he does what the adult Colonel always does in this situation. He
smokes a cigarette and growls into the silence of his loneliness. Ten minutes
pass, twenty minutes. After half an hour, someone knocks on the door and he can
hear Ánná's concerned voice. “That's some long pee break.”

“Leave me alone.”

Of course, she disobeys and enters his room. Although he wanted to not see
anyone, her presence gives him comfort. Together they smoke in silence, sitting
next to each other in the half-dark. The sun is setting, their train is soon leaving
and time is running out.

“Hey, Atti. Don't tell them, okay? Leave it be. It's better this way. I'm not
bursting about my relationship with Tiberius either.”

No reply. He feels a bitter taste on his tongue, and it's not from smoking.

“Promise me you won't tell them. You can always count on me, you can
always tell me everything, but please spare them. Will ya?” Her warm hand
covers his. “I know how you feel. I know.”

As much as he wants to lean his head on her shoulders and be comforted by

her, he doesn't let his feelings overwhelm him, and he pushes her away carefully.
Without saying something, he gets out, says goodbye to his mother and waits for
Sergiu and Ánná to get ready.

They take the eleven-o'clock-train back to the city.

With Sergiu the world is turned upside down. When did he last feel those
sparks, those hiccups in his soul when he wanted to jump and scream and laugh
maniacally out of happiness and arousal?

It's a wonderful nightmare to be in love with your co-worker. The feeling

overfills you until you cannot think of something else. It starts in the morning
when you wake up next to him, after a sleepless night because you don't want to
waste your life with meaningless sleep and just looked at his beautiful face. You
wake him up with your kisses, you suck in his scent and you feel cradled by the
knowledge that you don't have to be separated for one single second. You do
your morning routine together, shaving, brushing teeth, getting your rebellious
hair in a military order, while you feel his hand on your hips and his smile on
your cheeks. He hands you the exact right folders you need for today because he
himself had prepared them the evening before. He dresses you in your mighty
gray uniform with the fur collar, and you feel at home. You feel that you finally
belong.

The man reading newspaper next to a phone booth on the street, observing
you two leave your apartment building, can't do a thing, because you're
invincible. You're Attila the Hun and by a wink of your little finger stump, all
faggots are sentenced to death; so why should you be one of them? Everyone
who accuses you of being like them will die too. And they know it. And they
fear you. And you bath in that force.

“Good morning. How's the weather today?” Attila asks the man in the worn
out leather jacket, with his collars up.

“Heard it'll rain.”

“Nah.” He salutes and smiles this naughtiest smile. “If Officer Novák says
the sun's gonna shine, so shall it be. And that's enough.” He can feel Sergiu
standing behind him, with his legs wide apart, his hand on his gun. It's Vasile
Popescu. Yes, Attila knows this man. He works in the iron factory next to the
garrison. Tonight, he'll order some adjutants to come and get him, escort him to
exile. And while Popescu will beg for his life, Attila will kiss the hell out of
Sergiu's body. Aw, what a nice feeling that is, crushing your enemies with a blink
of an eye, while you're so so so happily and freshly in love. He doesn't know
what arouses him more. “You should wear your sunglasses. Don't wanna go
blind, eh?” And when he says that, a warm flush spreads through his body as he
watches the dreading fear in the eyes of that Mr. Popescu, dead man walking. It
would be fun to execute the task by himself but he's booked out for weeks on
more prestigious subjects.

Sergiu introduces a radio in their office and Attila loves the little teasing
fights about the channel. He likes classical music, but it bores the hell out of
Sergiu and every time Attila leaves for an outside job, when he comes back,
there are hard rock bands on full blast.

“Switch that or I'll pour acid in your ears myself.”

“Hah. Try me.” Sergiu blows an air-kiss to him. As soon as he closes the
door, his lover is right next to him, puts his hand to his waist for a little kiss, and
takes off his forage cap.

“Don't you underestimate me. I had excellent grades in chemistry.” He

playfully grabs Sergiu by his neck and chokes him a little, just a tiny second.
When he sees a gleam of fear in his eyes, he lets go and smiles.

“Wow, you're... you're something. I'll never know if you wanna kill or fuck
me.”

“And I know that turns you on, you needy comrade.” He sits down with the
Romanian flag behind his office chair and the row of telephones on his desk. Oh
God, when had he stopped pretending to be an excellent agent and really did
become one like them, actually enjoying his job? That's a thought which
sometimes haunts him in his sleepless nights, but he always can manage to
diminish the voices in his head.

“Here.” Sergiu throws a bunch of plastic folders on his desk as he lights a

cigarette. “Work to do.”

“Huh. The Ukraine?”

“Oh, no. Much, much more interesting.”

“Hm.” He scrolls through the pages, mainly patient files, and wipes away
little ash flakes. “Okay. Shoot.”

“So listen to this. We got reports from quite a few hospitals which diagnosed
the same symptoms of an unknown disease on approximately fifty patients at the
same time.”

“Ah. So Ceasusescu has played a little with his chemical kit?”

“No, no, not that kind of thing.” He bumps Attila playfully. “Man, you
always think about that. Why're you so obsessed with torturing by chemistry?”

Attila only growls.

“Okay. But get this. All of them were men. Not a single woman was
diagnosed with the same symptoms. And they all have one thing in common.”
He leans back smiling and presses his lips together in a pause for effect.

“Let me guess. They all love their chocolate with nuts.”

Sergiu's mouth twitches and Attila loves the irritation in his face.

“Atti, I... sometimes I don't really know if you mock me or if you're just so
brilliant.”

Attila clears his throat. “So it's the faggots now.”

“Apparently.”

“But there are no homosexuals in Socialist Romania.”

“Apparently.”

“Calls for an outside job.”

He can see Sergiu shiver by that. Everybody knows what that means.

Being in love with your co-worker is much more wonderful when you get
home and you can barely undress your uniforms and you don't care if you stain
and ruffle them when you're making love to him, standing against the wall and
commit a hundred, no, a thousand sins against the Party, the Army, the Republic,
the Leader. And you don't have to care about being dragged in front of the
military court because you're the unconquerable Faggot Hangman.

Life could be worse.

The world only consists of him now. Every song you listen to is about him.
Spring's floral scent is blossoming just for you and your love for him. The blue
of the sky screams his name, his wonderful name. For years, for ages, rain is
feeding the dried out steppe. It turns the almost dead and desiccated desert
overnight into a colorful summer meadow. The seed that waited so long in the
dark, pops up and life grows unstoppable, invading every little corner of the
world.

“We should go through the hospital documents one more time,” says Sergiu
after he cleaned the dishes. Attila is whistling as he takes out two wine glasses
and a bottle of his finest Tokaij.

“You hear me?”

“Tonight?” Attila bends down and kisses Sergiu's neck. “Come on, give us a
break. We have a private life, too.”

“Oh, you.” He leans into the kiss, closing his eyes. “That's not the agent I
fell in love with, Colonel.”

“I'm making an exception, especially for you.” He uncorks the bottle and
pours a little into his glass. “Hey, what do you think about a little summer
holiday, ej? A few days in my dacha in the mountains? Yikes. That wine's rotten,
lófütty.” He spits out the liquid into the kitchen sink. “Must have stored it
incorrectly. Szopd meg a faszom, that was awful. What?”

“It's so cute when you're swearing like that. The real you comes through, the
real Hungarian.”

Attila growls. He doesn't know why this comment brings him into a rage and
annoys him so much. Sure, he doesn't want to be called cute, but there was more
to Sergiu's words, between the lines. “Ej, what're yer doin'?”

“I'm going to buy new wine, what do you think?” Sergiu says as he searches
for the keys. With a little kiss on Attila's cheek he's out. “Back as soon as I can.
You can warm the bed already,” he winks and is out.

When the door is shut, Attila remains in the hall with a cold feeling in his
stomach he can't name yet. Suddenly, the evening has gotten a strange twist.

Or has it not? Has he become too much of an agent to just be his private self
and enjoy his free time and his lover? He's a little behind on his working
schedule and that's what buggers him perhaps. Yes, it's that. Usually, he's never
so sloppy. He should use the time until Sergiu comes back and work a little on
the files of the hospital case. So he takes out the file with the logged activities of
his subjects that his informers have gathered together. A thousand datapoints
about workplaces, where the men go shopping, who their neighbors are, and
most importantly, the places they visit at night when they think they're not being
watched. Prima facie, these notes seem perfectly normal, but only Attila's eyes
can see a certain pattern in it. Is there more than just the treason of being a
faggot? Are these men members of a political group?

He's deeply involved into his work, so much that the need to go to the
bathroom is disrupting him in his flow. But he cannot hold it back longer.

Coming back to his bedroom, he opens the window to let a little fresh air in.

And that's when he sees it. Down, on the street, nearly invisible in a dark
corner, Sergiu stands near the phone booth, talking to another man, dressed in
clothes that seem way too warm for this mild summer night. As if stung by a
bullet, he flees the window, out of the room, into the hallway. Soon after that, he
hears Sergiu's significant steps coming up the staircase, his eyes fall on the
forgotten wallet on a side table. Sergiu never planned to go shopping for wine.

Yes, okay. It had to be like that. It all forms a pattern now. It all makes sense.
Now he knows. But he pushes the thought away. It hurts too much.

“Hey, babe,” Sergiu says as he enters the apartment, “Sorry, but there wasn't
any good wine left. Only the Romanian garbage you hate so much. But we can
still do it without alcohol, can't we, he? What? Is something wrong?”

Attila pushes him away. “Not in the mood,” he rasps.

“Ah, come on. You whacked off without me?” Oh God, Sergiu's laugh is so
natural, so joyful, it looks so in love. How can all of this be performed? Yes, he
should have been suspicious when he was introduced to him in the first place,
when he met him in the gay bar. It was all too good to be true, too easy to find
someone else like him, too quickly to fall in love. Damn, what a dangerous path.
He let his desires and needs get in the way of his mission. Or is he too paranoid?
Does he see danger when there's none? Wasn't Sergiu only talking to some old
friend perhaps? It surely isn't always that bad as he sees it.

“Much work to do. Gotta catch up on it.”

“No way you're dismissing me like that now, Colonel?”

“Sorry.” He salutes and opens the door for Sergiu. “See ya tomorrow in the
office. Good night, Serge.”
 Attila doesn't immediately notice it and it's embarrassing him. Since he
began the affair with Sergiu, he has gotten a bit too distracted and light-minded.
Or how else shall he explain that he didn't notice the white van following him
when he got home from a “visit” from the hospital?

“You asshole, watch it. What fucker gave you your license?” he shouts at the
car when two of his wheels streak the sidewalk and nearly hit him.

The windows are blackened but he can see the driver's middle finger
nevertheless. He spits on the ground and points to his Securitate badge, his
epaulet stripes, his medals, but the driver only answers with a vulgar sexual hand
gesture.

Attila freezes. No. This can't be. He can't be observed and followed! He's
one of them. He's a commander, there are only a handful people who are ranked
higher than him. He's number five in entire Romania, but not only that. He's
Attila the Hun and that counts for something. Many people call him the secret
leader of the Directorate for Internal Security.

He turns into a little side street. Let's see if the driver dares to... Yes, he is
still following him. There's a gap only as wide as a finger between the car's
bumpers and his back. If he stopped, the car can easily overrun him.

“I've seen your number plate, motherfucker!” he shouts as loud as he can. He

can hear the sound of the car window being lowered and a slimy grunting laugh.

“I'm the Sec, you dumbass.”

“You're just a pathetic Hungarian who's fucked his way up the Party.”

The light changes and as soon as they're out of the side street, the car turns
right, gains on speed and is gone. Attila has to lean against the wall, in the dark.
His breath is heavy and he hates it. Can this be? Could this be? But who...

Sergiu.

Of course.

He should have known better. He has been played by his own weapons.
Sergiu is on a secret mission to hunt him down. And oh how brilliant he is,
pretending to be in love, pretending to like men. Night after night he has spent in
Attila's arms and how stupid he was to fall for him. He had even erased the “A”
behind Sergiu's name on The List. But he should have trusted his first instincts
better.

But no... It can't be him. No one can fake such affection, no man can fake
being homosexual. Can he?

The patient is seated in an ill-fitting suit at the hospital desk in his room, his
arms arranged around the chair in order to keep him in that position. He seems
too weak to sit straight up and Attila is afraid he'll fall to the ground any minute.
A doctor sits next to him, with big round blueish glasses that make his eyes look
like he's in a cartoon. Under the white doctor's jacket, he has the ugliest clothes
Attila has ever seen. How dare they present themselves like that to Colonel
Novák?

“How long since you were admitted to the hospital?” he asks and picks some
leftovers out of his teeth. The same questions he asked ten patients already.

The patient shrugs and moans, he's thinking hard, but before he can say a
word, his doctor answers for him. “Four weeks ago he was admitted.”

“By whom?”

“His nephew, Sir.”

“What exactly does his treatment look like?”

“He's getting painkillers, Sir. And medications for his lung. He seems to
have some Major flu.”

“Hah.” Attila spits out the annoying chunk of meat fiber to the ground.
“Can't he take them at home? Can't his wife care for a simple flu?”

“He has no wife, Sir.”

“But why's that?”

 “Sir, he...”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He raises his hand, and then folds them, leans back in his chair,
legs crossed. “I wanna hear that from Mr. Florescu.”

A rattling cough is the answer. And then the raspy voice of a dying man: “I
haven't found the right woman yet.”

“Yeah, interesting.” Okay, now it's getting more exciting. “Can it be because
you frequented the wrong bars? Hm? Ahhh,” he groans and stands up. “Sorry,
gents, but I have to use the bathroom. Too much coffee in the morning, you
know.” Humming the melody of “Katyusha,” he goes to the dark corner, and
doesn't draw the curtain that separates it from the rest of the hospital room. He
knows they can see his naked butt from the desk they're sitting, and he enjoys the
knowledge that they desperately want to look away. He aims for the point in the
bowl where his spurts hit the toilet the loudest. Rearranging his uniform shirt in
his pants and belt, he comes back. “Much, much better. Now. Where were we?”
He looks expectantly at the patient, at the doctor and waits. And loves the
glowing fear in their eyes. “Well. Oh, I simply forgot where I've left the
conversation, huh. Must be the caffeine overdose. Too much of that shit isn't
good either, nah?”

“You should cut it down for the sake of your health, Colonel,” whispers the
doctor and Attila shrugs. “Hm. Guess you're right.” He collects his pen, his
notebook, and puts them back in his suitcase. “Well then. I'm sorry to have
wasted your time and have caused you inconvenience, Mister Florescu. You
should lie down and get some rest now. You look really sick.”

“Have a nice day, Colonel,” they almost whisper in unison.

He stands up, and heads to the door, step by step. Slowly, stretching the
moment and trying to hide that little smirk. He reaches out for the handle,
touches it. And then there it is. The moment to shatter all hopes. “Ahhh. Yes.
Now I remember what I wanted to ask you. At last.” There's no sight more
hopeless than that of a Securitate officer turning back to you when he was on his
way leaving. “Yes, yes, yes. The bars you went to. Someone told me... who was
it again? Ah, your neighbor. He told me the names of the bars, and please– if you
wanna help me out, but can you explain to me why all of them happen to be,
uhm, how do you call it...” A long pause and he can almost hear their heartbeats,
“How do you call it? Yes. Gay bars. Is that right?”

He can see Mister Florecu biting on a curse. He can practically hear him
calling rude names, swearing him to be Hungarian scum, a shit dickhead,
Răpănósule, să te piș in freză, magyar Mongol.

“Is that right, Mister Florescu, or am I wrong?” he mumbles while scribbling

little sketches on his papers, sitting lazily in his chair, looking bored.

“No, that is right, Colonel Novák,” Florescu whispers.

“But, good Sir, can you tell me why in the Leader's name you were going to
such filthy and corrupt places?”

“I... I...” He can see him wanting to say I never was there, a weak lie, a
dumb trial to outplay him. But in the last moment, Florescu answers: “I like
them.”

“You like what?”

“Those places. The... folk there.”

“Hm. Cigarette?” No one refuses his offer. “That thought is so strange to me.
Can you explain it? Why you did it and why you liked it?”

I was corrupted by these men and I can tell you the names if you can
guarantee me immunity and a new identity. Attila can never understand why no
one of the men he interrogates hasn't freed themselves with this simple exit out
of Colonel Novák's death sentence. They're like dumb idiots who pay the full
price at the market instead of bargaining. They want it to be over as soon as
possible, even if it means their death.

“I like making love to men.”

“Oh. Hm. There's a word for it, ej?” He deeply inhales, heavily falling back
into his Hungarian accent. “What d'ya call it? Homosexual, some say, I have
heard.” He looks for confirmation and the doctor nods. “That's right, Colonel.”

“But...” The cloud of smoke is thick and blue and he observes the pictures it
forms when it swirls around. He remembers the days of his childhood, lying in
his courtyard after plowing the earth in the garden, the sky in full movement,
clouds like smoke in the air. “But that's totally a Western idea, you know that?
That's some debased lifestyle coming from America or somewhere. This is
nothing a good Communist can tolerate, do you agree with me on that matter?”

“I agree, Sir.” And how can he not?

“Well,” he shrugs, “And now? How can we solve this mess of an

undermining Western society? Any suggestions? Mister Florescu? Doc?”
Underneath his trench coat, he reaches for the Tokagypt in his holster and
unhinges the safety clutch. The sound of that click is loud in the room. Like a
drop from the faucet in the dead of the night when you can't sleep. “Can you tell
me, Mister Florescu?” he asks again as he points the gun right to Florescu's
forehead. “There are no homosexuals in our good and pure Romanian Socialist
society. So what shall we do now, hm?”

The doctor looks to the floor, his lips forming a thin line. He doesn't dare to
intervene for his patient.

“Please, any suggestion would be helpful, Sir.”

Florescu is breathing hard and on the edge of a panic attack, on the edge of
death. “No ideas? Oh, that's a pity.” And then he shoots him, one clear blow in
the head. The person Mister Florescu was before he became a traitor — an
enemy of the state, a Western degenerate — falls on the doctor's lap. And he,
flinching at the dead body touching him, trying desperately to wipe off the blood
on his jacket, jumps up and kicks his patient away as if it still were the most
dangerous thing. An undead monster, a strigoi as the villagers call those.

“Good morning, Officer Novák. I am commanded to inform you that your

sister awaits you.” His secretary looks suspiciously at him. His hair must be a
ruffled mess, his uniform not accurate. Or is he too paranoid now?

But damn. That bitch must distract him now. She barely even calls, but when
she wants a favor from her little brother, she always comes at the worst of times.

He slams the door to his office shut, but she's not in the least impressed.
“Hey, hey, Attiko. Aww, you still have those cute baby locks of yours.”
 “Shut your mouth, szuka, and sit down.”

He undresses his uniform coat — is it him or is it really that hot in here? One
of his six telephones rings. “Not now, I'm busy,” he snaps into the receiver and
pulls out the main cord from the socket.

“What do you want?” he growls at Ánná.

“Oh my. Can't I just visit my little baby brother and chat a bit with him?”

“You live ten minutes away from my apartment. What do you want? I don't
have much time to spare.”

“And see? You never have time, you sleep in your office, you're such a
workaholic. Where should I go to see my bro, eh?”

“What. Do. You. Want?”

She sighs and crosses her legs. Wow, she's still so beautiful as far as Attila
can tell. In all his stress he can't help but be proud of her.

“Yes, see. I need another one of your magic pills.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Is Tiberius too stupid to use a
condom?”

“Hm.” She blinks with her eyelashes and smiles the most innocent smile.
“It's too heated when we're at it to think about...”

“Okay. Stop it.”

“So you have some pills here?”

“I'm not a doctor.”

“You have some pills here, Colonel of the Directorate for Internal Security?”

He sticks out his tongue to her, opens a drawer and throws a pill package on
his desk for her to catch it. “For information on risks and side-effects please read
the pack insert and ask your doctor or pharmacist.”
 “Thank you, Atti, you precious little cutie. And again, you saved my life.”

“No seriously. I'd watch it. How many times did you use them now? I don't
really know what else they'll do to your body.”

“They're preventing me from getting fat, ugly and unwanted and changing
diapers night and day. I'm still traumatized by the smell of your own.”

“Oh, Ánike.” He knows he has that pitiful expression that annoys her so
much. “You should get married and be a happy wife and mama.”

“Yeah, right.” She stands up. “Speaks the one whose wifey is pregnant with
their fifth, eh? Szia.” She winks at him as she's leaving; it's sending goosebumps
to his body.

No. Oh no.

Not Ánná.

Don't let it be her.

On days like these, when the Puszta summer's heat conjures glimmering Fata
Morganas on the asphalt, false images of a false reality, it happens more
frequently that he thinks about what his life would be now if Károly still were
alive. On the way to work, his mind lingers freely and he starts daydreaming like
he used to do when he was a boy in his teens.

He imagines a tiny but elegant apartment in a Parisian suburb. Only one

room and the double bed in a dark corner, but with high ceilings and a little
breakfast balcony. Károly teaches during the day, and writes his Great Eastern
Novel at night, becoming a second Boris Pasternak. Of course, they have many
friends from the artist milieu whom they meet frequently. They go to the theater,
the opera, the ballet in their free time.

And he? What's his profession? Where does he work? As a violinist in the
Philharmonic Orchestra? Is he talented enough? Is he the new post-modern
Hungarian composer?
 When he enters the Securitate building at Bulevardul Corsarii, he's ripped
out of his dreams as the other officers salute and make way for him. The cold of
the metallic interior splashes on his head after that sweet summer dream.

I don't wanna wake up, please let me dream a little longer, please, just five
minutes, please don't wake me up, he thinks. Oh, although he's respected here
like the Leader himself, he'd trade this position, this life any time, even if he
were just a little street musician in Paris.

When the workday is done, a cloud bursts out and turns the streets into a
flowing river. Streams and whirls swirl in the pothole puddles like dancers at the
Hungarian Csárdás. Attila has forgotten to bring an umbrella with him, but he
cannot simply jump over the puddles and run home. No, that would be too casual
for someone in his position. So he stomps into every one of them and a meter
high wall of water arises around him and fogs his body into the gray. He walks
through the rain as if at war and the water is his enemy. Even in this messy
weather, the passengers stop and watch him fearfully, that Colonel for whom
nature doesn't exist. Attila the Hun, who bends the weather to suit his own
appearance, who controls the Puszta like a musician his instrument.

Although he likes that effect he causes while parading on foot, he looks

forward to having his own car. He applied three years ago for it. Only seven
more to wait, perhaps a little less if he “behaves.”

He doesn't notice the vehicle driving around a curve and splashing water all
over his body.

“Baszd meg, kutyafasza.” But as he lifts his head, he catches a glimpse of a

white van.

By the time he comes home, he's soaked to the bone. The rain is falling like
rivulets down his neck, and his uniform and coat stick to him like grabby wet
hands, trying to pull him into the water. His hair hangs down in front of his
forehead, and he hates this because he looks so much younger with those locks
not combed back neatly, like someone who's only dressed up as a Colonel for a
carnival.

“Fuck, what shit weather. Haven't seen this much rain for years. Even my
underwear is soaked. Ya hear me?”

No one is answering.

“Sergiu? Thought you were home? Serge?”

But where could he be in this shitty weather? They made plans for the
evening. So has he gone shopping? He couldn't have gone shopping because at
this time of week, only the most prestigious persons are served in the almost
empty grocery shops.

“Hey, that's not funny. D'ya play hide and seek or what?”

There. He hears the shifting sound of clothes. It sounds from his office room
at the end of the corridor.

“There you are...” he smiles as he enters, but that smile freezes on his lips
immediately.

“Nice library you have there. Interesting books you're reading, Atti.” Sergiu
winks at him, scrolling through a book. There are some five or six more lying on
the floor. “Your collection is way bigger than I thought.”

He opens his mouth, but no tone comes out. Why? He's way out of Sergiu's
league, so why does he make him so nervous? He could crush him with a snap,
so why be intimidated by him?

“Sorry to rummage in your holy books, but I wanted to get to know you
better. And as you rarely talk about yourself, what better way is there as looking
through your books. You are what you read, eh?”

Attila gulps.

“Oh, by the way. Your kitchen is empty. Gotta buy some food. Stores are
sold out, but, you know, there's still something left for a humble Sec
Sublocotenent. Be back soon.”

He hears the door shut, and he doesn't know what else to do than standing in
the middle of this living room with all the books on the floor. But then, he sucks
it up and puts them back into the shelves, one by one, caressing their backs as if
they were pets.

His most precious book, the one with the white cover and the red title, is still
locked up in a drawer, and he has the only key to it in his pockets, always. But
it's obvious that Sergiu was searching for it.

More than ever, he has to be a professional servant of the Socialist Republic

now. There is no private life. There is only the Party and the Great Leader to
please. But the game takes a dangerous turn. He must act now. Rien ne va plus.

With all the books back into their places, Attila falls breathless in a chair at
his desk. His hands ruffle through his hair, his fingernails scratch little wounds
into his head. He takes out a tin package, it looks like a mint can or a cartridge
for ink. And the little white ball could be mistaken for bubble gum. He takes it
and puts it in his mouth, closes his eyes.

It's so easy. Just one bite and it's over. He won't feel a thing, he always tells
his subjects anyway. It is such a merciful way to die and it takes almost no effort,
just a reflex of his mouth really.

But he can't do it. He simply can't. He's not that easily defeated. Okay,
sweetheart, if you wanna go all in, I'll take up the gauntlet.

So he takes out the little capsule of potassium cyanide and puts it back into
the box.

Chemistry. Everything comes down to chemistry.

Life is only a collection of molecules after all.

“Can you recall when your symptoms began?” Attila asks the pale patient
strapped in the hospital bed. His pen is scratching the paper like fingernails over
a chalkboard. “Oh, do you mind if I smoke in here?”

The dying skeleton is shaking his head. His voice is thin and breathless.
“About six months ago.”
 “Hm.” He fans himself with a paper. “D'ya mind if I open the window? It's
so hot in here.”

“I'm... I'm... I'm always feeling... so cold.”

“Excellent.” He stands up, the sound of the curtain cords being drawn apart
is loud like the rattle of a machine gun. It's one of the rare cold summer days
outside. “A little fresh air will do us good.”

“But actually... I feel like... freezing...”

“Colonel.” Sergiu's voice is quiet, concerned. He presses his lips together

and looks at him with an expression he has seldom seen.

“What did you do prior to the month you felt the symptoms for the first
time?”

“I... I don't... know. My mind is feeling oblivious.”

“Oblivious?” He knows that this particular smile of his can be a master

move in special interrogations. “Oh, I like oblivious.”

“Really, it's... It's so cold in here.”

“Oh, sorry.” Slowly, every move is carefully and dramatically orchestrated,

he turns the air conditioner button down. The needle is falling into the blue.

“The pain. The pain is...”

“Hah, I feel ya. This hospital actually is not a good one. How about I'll
transfer you to a specialist clinic?”

Sergiu is shaking his head, ever so slightly but he still notices it.

“They have just the right medicine for ya.”

“But... I... don't have... money. Or influence.”

“Nah.” He waves his hands, never ceases to cast a warm, friendly smile. “It's
on the house. You seem like a hard-working man who deserves his reward.” He
fumbles in his pocket and takes out a little white package. The fuzzing of the
tinfoil is loud like cracking ice as Attila takes one pill out and puts it on the
patient's outstretched hand. “Here. A real painkiller. Not those kiddie bonbons
they use to give you.”

Although Sergiu is acting more and more strangely, he's in a good mood
today. He feels confident again to make a forceful move, to show people where
he stands and where their position is in the food chain.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. God bless ya.” The patient puts the pill
in his mouth and immediately he's choking on it. Attila's boots stomp heavily on
the linoleum, every step is grave and slow and sounds like a war drum.

The medicine kicks in in waves. First, you think you haven't drunk enough
water as your throat dries out and you begin choking. Then it eases and you feel
safe.

For ten seconds.

Then the choking starts again, but much, much worse than the first time. It
keeps its fist around your neck, releases you, grabs you harder. But just the right
amount of time that you don't die and live through another moment of free
breathing. Hope and despair, hope and despair, alternating. It pulls every single
fiber of life out of you, one by one.

As another contraction hits the patient, Attila puts a hand on Sergiu's

shoulder. His touch is firm and determined.

“Why're you doing that? It's pointless. Just for the fun of it?”

“Yeah.” His fingers snatch into Sergiu's flesh and he can hear him hiss.
“Now look closely.”

“I can't. I hate seeing this. I'll never get used to it.”

Attila's hand covers Sergiu's chin and cheeks, and he forces his face to
directly look at the hospital bed, at the bony arms which bend, twitch, shake up
into the air, grabbing nothing.

“Look closely. Look very closely.”

 “Attila.”

“I wanna let you see what I'm capable of if you get smart with me.”

“You enjoy the killing?”

“Oh yes. Yes.” He whispers into his ear. “I'm a hunter of the steppe and I
love hunting for trophies. Don't you ever forget that.”

“This can't be. This simply cannot exist!” Mareșal Valentin ruffles his hair as
he visits hospital room 1017 with Colonel Novák and Sublocotenent Tudorescu.
About twenty iron beds are provisionally crammed in the little room. There's no
middle corridor, there are just beds and beds and beds and in them are paper thin
dying men.

“And you tell me,” Valentin addresses Attila with a high-pitched voice,
sweat dropping off his forehead. “that these are all homo... I don't know, how do
you call those?”

“Homosexuals, Sir,” Attila salutes. He's calm. Calmer than he was for a long
time. He can't hold back a smile.

“But– but... but, there are no homosexuals in our Socialist Unions. Only the
corrupt West produces such abominations.”

It begins. He hears his blood rush through his ears, he can feel his heartbeat,
he can smell metal and leather. His vision is red, everything turns to red. He's no
longer human, but an animal, a falcon; time has stopped, and his eyes register
every little blink of an eyelash. He's in hunting mode. “Yes, Sir.”

“They simply can't exist. They all must be Western spies. But– but they
should not exist.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Here it is, his baby, his darling. The little delicate Tokagypt-58 with his
beloved silencer. His fingers work slowly and dramatically as he screws it on.
The foreplay.
 Attila knows, he is one of those, he is an enemy himself, a homosexual, an
intruder. A Hungarian agent in the Romanian Army, a gay man fighting the
faggots. So he must be more cruel, a thousand times more cruel than every single
tyrant. They will never catch him if he performs like that, they will never know
that he's in disguise, that he flees from his own death sentence by becoming the
most effective hangman in the Socialist Republic.

“What shall I– what shall I tell the president?” Valentin panics.

And then it happens. Like a dance, beginning slowly, step by step, a

choreographed ballet of bullets, an orchestral masterpiece in pianissimo.

Attila doesn't miss the first patient. A shot pushes right through the forehead,
carried out by the wrist. His fingers, his hands, his facial expression almost
doesn't move, his steps are calm, no energy wasted, his gray trench coat makes
him seem bigger and wider than he actually is.

It takes a while for Valentin and Sergiu to understand what happens. But
when the realization hits them, the temperature in the hospital room seems to
fall. It's like watching a running beast, a raptor killing its prey with one accurate
bite in the neck. There's surprisingly little to no blood, it's like blowing out a
chandelier, one candle at a time.

When it's done, Attila positions himself in front of his boss, salutes. And he
contently observes Valentin regurgitate, trying to not throw up. Sergiu's eyes are
pinned to the floor. His skin color is pale, almost white.

“They don't exist, Sir.”

Valentin tries to search for words, but he seems paralyzed, speechless.

“Sir?”

Valentin has to steady himself. His shaky hand wipes the sweat off his
forehead.

“Sir, they don't exist, Sir. No homosexuals in the Socialist Republic.”

“Yes, yes,” Valentin gulps. “Thank you, Colonel. Good job. Good job, yes.”
 “Salutare, Mareșal Nicolescu. We swear, comrade Ceaușescu, that we will
honor and fulfill your commandment.”

“Novák. Novák. Salutare.” His boss' fat lips look like bubbling roasted
sugar. His massive body seems glued to the chair. He's an emperor who seldom
leaves this throne room. “So, how's that annoying thing going?”

Attila stops saluting, clicks his heels and takes out a folder. “Investigators
from the Directorate of Foreign Affairs have been doing research in Germany
and the USA on that matter. Apparently, it's a... hm, they call it a homosexual
cancer, as it only affects men with perverted sexual intercourse and it acts as a
terminal auto-immune illness.”

“Hah,” Ion Nicolescu grunts, “there is no such thing as a homosexual in the

Socialist Republic.”

“Yes, I know.” He clears his throat. “They have been taken care of.”

“Vai de mine, Novák, good job, good job. What an annoying thing that was.
Glad you took your time dealing with that nasty business. Hey, wait a sec.” He
fumbles in his drawers and takes out a wooden box containing Havanna cigars,
cuts the head of the cigar and hands it to Attila. “Excellent job, Novák. Very very
professional you are, you Hungarian.”

“What can I say? I'm a natural talent.” He spreads his arms and then
clenches his teeth while lighting his cigar.

“And you know what that means, Colonel Novák? You know it?”

“I know.” He smiles proudly.

“Yeah, the first motherfucking Mongol to get into the rank of a General of
the Romanian Securitate. Congratulations, Novák, congrats, congrats.”

“Thank you.” This is a wonderful day. A day he never dared to dream of. A
dream come true. As a teenager, he couldn't picture his adult self differently than
working at a boring factory job. And now look at him. He belongs to the haut
monde of all of Romania. But simultaneously to his joy, he's surprised that
there's another feeling. He cannot place or name it so simply. Has he felt that
before? An ache in his heart, a twist in his stomach, a dark shadow over his
head. What is it exactly? Homesickness? Loneliness? He has reached more than
most Romanians can dream of, but why is he so unhappy? You know what you
have to do in order to survive, General Novák thinks. You love Serge and you
have the power to save both of you, comrade Attila whispers.

“We should throw a party for ya, Novák. First round of drinks on me.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “Yeah, we totally should celebrate this.”

In the evening, when he enters the secret gay bar in his full uniform,
everything turns silent. He devours that fear, the power he radiates. Indeed, the
loud disco beats seem to be intimidated, too, and the DJ lowers the music.

He sits down at the bar and waves to the bartender. “A Metropolitan, please,”
he says, politely smiling.

All guests are frozen, they can't take their frightful eyes off him.

“Don't worry. Just here for a drink. D'ya allow a thirsty man some water?”
he grins.

Now you all fear me, don't you? I'm a more powerful danger than your so-
called Leader. I'm the one who can bring you all down. And I'm invincible.

He enjoys every single drop of his cocktail, sips the pink liquid from the
straw, at rest.

Tonight he has work to do, an outside job.

The old woman immediately opens the door a few seconds after his hand has
almost knocked a hole into it.

“Is this the house of Sergiu Tudorescu?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Her voice is shaking.

“Can I speak to him?”

 “He's... actually not at home.”

“Hah.” He knows his laughing cry sounds like a beast and he likes it. He
bends his body playfully as if he's laughing convulsively and the sound he makes
is like the screeching of a car through a rainy night. “Not at home. Okay. Nice.”

“She's right. My son is at a conference.” Sergiu's father enters the hallway,

newspaper in hands, big round horn-rimmed glasses on his nose, a pipe in his
mouth.

It happens in less than a second. Attila has trained it a hundred times. Before
anyone, before he himself, can realize it, he takes out his gun and shoots Sergiu's
mother right into the forehead.

“Holy fucking Mother of Christ,” Sergiu's father gasps and then Sergiu
jumps out of an adjacent room. “Novák! Novák! You son of a bitch.”

“See? Why didn't you come out in the first place?”

He enjoys Sergiu's angry crying face as he bends down to his dead mother.
“You asshole! You fucking perverted asshole.”

“Dontcha worry, sweetheart. She's now in a better place. Come on.” He

points the Tokagypt-58 at Sergiu's chest. “Get into the car.”

“You rather shoot me, asshole. I'm not imitated by your itty bitty dick.”

He just smiles.

“Good, Sir, please, please,” Sergiu's father mumbles, crouching in the door
frame, torn between the entrance hall and the living room, the mole glasses
magnify his wide eyes even more.

“You'll come voluntarily with me or shall I shoot your father, too?”

“Please, Please, Sir...”

There it is, the beloved gesture Sergiu does when he's pondering, thinking
about something. Biting his lip, licking over the upper row of his teeth. He did it
when they discussed where to spend the weekend, how to write their reports at
work, what to wear for their date night at the gay bar. So many cherished
memories.

All of them false, untrue. Just an illusion, Attila realizes now.

Without saying anything, Sergiu stands up, avoiding looking at Attila, and
leaves his parent's house.

One last time.

Attila smashes him into the car, shuts the door behind him so vigorously he's
afraid his boss' old rusty Cadia chassis will break down.

“You spied on me! You were never honest with me. It was all a
performance.”

“Futu-ţi Cristosu' mă-tii. You accuse me for performing? You by all people?”

“Who assigned you to spy on me?”

From the backseat, tied up, Sergiu spits into his face. But Attila isn't
intimidated. He slaps him hard, and immediately, he can see Sergiu's face swell,
that very face he used to kiss and caress so tenderly. “You– you faked it. You
faked everything.” Another hard blow and Sergiu's eye takes a lilac color. “You
let yourself be fucked by a man just to complete a mission?”

“Ohhhh,” Sergiu hisses, “Don't take that direction, sweetheart. Can't you
imagine my motivation? They're the same as yours, brother.”

Attila grips his fingers into the fabric of the car seat. He wants to beat
Sergiu, wants to smash his head to the pavement until nothing more is left of him
than a pudding of meat and bone and brain. “Dare to call me like that again!”

“You have to become the monster that wants to kill you. You have to become
the bigger monster to swallow your worst enemy. I did the same you're doing for
years,” Sergiu's voice becomes more and more incomprehensible as his bruised
lips blister. “And sooner or later, you'll end up like me.”
 “Shut your face.” Attila starts the engine of the car he was given for this
task, and he drives off to the hunting ground, where is boss is already awaiting
them.

It's always a routine involving a ritual, like a workday, like listening to his
“Bolero” LP, like sex. The barks of the dogs intensify, they tug on the dog lead,
their fore-paws rise in the air, thick saliva drools out of their mouths, their eyes
flash in red. The birds fly away. They know they have to flee the scene. The
rabbits, the deer; they stay away, they seem to know that it's not their dying day.
This is no animal hunt, their noses swell and they can smell angsty human sweat.
Attila sees the wide eyes of a stag in the distance and he smiles. Look at me, he
almost wants to say, look how I get him! He loves when the animals are only
spectators to something greater, something historical. Once in a year, Attila the
Hun gets to hunt down a human being, a traitor, a spy, a Western collaborator.
The first times, he couldn't look at himself in the mirror after that, but soon he
got used to it and even started to enjoy it.

But today, today it's something special. It's bittersweet. He could cry, he
could scream, and yet it sends thrills through his bones. There, in the distance,
there runs Sergiu, enemy of the state, sentenced to death. Attila doesn't want to
kill him, he wants to rip down his clothes and kiss him all over, and make love to
him. Hard and wanting and passionate as they used to. Never has he felt such
excitement, libidinous, as with Sergiu. But seeing him run for his life, although
everybody knows he can't escape the Securitate hunters, wells up his blood, it
rushes through his ears, and he and the hunting dogs become one. One beast,
ready to hammer their teeth into Sergiu's neck and taste the life escaping out of
him.

“Come on, run.” Attila hears Mareșal Ion Nicolescu shout, “It's no fun if the
prey doesn't run. Give him a little push, comrade Novák.”

Tying his dog to a tree, Attila fumbles in his coat pocket and takes out two
rifle bullets. Slowly, celebrating every little move, he loads the shotgun, chewing
on his cigarette. He looks through the finder, to Sergiu's propulsion run. He
waits, he's the best shooter in the world, he can afford to wait, he can afford to
raise the tension, he's an entertainer, that's why everyone jumps at the chance to
accompany him on a hunt. And there it is, at the center point, Sergiu's leg. It
almost happens simultaneously: Sergiu's fall and the loud shot. Now, it's
impossible to run, he can only crawl, and the hunters are approaching.

“Keresés.” Attila whispers to his dog and lets him free. It's the only word,
the only command he pronounces in Hungarian and the dog can hear the
different idiom. It doesn't only mean „search him.” It means more. The
command is specially preserved for Attila, it means „Scare him so he shits his
pants, but leave him for me to finish it.”

When Attila arrives at Sergiu's side, his ex-lover's face is wet from the dog's
saliva and his eyes are wide in panic. For a tiny bit of a second, he pities him,
he's sad. There were some moments when he really thought that they could be
together, that a serious relationship would develop. And yes, what actually did
prevent him from deepening this? The fear of finally being discovered? The fight
for his own life he led since Prof. Károly was run down by a car? He has made it
so far, he has reached a ridiculously high standard of immunity for a Hungarian.
But he's still not one of them. And he'll never be. And he knows that. He can't
allow himself to be happy.

“Attiko...” Sergiu's voice coughs and the choking whimper is so

embarrassing. “Attiko. Please. I'm so sorry, so sorry.”

“Shh shh shh.” Attila presses his finger on Sergiu's lips and searches for his
boss. Nicolescu is still too far away to exactly see what happens.

His hand caresses Sergiu's, so comforting, so passionate. He cups his face in

his hands and kisses him. “It's okay. I forgive you. I'll be gentle.” He takes out
the tin capsule and shows the tiny white bubble to Sergiu, „One bite and it's over.
Won't feel a thing.”

“Attiko... Attiko... Oh my God, please... please don't do this.”

The panic in this doomed voice is like applause for him, and it fuels his
blood. The tears in Sergiu's eyes break his heart. Two souls fight in him; the boy
who wants to live with his lover in Paris, and the reckless agent who tries to save
his own doomed life.

“Attiko. You can prevent this. You can save me. Please. Save me. You know
you want to save me. You... you said you loved me.”
 “Yes, I love you,” he whispers in his ear, “That's why you have to take this.
It's painless, quickly over. Gotta bite on it before he is here. Nicolescu's a sadist
butcher.”

“Attiko. No.”

“I'll hold your hand, baby. I'll be with you. You're not alone. Relax.” His
thumb caresses Sergiu's eyelids and slowly but surely he closes his eyes. Sergiu
unwinds, sticks out his tongue and Attila puts the potassium cyanide into his
mouth. “Sweet lover. You'll die with my kiss on your lips.” He does it and he can
feel the moment when Sergiu dies, his last breath like a last kiss. “Goodbye, my
love, goodbye,” he whispers in Sergiu's ear and then he stands up.

“Novák? Do you have him?” Mareșal Nicolescu calls. He's almost there

“Righta here,” Attila screams as he raises his hand for his dog. “Righta
here.” The faithful eyes of his hound gleam at him and he whimpers like a little
puppy.

“Fogd meg,” he finally rasps. And he doesn't blink, he doesn't look away, he
absorbs every second when Sergiu is ripped apart under howls of animal
screeches.

Goodbye, my love, goodbye.

He doesn't have to wait long for Ánná to come outside. He knows her work
schedule and her private matters by heart. Of course, there's a file about her in
his office, but he can manage to let it be ignored. He straightens his hair, checks
his uniform and puts his cap on, leaning casually against his new car. Not a
minute after that, Ánná opens the entrance door and screams like a little girl the
second she notices him.

“What, Atti? Holy shit! Holy, holy shit. That is yours?”

He nods smiling. It's so cute to see her like that, it brightens his day, which is
not different from the other days: dark and gray, always.

“Oh dear mighty God in heaven. Look at that baby.” She gets on her knees
and massages the passenger door. “A German car. You got a German car. But
how in all that is still sacred in the world does my little brother get a German
car?”

“Been promoted,” he says and can't suppress a tired sigh.

“Oh, woah.” She fumbles at his new epaulet insignia and shakes her head.
“No! You're fucking kidding me. Oh, God. You're a General now. Look at you.
Do Mami and Tati know already?”

“No.” He must concentrate to breathe steadily. He must concentrate to not

fall apart. “You're the first to know. You're my favorite sister after all.”

“Oh, you. But oh my God. Can we go on a little ride through the city? How's
the feeling?”

“Smoooooooth.”

“So? What are ya waitin' for? Let's get in.”

“Okay,” he sighs. Normally her over-excited laugh would make him happy,
but it doesn't reach him anymore. He feels numb, tired, careless. An old man of
twenty-four. Let's go for a ride and crash into the next tree.

“Woah, woah, woah. What do I see here, you motherfucker?”

He hates her fumbling fingers, her jumping on the seat, the loose hair that
falls in the footwell. Barely one minute in the car, and she's already creating a
girly mess. Surely, next thing she'll try to do her makeup routine here and paint
everything red with her lipstick. “A radio! You've got a radio and a cassette
player. That must have been some great job you were doing to get this funky
shit.”

“Hm,” he mumbles.

“A German car with a cassette radio. You're a Romanian VIP now.” She
musses his hair, and he has to gather all his strength to not slap her hands away.

“Ej, ej, can I turn it on? Can we play music on our ride?”
 “Sure thing.”

“Whoohooo.”

The button of the radio player loudly snaps into position as she turns it on,
like a safety latch. And immediately the car is filled with a modern electric new
wave dance version of the folklore song “Katyusha.”

“She was walking, singing a song, about a gray steppe eagle, about her true
love, whose letters she was keeping,” Ánná sings along, half Russian, half
Hungarian and dances on her car seat like a little girl.

God, oh God. Is the world, the universe mocking him? Why does every song
become a reference to oneself in times of crisis?

“Let him preserve the Motherland, same as Katyusha preserves their love.”

His hands grab the steering wheel tightly as Ánná continues to sing. He feels
the urge to vomit, to scream, to cry. But the only thing he can do is remain silent,
motionless, face straightly looking on the road, hands on ten and two, like a
good driver, like a good servant of the state, a good Communist.

There is no such thing as a private life in the Socialist Republic.

There is no such thing as a homosexual.

No such thing as love.

Those corrupt Western ideas simply don't exist in a perfect world.

◆◆◆

Tiberius 1989.

Of course, Attila can't make it to his wedding. He dismisses every one of

Tiberius' invitations, to a Bachelor party, to a hunt, and now to his wedding.
 Tiberius can't decide how he feels. Is it jealousy? Is it sadness? Is it
disappointment, melancholy, nostalgia? Every time he visits his parents at
Mihai's Village or in Bucharest, the conversation turns towards Attila, always the
same yada yada: So young, he came from nothing. He's not even a Romanian.
As one of the Hungarians, who are so often looked down upon, he grabbed an
opportunity at the right time like a ripe apple. And he, Tiberius Nicolescu, the
heir to the Nicolescu dynasty, the one who once introduced Attila to the secret
police; he's still only a Căpitan of the Red Army.

After his baccalaureate, he refused to follow his father's footsteps and work
for the Securitate. Instead, he pursued a career as an officer in the Army. Since
then, he and his family have been disunited, for every department hates the
other: the Army hates the Securitate, the infantry hates the Naval forces, the
miliția hates the Army, the Securitate's Directorate for Foreign Intelligence is at
war with their own Directorate for Internal Security.

Although his first years in the Army were successful, his career has become
stale, and it annoys the hell out of him.

Fuck, it's ridiculous to compare himself like that, but he's envious that
Attila's epaulets are bigger. What a macho way of thinking.

Tiberius is restless as he stands in front of the altar next to his bride. His
head bumps against the orthodox wedding crown which is held behind them by
their groomsmen, both army soldiers. And he's unnerved by Gianina's pathetic
and kitschy sobbing. Every part of her is boring and annoying at the same time.
Her little fur jacket, her glaring red lipstick, the lilac makeup around her eyes,
the glitter in her gloves. She's a good match though. A cousin's cousin of the
Ceaușescu family and if he wants to achieve something in his life, if he still
wants to satisfy his father, he must marry her, he must suffer through her never-
ending blatant babbling.

When the ceremony ends, Tiberius and Gianina turn around with their
glimmering candles in hands, the door opens and two late guests flit in. It is none
other than the Red Star, Novák Attila, and — more importantly — his bonny, his
magnificent, his perfect sister; Ánná, the most beautiful, the most intelligent
woman Tiberius has ever met. And how her smile gleams, how cute her little
tooth gap shines through, it's too unfair. Her facial expression is calm as she
observes her lover marrying another woman, but it breaks Tiberius' heart to see
her sitting in the last row while Gianina squeezes his hand in her tight grip. He
wants to let her go and run directly to this beautiful angel that Ánná is.

“How rude. What are they thinking, arriving late for a wedding? Do these
Mongols not know how to be respectful?” he hears her nagging clamor screech
in his ears.

“Perhaps they had work to do.”

“Work? What work?” she continues in the most annoying voice as they
march down the aisle, back to the entrance door and are showered under red rose
petals.

“Well. Rip out fingernails. Dunk heads in the toilet. Cut body parts away.
What a secret police officer ought to do.”

“Ugh,” she squeaks and her face looks like she's eaten foul food.

At the wedding party, the sexes separate; the men drink their strong Raki and
smoke outside, the women gather in a corner and high-pitched chatter fills the
air. Officer Novák and Miss Novák Ánná are the only ones who found a private
corner and they enjoy themselves looking at some photographs. The house is
ridiculously glittered up. The Romanian girls love the pompous rokoko-style of
the orthodox weddings, and from their first breath on this earth they're planning
this special day. The bands who provide live music change every hour, the
tablecloths are of golden damask, the chandeliers have been bought at the
capital, especially for this occasion, especially for this room. A million red and
white roses are draped over the windows, the doors, the dance floor. The air is
filled with strong perfume and cologne, it smells like the best shit from the black
market. Tiberius will need years to pay the debts he spent to please his wife.

After some effort, he manages to escape the united Ceaușescu and Nicolescu
brigade with their pats on the shoulder, their rude jokes about the honeymoon
bed and their stinking breath. As he heads to the table where Attila and Ánná sit,
secluded from the Romanians, he thinks he's one of them now. He would've
given anything in his teens to be a part of the Ceasusescu family, and now he
wants to kill them all. He couldn't have waited to please the Party, his country,
his Leader, but all he has achieved in his ten-year career was becoming a
revolutionist to end this ridiculous freak show of a Socialist Republic.
 “You were late,” Tiberius directly addresses Ánná, he doesn't greet her nor
Attila. As she's interrupted in her conversation with her brother, she turns to him,
her warm brown eyes catch his, and he can't keep his eyes from her little
dimples.

“Cigarette?”

Smiling, she takes one out and lets him light it.

“Wow, you have dyed your hair? What a nice chocolaty color. Yummy,” he
says and is delighted by Ánná's blushing cheeks.

“Rather dipped her head into the toilet,” mumbles Attila, cigarette in mouth,
and gets slapped playfully by his sister. “Ej, faszkaláp. Why so grumpy today?”

Of course, that faggot is ruining this moment for him. But he just wanted to
talk to her, a little innocent talk, is it too much to ask?

“What happened to your hand, Atti?” he scoffs, pointing at the stump at the
end of Attila's left arm. His laughter roars through the room. “Looks like syphilis
has shredded your bones and skin and shit it out backwards.”

“Yes, Nicolescu. You're hilariously funny,” he replies with a dry voice. “An
accident at work,” he says casually, but his smile is devilish and Tiberius can feel
goosebumps on his arms.

“Little Attiko looks so mature now, doesn't he? Like a real grown-up, very
important man of the state. So very proud of my little pooper bro.”

“You'll lose limbs in the office faster than in the furniture factory at home.”

“Yeah, it's tough work. But somebody has to do it.”

Rage fills his body, it blackens him like ink tossed into water. Years ago, he
only introduced Attila to the secret police in order to save his best friend's life.
But he never could have thought that Atti would actually be so brilliant in this
job and outshine him.

“There are my boys.”

 Ion Nicolescu's voice destroys every little magic that remains in this
moment. As he's approaching their table, Ánná looks down like she's done
something bad and a teacher wants to slap her.

“Mareșal Nicolescu,” Attila greets and salutes him. Tiberius snorts a lump of
slime out of his throat. He can't bear the sound of his former friend's voice
saying that name with such affection, whether it's for appearances or not. And he
can't look at the insignia on his epaulets. Yes, it's such a dick move to be jealous
of the number of their stars, like comparing the size of their penises, but he can't
help it.

“Comrade Novák,” Ion Nicolescu sits down and Tiberius holds his cigarette
package out for him to grab one. He notices his father neglected to greet his own
son. If the devastation that Ceaușescu caused for Romania isn't enough of a
reason to join the revolutionists, the way his father treats him makes it worth the
risk. “Or should I say General-Major Novák now? Congrats on the promotion.
You did handle that mess of the cancer affair very well.”

“Erm...” Ánná clears her throat. “I think I'm gonna go congratulate the
happy bride and chat with the ladies. Nice to see you, Mareșal. Have a good
day.” It's painful to see her so unsure and uncomfortable, that proud beautiful
Lady of the Steppe.

“What a brilliant move, General Novák,” Nicolescu continues, “and you

were so discreet and quick and precise.”

“I only did what had to be done for our country, Mareșal.”

Oh, how disgusting to hear them bootlicking right in front of him. How can a
proud Hungarian like Attila let a fucking sadist lick his ass, let alone enjoy the
compliments? Little Attiko only wanted to hide from being caught by the secret
police and now he's outdicking them, he's an asshole just like them, he has
become one of them. What a sick twist his life has taken.

“See, Tiberius. Attila really made it. You should take it as an example.”

Tiberius' hand hovers above his gun holster. His greatest wedding gift would
be to shoot that motherfucker right in the face.

“Yeah, it's not that he always copied my homework at school. He was good
because I helped him. Did he forget that?” he snarls right into Attila's face. His
only reaction is a raising of his eyebrow. Calmly, he sucks on his cigarette and
blows the fume into Tiberius' face. “I owe you, Căpitan Nicolescu. I'll never
forget that. A good comrade always remembers where his roots are.”

Yeah, of course. “And what did I get in return? Nothing.”

Attila lowers his eyes, takes a deep breath from his cigarette. “You got your
Karenina.”

Oh, how he wants to spit out those popular X-rated Hungarian swearing
words he learned from Ánná right into the face of the Hun. But he swallows his
bitterness down and smiles instead. It would be too childish and come out too
defensive to lose his temper now. And additionally, he's the brother of the
woman he loves so much.

“And what's your next mission, General?” his father yawns.

“Hm,” Attila's grin looks like a creepy grimace. Tiberius had always mocked
him when they were children because of Attila's crooked teeth which made his
laugh come out too devilish, but that was nothing compared to this monster of a
smirk. “Actually I'm working on an interesting case. It's... It could become my
achievement of a lifetime. For years, oh no, for decades actually, there's this
guerrilla group 'White Winter' working against the Republic. Nobody's been able
to shatter them to this day.”

Tiberius' heart misses a beat. No. He had to go there, didn't he?

“I know.” Ion Nicolescu's voice is thick with danger, grave and roaring
deeply. He doesn't blink as he stares at Attila. Suddenly, as if a ghost entered the
room, it gets ice-cold. Tiberius can hear the safety catch's clicking sounds of
imaginary guns. Everyone is threatening their fellow comrade. They laugh and
chat and pretend to be friends, but they hold their weapons at each other's back.
No friendships exist in the Socialist Republic, no family, no solidarity, no real
friendly conversation. Wiretapping, interception, every word you say could bring
you to room A/47. He would have committed suicide if it weren't for his
Karenina. Ánná is the only light in his life, the only reason to continue fighting.

His father jolts him out of his daydreams. “Is the Army aware of that? It
should be your duty too.”
 Tiberius almost chokes on the bitter taste on his tongue. Attila's blue eyes
shoot right through him. Their color is almost white. He imagines them shining
in the dead of the night when Securitate General Attila the Hun jolts enemies of
the state out of their safety and sentences them to death. “I am aware, don't you
worry. I'm not dumb, you know.”

Ion Nicolescu scoffs. “Legitimate to ask. You're sometimes a little slow. Oh,
what's this? Did it fall out of your pocket, comrade Novák?” His father bends
down and picks up a piece of paper from the floor. Ion Nicolescu twists it in his
hand. Tiberius recognizes Attila on a photograph, wearing casual clothes, his
arm around a younger man. They both seem to be at a thermal bath. Tiberius
knows how much Attila enjoys camping at a lake and spending his day gazing at
the clouds and daydreaming.

“Yes, it is mine,” Attila blushes. His good hand grabs for the photo. Tiberius
notices how desperately he wants to hide his nervousness.

“Why do you carry a picture of the traitor Tudorescu with you?”

He can swear Ion Nicolescu plays a game with General Novák, pretending to
give him the photo back, only to snatch it away in the last moment. The last time
he's seen Attila that nervous was ten years ago, in the open steppe while
Securitate agents hunted them after Prof. Károly got overrun by the rusty old
Cadia.

“As a... As a reminder for... He's... uhm– he was my cousin.”

“Your cousin? Hm, interesting. Our families know each other since the days
of Emperor Franz Joseph I., but never have I seen this man around your family.
He was Hungarian, in fact? Interesting. What was his name again?”

“Sergiu.”

Yikes. Tiberius can feel Attila's pain as his own. God, he had to be that
stupid, that arrogant. Sergiu! What fucker would believe a Hungarian's cousin is
named Sergiu?

“Sergiu? You mean Szergej, don't you?”

“Yes, I...” Attila's face turns a yellow color and he's smiling stupidly. “Guess
I'm working too long for the Sec now. I forgot how to speak Hungarian.”

Ouch. Only now does Tiberius realize that he had been holding his breath.

“That's the thing with you nomad folk. You never know where your place is
in the world history.” Although the family of the bride has entered the party
room and fills it with women's laughter and chatter, it has become so quiet,
Tiberius bets he can hear a needle fall to the ground. But then his father bursts
out laughing. A wide, ugly laugh, chomps of saliva spitting out of his mouth,
flying over the table, nearly hitting Attila in the face. “Sorry, Novák. Just a rude
joke, you know me.” He tosses the picture over the table and Attila grabs it as if
it were a forbidden LP at the black market.

But his father's hand nudges Tiberius under the table. When he lowers his
eyes, he can see Ion crossing his fingers in Attila's direction.

He knows what that means.

Showtime. Endgame. Bring down the Hun.

So this is the real new Department for Inner Security's mission. Finally, after
ten years, they have set their eyes on him, the one Tiberius wanted to protect.
The one man he once called his best friend. The one he came to hate like no
other person. And the one man he still loves like a brother.

Mareșal Nicolescu's nice banting was just a show.

Tiberius does not know how he feels about all that. He doesn't feel anything.
He is sick of the spinning carousel of politics, spying, mistrust, the constant
angst and fear of being taken away by the secret police in the middle of the night
no matter how high his rank is, the false life everybody must lead in order to
survive.

He's only twenty-seven and already feels like an old man.

Now, every move he makes, every risk he takes is dedicated to Ánná.

Precious, beautiful, intelligent Lady Ánná.

She's worth the risk he's taking for his secret plan. If she'll be the only one to
survive 'White Winter', the mission will be successful.
 “A dance. A dance from the happy couple!”

How Tiberius hates Romanian weddings. They're only a hit if they lasted
three days, had a dozen fights between the strongest men and half of the women
are crying.

“Hey, are you fleeing from me or what?” Gianina's laughter splashes like
cold water upon him. He can feel her fingers grab into his arm, and it burns like
fire. This is now his wife, a prestigious object, Ceaușescu's favorite niece. That
will surely be his ticket for a higher position, in the Army, the Party. But it feels
like a consolation prize. “You always hang out with those Hungarian bastards.
Why?”

He turns around and it takes him a moment to find her face in that horrible
puffed up wedding dress that surrounds her like whipped cream. It smells like
strong medical washing powder.

“Old friends of mine.”

“And you're so important to them that they didn't bother to be on time for the
ceremony?”

“A good servant of the state doesn't care about religious rituals.”

“I always see you three together, all the time. Since we're married, you're
glued to them. Hello, this is our festival, yours and mine. You should dance with
me.”

Loud cheers, burps and toasts accompany her suggestion, no, her command.

“As you wish. But gotta smoke a cigarette first. Is that alright, my mistress?”

As soon as he's fled the torture room, he breathes in the cold, fresh winter
air. It is so good, so promising. When will it snow? When will it snow already?

“May we have one?”

Yeah, Gianina is right. The three of them are drawn together, like magnets,
they search for each other, they always find each other.
 “Sure thing,” he answers and there they are, the three wayward musketeers;
the failing Nicolescu son, the perfect Novák girl and her doomed brother.

“My wife wants to dance. Can ya believe that?”

“I thought that's the point of a wedding?” It's awkward how Attila manages
to light his cigarette with that nonexistent left hand.

“Hey, you romantic pansy. The point of marriage is alliance. Always was
and always will be,” he spits out, “Love? Yeah. Like there was a time when you
married the one you love.” He rolls his eyes and catches a glimpse of Ánná's sad
facial expression.

“My parents,” she whispers, blowing out the smoke into the cold air, like
fog. She's disappearing behind a white wall of fume. “They are my example of
true love.”

“You Huns are disgustingly poetic. Fuck me up.”

“We'll see how he handles that situation. I gave him an order for the
broadcast station. If he obeys, he's clear. If not, we gotta collect evidence against
him.”

Tiberius leans against the wall to the half-open door. The telephone room is
an ugly painted brown, the wallpaper hanging in stripes at the leaky window. A
thin ripped garland of lametta frames a picture of Nicolae Ceaușescu, telling
stories about last year's Christmas parties. Nobody cared to remove it for a year.

“I'll have my son put on The Hun's heels. He knows him since they were
boys. If he doesn't know what Novák's real nature is, then no one will. But I
gotta say, I can't imagine it. Novák a faggot? He killed them himself. How
twisted d'ya have to be?”

General Novák Attila a twisted person? Understatement. Tiberius shakes his

head and nearly sighs out loud. He walks away from the door, away from his
father plotting against his best friend and worst enemy, heads straight to the
room where she is waiting.
 “You shouldn't be here,” her warm eyes search his, and he hates the sorrow
that swims in them.

“I do what I want,” he says and embraces her, presses her against his chest.
He never wants to let her go.

“But your father's here. And your bride. And her family. And... he is here,
too.”

He scoffs. “Don't worry about that.” Delicately, he cups her cheeks into his
hands and kisses her ever so slowly. In this winter, she tastes like sweet summer
fruits. Life is canned in November of 1989, fields are barren and frozen, trees
seem like dead skeletons, but Ánná is ever-blossoming life.

“Tiberius, I...” She pushes him away, and sits on the edge of the bed. “I don't
recognize my brother anymore. I don't know what it is, but...” She has the same
dimples as her brother, he observes.

“Let's not talk about him now.”

“But...” He can feel her smile as he kisses her. His hand wanders down her
neck and massages her breasts under the soft silky dress she's wearing. She has
gotten thinner the last months, haggard and pale.

“When we celebrated my mother's birthday last week,” she continues to talk

as Tiberius continues to kiss her, “he was so off. Always snapping at her, always
snarling, always so aggressive. God, Tiberius, any minute I expected him to
choke her like that Darth Vader guy from the movies you were showing me.”

“Yeah.” Tiberius presses his lips together. “His job must be stressful right
now, I guess. All those revolutions he has to hide from the Romanian people. All
those traitors he has to expose.”

“Traitors and revolutionists like you and me,” she smiles and finally puts a
kiss on his lips. “Oh, I shouldn't have said that, should I? Have you checked the
room for bugs?” She says while she winks at him. Such an intelligent woman,
but the state affairs are all a game for her. She never will fully understand how
deeply fucked her brother is, in what dangerous direction their life has turned.
For her, politics are boring men's business. They do it, but they don't talk about
it, like peeing while standing, like hunting. The 'White Winter' group is just a
distraction for her, a hobby, a nice amusement, a place where she can live out her
inborn little rebellious attitude, but nothing more than a playground. When she
discovered her brother's sexuality, she made jokes about it, disgusting sex jokes
gone too far. But she would have also tattled about Attila if he were with a
woman. For her, Attila is still her little baby brother, and she never fully believes
he's a grown up, she won't believe anyone who explains to her what the Hun
does in room A/47. “Nice tools my brother has at work,” she once told him,
“Never thought he was such a good mechanic. He takes good care of his German
car, doesn't he?”

Oh woman, poor innocent woman, that's what Tiberius loves about her. She
gives him hope that the world not only consists of false friends, real enemies and
never-ending double missions.

The knock nearly disrupts the thin door. Tiberius can't say why he knows it,
but he's sure it's Attila's left stomp that blasts against the laminated wood.

He's breathless as he jumps out of bed. Quickly, he dresses himself, nearly

doesn't manage to button his uniform jacket, combs with his fingers through his
hair, as he stumbles to the door. “Coming.”

The handle is cold in his fingers, still heated from Ánná's body.

“Ah, it's you,” he scoffs. “Hey, Ánike, watch out. It's the Securitate,” he
laughs, but before he can fully address Attila, he grabs Tiberius by his uniform
collar and snarls: “You, Nicolescu. You come with me.”

“Easy, easy, fella. It's my wedding night. A guy has certain privilege then.”

“It's my sister you're doing at your wedding night.”

“Oh. So it's about her?”

Attila spits out a lump of slime. “No.” He clears his throat. “No, you fool.
That's not my business, what yer doin' in bed. There was an incident in Berlin
two days ago and we gotta cut all the information that might be transferred to
our networks.”
 “An incident? What the fuck do I care about Berlin when I should be...”

“You don't understand.” Attila grabs him tighter, between clenched teeth he
hisses: “The Berlin Wall. They're opening the borders. The people are tearing
down the Wall.”

It takes a few seconds until Tiberius fully understands what Attila is trying to
say. Yeah, of course. What a shit joke to keep him away from Ánná. The Wall.
Who will ever believe such bullshit from a Securitate man, from Attila the Hun
after all?

“Okay. Right.” He closes the door, but before it's shut, Attila sticks his hand
in the frame. “Emergency meeting in room 39 in five. Direct order from Mareșal
Nicolescu. Disobedience will not be accepted.”

Mareșal Ion Nicolescu is the only person to attend the “Emergency meeting
in room 39.”

“Son,” he nods to Tiberius.

He slams his shoulder against the wall in frustration. “Fucking hell. It's my
wedding, my special day, gimme a break.”

“I don't have the feeling you're very joyous about that.”

Well, that did hurt. How can he be that stupid? Bet his shoulder's strained
now. He rubs his eyelids and longs to be back in bed, alone or with Ánná, doesn't
matter. But away from official and unofficial meetings, men in uniform, and the
red star wrapped in golden arms of wheat, the emblem of the Socialist Republic,
on every fucking clothing piece there is.

“I have a mission for you, son.”

“Yeah, I guessed. What is it?” he grumbles as if his father is to command

him to clean the dishes and tidy up his room.

“I need you to go to the network broadcast headquarter.”

 “Huh. What's on TV? It's nearly midnight,” he mocks a yawn, “Nice nudes
or what?”

“I hate your humor. It is so inappropriate. So immature. That's why you're

still a little Căpitan.”

“Thanks, Dad. Now, what's the fucking telly mission?”

“I ordered Novák Attila to kill a few people who were responsible for the
leaked information about the incidents at the Berlin Wall. Check if he behaved
and fulfilled my command.”

“I'm checking if he killed enough people for your taste?”

“To see if he's still loyal or one of those... faggot... traitors. Immediately.
You're dismissed.”

When Tiberius enters the TVRO1 Network station, a pool of blood is already
forming in the entrance hall. A terrible silence is spread above the offices, which
otherwise buzz with their broadcasting news. The corpses lying on the ground
seem odd, like dead mosquitoes in the wrong season. Tiberius had seen many
dead men already, but it's different here. Some network employees wear
ridiculous sweaters, and those bad haircuts everybody seems to like now. Seeing
mundane death reminds him of a cartoon more than real life. A dead soldier feels
final and real to him, but here, it looks like a movie scene, and the people mere
actors.

As he hears a shot, he marches into the direction of that sound. And there he
is, Attila the Hun, grabbing a middle-aged man by his shirt collar. While he begs
with never-ending “please, please, please, I can stop it, but please spare me,
please, I have a family, please, please” the little televisions in the room play the
same scene over and over: “Wir sind das Volk! Wir sind das Volk! Wir sind das
Volk!” — “We are the people,” the Berliners are shouting while dancing on their
Wall.

“Was any of this news broadcast already?”

“Please, no, we've been editing them, but they never...”

 “So you planned on showing this to the people of Romania and corrupting
them without the consent from above?” shouts Attila.

“No... Yes– please.” Only now they notice Tiberius standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Nicolescu, Căpitan. Glad you're here. You said we should...”

“Oh, so you're in this shit, too?” Attila licks his lips and smiles his devilish
grimace.

“General Novák,” says Tiberius and salutes.

“You're a traitor. You belong to the 'White Winter.' The son, the crown-
prince of the great Mareșal Nicolescu is a revolutionist. What a nice plot twist.”

Between the whimpering sounds of the network broadcaster who is still held
by Attila's hands, Tiberius whispers: “Don't talk shit, Novák. You always knew I
was in it. Don't pretend to be one of those. You and I, Atti, we're both in the same
boat. We're both waiting for the snow, brother.”

“Don't you dare to call me that,” he yells with ugly curling lips, “It's General
Novák for you.”

Tiberius spits on the ground. “I won't call you that in here, you
motherfucker.”

“You call me names? You disobey me?” A quick move with his gun, a casual
shot in the head, and the wriggling man is dead. “You're next, Căpitan. Traitor.”

“I am a traitor,” says Tiberius. He feels an urge to vomit, to scream, but he

gathers all his strength and keeps calm. The desktops still shout “We are the
people,” on endless repeat. “Yes, I am a revolutionist. But you– Who are you
now? You're a monster. Look at you.”

“I'm serving the people of the Socialist Republic and the Great–“

“Hold the fuck up.” With Attila's gun pointing at him, he still doesn't hesitate
to approach him. He doesn't feel any fear. He knows, he is so damn sure, that
Attila won't lay a finger on him, he won't kill him. There's still that part of his
friend that's not corrupted by the Securitate. “You remember me? Remember ten
years ago? I saved your fucking ass by introducing you to the Sec. I guaranteed
you a safe place and a position to hide and to lead a good life. Because I knew
you would serve the revolution one day. I hoped we'd make great change to this
mess of a country.”

“What do you call your fatherland?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up with this secret agent fuckery. You can't impress me
anymore with that.”

Attila clenches his crooked teeth and Tiberius can see a frightful glimmer in
his eyes. “Attila the Hun. Faggot Hunter. Oh please. How can you still look in
the mirror?”

The silence is interrupted only by the broken television technology repeating

the Berlin people's chant over and over, like an LP record player's needle stuck
in a loop.

“I won't sugarcoat it. We're both doomed. You know I'm a 'White Winter'
revolutionist. So be it. But they know about you too. They're– No. My father, the
Mareșal himself, is after you.”

“No, no. No!” Attila growls and his chapped lips tremble. “You are telling
lies. You're accusing a Securitate General. That's high treason.”

“Attila. Stop it.”

“Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu. You're accused of treacherous behavior against

the Republic and the people of Romania by associating yourself with a
revolutionist group called 'White Winter.'”

“Attila. Stop it. For your own sake, stop it. It's over.”

“You were charged with plotting the death of our beloved and almighty
Leader, Nicolae Ceaușescu, and for wanting to overthrow the one true and purest
Communist Party. You will be deprived of all your ranks and titles.”

“Attila. Attiko. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you on drugs? Have
they brainwashed you? Have they tortured you? What happened to your hand?
What the fuck happened to you, dear comrade Novák Attila?”
 “You're sentenced to lifelong imprisonment...”

“Atti, please. I know you don't want to do this, I know this is not who you
really are. Attila. You're one of us. One of us. Wir sind das Volk. You're one of
us, you're– you're my brother, Atti.”

“Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu. You're accused of treacherous behavior...” he

repeats, but in the middle of the sentence, his voice breaks and his hands start to
shiver.

“Wir sind das Volk. Attila. Look at this. Look at it.” Tiberius smiles and
spreads his arms, waves at the dozens of television pictures in the broadcasting
room showing the same scenes over and over; a young woman dancing on the
wall, her hand raised in the air, forming the sign of victory, she's crying, her
blonde locks and her whitewashed jeans give her the look of an angel, of a
Liberty goddess statue. “It is possible. We can do it, we can finally do it. Look at
what happened in Germany. The time is ripe.”

“No,” Attila rasps and closes his eyes. Tiberius notices deep wrinkles around
the mouth.

“It is happening. It's happening now.”

“No, this can't be.”

“You don't understand. We're not a few guerrilla fighters. Many Army
officers and their battalions are behind us. Half of Bucharest will fight for us.
They're ready to act.”

“Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu. You're accused of treacherous behavior against

the Republic and the people of Romania by associating yourself with a
revolutionist group called 'White Winter,'” Attila releases the safety latch of his
gun and points it at Tiberius, “you are charged with plotting the death of our
beloved and almighty Leader, Nicolae Ceaușescu, and for wanting to overthrow
the one true and purest Communist Party. You will be deprived of all your ranks
and titles.”

“Stop playing this game, Attiko. You know you belong to us, to the right
cause.”
 “Căpitan Nicolescu,” Attila says and looks to the ground, but his gun is still
pointing at him, “Because we were friends once. I'll give you an hour to flee the
city before I'll order them after you.”

“You're insane. You can't win this.”

“One hour. Now. Or I'll shoot you right away.”

“Damn it, Atti, that's your death sentence. They are not your friends, they
hate you. They want to test you.”

“Out. Now! One...”

“Attila.”

“Two...”

And Tiberius rushes out of the room, out into the hall, out of the TVRO1
building and into the cold Romanian winter, the murdered Romanians and the
German chanting splattered into his brain: “Wir sind das Volk, wir sind das Volk,
wir sind das Volk!”

It's the dead of the night when they act. Four in the morning, a merciless, a
timeless hour. When he was still a teenager, he often awoke at this hour and it
felt like the world belonged to him as he'd witnessed the gray sunset. It's a time
when the soul leaves the body, when the living meet with the dead, time ceases
to exist, there are no borders between worlds, countries or people. But as he got
older and his responsibilities increased, waking up at that hour became a
nightmare. You can't go back to sleep, you won't get up, you're bound to flow in
the darkness of the room and you know your day is doomed.

In Romania, this hour is the time of the Securitate haunting. Four in the
morning is the hour when a knock on the door announces the day of your death.
They always come in the dead of the night, when people are at their weakest,
naked, vulnerable. As a kid, Tiberius heard a thousand stories about the
Securitate arresting people, mostly from his father. He found it always so
entertaining, so thrilling, like a horror movie, when Ion Nicolescu embellished
these stories in every little detail. They were his bedtime stories as a child. No
fairy tales, no adventures about cowboys and Indians, but narrations about some
neighbors who disappeared at dusk into the great nothingness of the Carpathian
oblivion or were splattered to the blood red wall in an execution courtyard.

When Tiberius hears the knock at the door, he instantly knows what time it
is, although he was still asleep. When the wooden door vibrates under the fist of
the knocker, his first thought is: Oh no, four a.m. They're here. But I want to
sleep. Gimme just five more minutes.

Then his eyes flash in fear, he jolts up in bed and hears a whispered,
trembling voice beside him: “Tiberius? Tiberius, what... Is it...”

He still can feel Ánná's warm breath in his ear, her demanding voice. He still
feels her arms wrapped around him, her locks in his face, her lips on his.

“Dress yourself.” In this moment of emergence, of surreal instinct, he's

acting practically. It's like driving a car and suddenly realizing that you must
vomit. In the moment of urgency, no shame exists, no social convention, no code
of behavior. You open the door, you stick out your head and you evacuate
everything out of your body. Simple as that, not minding the smell, the noises,
the lack of dignity. “Quickly, dress yourself. Or they'll do it. And you don't want
them to dress you.”

“Tiberius!” She almost falls out of bed, her brown locks — so similar to her
brother's — fly like a silky dress through the nightly air. Her ragged breath, like
that of running prey, screeches in his ears and he bites down his anger, his angst,
his frustration, bites it down until he tastes blood.

A gun fires, the wooden door cracks, its hinge creaks. And then there is
silence.

A long silence, almost calm. But Tiberius knows that it's a trap. Like in every
good nighttime story, the silence before the storm is a fallacious safety; rocking
you in contentment until the blast of the climax rips you apart.

Everything, everything freezes in this tranquility. Ánná stops searching for a

dress, one of the straps of her nightgown falls down her shoulder and in this
thrill, at this hunt, it's the most beautiful thing Tiberius has seen for a long time.
The world stops spinning.
 Then, suddenly, a heavy boot thuds on the floor, as loud as the cracking of
thunder. One step, not more. And again silence. Slowly another step, then
another. By now, one can distinguish two different gaits, four boots, two men.
An officer of the secret service steps into the bedroom. He positions himself at
the foot end, arms behind his back, legs standing broad, head high in the air, and
Tiberius knows, he's just the announcer, the one who draws the curtain for the
real actor.

And here he enters. His footsteps rumble like a contrabassoon, the

underlying melody of a society composed on mistrust, anger, and anxiety.

Tiberius knows that he would come into the room. But he's not prepared for
the sight of General Novák, of Attila the Hun, in all his glory. The expensive
dress uniform with the fur collar is draped around Attila's broad shoulders,
crowning him a king. The face is in shadows under the forage cap, the blue eyes
deeply hidden in tired dark caves, the hard-pressed lips rough and unforgiving in
between the five o' clock shadow. His one hand grabs his belt and Tiberius can't
help but notice the thick veins.

Attila clears his throat, gestures towards his adjutant and he immediately
hands him an envelope.

The fingernail on Attila's remaining little finger is long and he rips the
envelope open, folds the paper out, unbearably slow, like unwrapping the gifts at
his birthday. Ánná is not the least surprised. She stops searching for decent
clothes and hides in the darkest spot of the room. Why is she so composed?

“Miss Novák Ánná. You're accused of treacherous behavior against the

Republic and the people of Romania by associating yourself with a revolutionist
group called 'White Winter.' You are charged with plotting the death of our
beloved and almighty Leader, Nicolae Ceaușescu, and for wanting to overthrow
the one true and purest Communist Party. You're sentenced to death by shooting.
As you're a member of my family, you're granted a non-public execution. You
can take up to five minutes to properly dress yourself for the fulfillment of the
order.”

For over a minute, nobody moves. The Nováks seem to exchange wordlessly
in a secret conversation only siblings understand. If Tiberius is not mistaken,
Attila looks sad, not like the sadist torturer he's rumored to be. And Ánná is
surprisingly at ease with the death sentence.

“Come on, Ánike,” Attila lovingly whispers in a tender voice, “Choose a

nice dress. You know you want to look gorgeous.”

“You f...,” Tiberius spits out, a flood of words stuck into his brain. It's too
much, too much to bear, he carries too many insults inside which can't come out.
This can't be. Attila can't say such things! “You can't sacrifice your sister to save
yourself. You dare do this and I'll kill you.”

But then she asks “Is it cold outside, Atti?” and Tiberius almost vomits. The
world spins around him as if he's drunk. What the hell is happening here?

“Yes, it's cold. But you won't freeze.” His smile. It's so disgusting. He
comforts her with his crooked smile. What is he doing? Why is he doing this to
her? And why is she so calm? “Take your fur coat with you.”

“You think this is appropriate for the occasion?” She holds a white dress up
in the air. It looks like a bridal gown or a dancer's dress in a Russian ballet. The
last dance of Ánná Karenina?

“It's wonderful,” Attila answers.

“You fucker! You son of a bitch. Bag pula-n gâtu tău. What are you
thinking, you bastard?”

Attila doesn't answer. He takes out another envelope, clears his throat as his
adjutant puts handcuffs on Tiberius' wrists. “Captain Tiberius Nicolescu. You're
accused of treacherous behavior against the Republic and the people of Romania
by associating yourself with a revolutionist group called 'White Winter.' You are
charged with plotting the death of our beloved and almighty Leader, Nicolae
Ceaușescu, and for wanting to overthrow the one true and purest Communist
Party. You're sentenced to lifelong imprisonment and are deprived of all your
ranks and titles. You can take up to five minutes to properly dress yourself for
the fulfillment of the order.”

“You can shove up your five minutes into your ass.” Tiberius gathers enough
bile and saliva to spit a sticking lump on Attila's black boots. “I'll go naked, you
motherfucker,” he yells as Attila's Sublocotenent squeezes his wrist. “Ánná! Say
something. He's your little brother. He can't do this to you.”
 “Shut up, Nicolescu and dress yourself,” Attila says, folds his hands and
lowers his head. “Five minutes.”

“You won't– you can't– get your smelly hands off me, asshole.” Tiberius
snaps at the adjutant.

“Dress yourself, Tiberius.” And here it is again. The calm, almost

comforting voice. It holds so many memories and feelings and it's so irritating. Is
that still the little boy Attila, that shy guy everybody adores? Little Attiko, the
baby of the Novák family? Nothing reminds him of his best friend anymore. The
wild locks are gelled back in a sleek and arrogant way, revealing a receding
hairline. The face is full of wrinkles at this young age already, telling about a
farmer's life that got twisted into a cruel secret police executioner's. The missing
hand. His whole soul seems to be missing.

“You think these shoes will do?” Ánná asks Attila as she shows him some
glittery high heels.

“They're perfect.” He takes her hand. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she answers with a smirk and Tiberius' brain simply shuts down.
He has no strength left in his body as he's carried out and thrown into the
backseat of a car. Attila takes the passenger seat while his adjutant puts his hands
on the steering wheel and only starts the engine when he gets the command of
his boss by a little wave of his good hand.

The ride through the silent night is almost peaceful but mostly surreal.
Tiberius can't feel the cold. The streetlights seem to warm him in his pajamas.
Then he feels a fit of laughter blossoming in him. He desperately holds it down,
but it escapes in bits and pieces out of his mouth and it sounds like a dog's
panting. It's just so ridiculous, like a TV comedy. Two agents fully dressed in
uniform, chapka and wool coat, Ánná in her winter princess gown and he in his
pajamas, all of them driving in a small car to a place where life meets with death.
He wants to reach out and hold Ánná's hand but he seems paralyzed, unable to
breathe.

They pass the long and high wall which separates the city's cemetery from
the street and suddenly the car comes to a halt on the sidewalk.

“The next crossroad right or left? I never can tell, sorry, General,” asks
Attila's subordinate and Tiberius feels the sudden urge to vomit.

“Left. It's always left, you doofus,” Attila grumbles and the humming of the
car starts again.

The ride is enormously long and incredibly short. It almost gets boring
driving through the lonely city under the gray light of the fading lamps.

“Just follow the road and we'll soon be there,” Attila says as if they're going
to a holiday. He switches the radio on and the Russian channel is the only thing
at this late hour that has a strong signal. A young girl's voice sings “Katyusha” in
a duet with a man, embedded in a stomping modern beat and an army's choir.
Tiberius knows enough Russian so that the song's love message makes him
giggle along in this absurd situation.

“She was walking, singing a song, about a gray steppe eagle, about her true
love, whose letters she was keeping.”

“If you take the next turn slightly on the right, we'll circumvent a
construction area and will arrive sooner.”

“As you command, Officer.”

“Let him remember an ordinary girl, and hear how she sings, let him
preserve the Motherland, same as Katyusha preserves their love.”

Tiberius moans in disgust . He can taste his vomit in his throat. It's a sound
of deep, deep despair, helplessness and giving up. Dying in the East is almost as
ridiculously miserable as living here. Human beings are mere cardboard stand-
ups and if some fall down, it only causes a laugh.

“I'm sorry, Ánike,” Attila addresses his sister, “the heat doesn't function in
the car, but we're almost there.”

“It's okay,” she answers and Tiberius chokes. “It's my fault after all. Oh...
what– Attiko? Pull to the side. I think Tiberius isn't well.”

A little wink of Attila's hand. A little silent command and his sub follows it.
What a tragedy, what a comedy! What a silly way to spend the last moments
living. The car comes to a halt at the sidewalk and Tiberius flips the door open.
As soon as his head sticks out, he spills the inners of his organs to the ground.

You can't call him Attiko anymore, he thinks as his whole body suffocates on
the biting fluids pumping through his throat, Attiko died a long time ago and this
is just an empty body without a soul.

“Finished?” Attila asks and Ánná answers. Both talk about him as if he were
a little kid who got sick on their way to their summer vacation.

And then the road has come to an end. Bulevardul Corsarii. Everyone gets
out of the car, stretching muscles and bones from the moments squeezed in a too
small Cadia for four people. Everyone but Tiberius who stumbles to the ground.
They stand around for a while, undecided. Is this a play at the theater? Is this a
potty break? Is this a preparation for an execution? Reality blurs into twilight.

Attila lights a cigarette and — oh my fucking God: he hums the Katyusha

melody — he offers Tiberius one. Tiberius only spits on his hand and shows him
his middle finger. “Eat me, cocksucker.”

The Hun's only reply is a raising of his eyebrow. Man, that boy has nerves.
What has happened to the haggard student ducking in sports, trying to make
himself invisible when it came to choosing teams?

“This way,” he says after clearing his throat again. He unlocks the door and
they march down dark corridors smelling of sharp wood preservers, passing
cheap veneered wall coverings into a courtyard.

There it is. End of the journey. End of everything. The wooden wall, colored
in the dark brown color that blood leaves when it dries.

“Attila, you son of a bitch. You can't do this!” Tiberius finds his voice again.
“She's your sister. She's your fucking sister. What are you doing to your sister?”

But both of them, Attila and Ánná, don't pay attention to him. No, they just
look at each other. And now... they're hugging each other? What the actual fuck?
Tiberius can't hear any words they're whispering, but it seems to tender, so
intimate. Attila presses his sister tightly to his broad chest. He kisses her cheek,
puts adoring kisses on her hair, he closes his eyes and his grip around her body
looks as he never wants to let her go. His hands look so big on her delicate back,
his face changes to a pale gray color, like a ghost, his tear bags are lilac as if he
hasn't slept for ages.

And then Tiberius can see it: Attila fumbles in his coat. He takes out a gun
with a silencer attached to it. He holds it to Ánná's head. And he still kisses her
gently. He leans into her, hugging her ever so tightly. Nobody understands what
he's whispering into her ear.

But she smiles. And she looks like an angel ready to fly.

The gun clicks.

She looks so peaceful as her eyes become dead and her body implodes in on
itself.

The blink of an eye, a second like the other, a night like everyone else. It's
not poetic, not life-changing, it seems like business as usual. She looks like she's
sleeping, is she even dead? There's no certainty or is Tiberius' mind sheltering
him from the cruel truth? He expected to scream at Attila, to cry out Ánná's
name, to fall to the ground howling like a wolf, but everything he can think of is
how annoying it feels when a melody is stuck in his head.

“And reach for the soldier on the far-away border along with greetings from
Katyusha.”

And he's standing there, ex-Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu, in his pajamas,

watching his one true love being shot, mouth wide open like a dumb idiot,
unable to say a single word.

It takes a few seconds until he realizes that Attila directly addresses him. His
words reach Tiberius' mind in a far-away country, as Katyusha's letters reach her
lover in his foreign land. “She suffered from an inoperable brain tumor. The
doctors only gave her a few weeks.” A pause. Tiberius chews on these words. He
traces the pattern of the cobblestones. Sweat pours down his forehead, although
he trembles from the cold.

“She wanted to die before the pain got too bad. I think that's why she began
to engage into treacherous activities.” He's speaking now to his adjutant. “She
deserved the death sentence nevertheless. And now we all can be content.” He
salutes. “Lead Mr. Nicolescu into his cell. I'll take care of him first thing after I
finish my current mission.”
 Chapter 3
◆◆◆

White Winter

11th December, Timișoara

The next time Attila interrogates Tiberius, his friend's green eyes bleach out,
the will to live is leaving them and he can't bear to look at this misery. No, he
can't do this, he can't fulfill that order Mareșal Nicolescu gave him. He calls in
sick, it feels like severe pneumonia hit him and he stays home, staring at the
ceiling, smoking, flashbacks shooting through his mind like bullets. If he
discloses the scheming of Junior Nicolescu, he'll be pardoned by the Mareșal and
be given a greater chance at immunity for his own sins against the Communist
Party. And if Nicolescu finally turns his back on him and reveals the sinful life
of Novák Attila, then he will be crushed by the Securitate, beaten, tossed around
and spit out to the Carpathian Gulag, left to die.

Strangely, he wants neither him nor Tiberius to be the winner of this game.
He doesn't want another showdown between friends. He wants to meet with
Tiberius on neutral ground, drinking a beer or two, chatting about the good old
times at school.

Two days after he didn't show up at work, his doorbell rings and as he
schleps to his apartment door, his heart beats in his chest. He knows exactly what
this is. He knows exactly what to do. He was forged and polished in this system,
and he refined their mechanisms.

He doesn't even have to act sick as he opens the door. As he'd caught a
glimpse in the mirror earlier, he surely looks devastated.
 “Good morning, comrade Novák. The Party is pure and everlasting,” his
secretary salutes, dressed in full uniform, all her badges are pinned on her chest,
all her shrill make up aching in his eyes. This is not a visit for a sick colleague,
this is a political affaire.

“We swear, sweet Leader Ceaușescu, that we will honor and fulfill your
commandment. Salvare! Salvare! Salvare!” he coughs.

“Oh my, oh my, dear Novák, that doesn't sound all that good, does it?”

“It is actually getting better, thanks.”

“That is lovely to hear. The office will be glad for your recovery. We miss
you.”

“Aw, so sweet to say.”

Her blood-red lips twist into a false smile and she hands him a bouquet of
flowers. White roses, not red roses. Is that significant? Is he paranoid? White.
White revolution. “May I give you this as a little courtesy from your co-
workers?”

“Thank you.”

She salutes a second time. “Get well soon, Novák. We hope you to return
next week.”

With sagging and heavy shoulders, he closes the door. He notices a little card
in the flowers. “The red drops of blood, printed in freshly fallen pure-white
snow. Oh how far the powerful have fallen,” is written on it, an old Hungarian
poem. And now he's sure: this is a warning. One incautious step, one little
departure from the right course, and his life is done. He has to kill Nicolescu off,
or he'll be swallowed by the red.

So he obeys and on Monday, the eleventh of December, he shows up again

at his office. He tries to draw confidence from his beloved routine. Gloves on his
hand, the heavy wool mantle that makes him look bigger than he really is,
draped on his shoulders. Putting on the vinyl record in room A/47, thumb and
index finger almost crushing the needle as he drags it on the rilles, as if he
pushes a dog's nose into his own piss to educate him being house trained.

But he cannot concentrate on the music which is the backbeat of his art of
interrogation.

Nicolescu... whistles to Ravel's famous tune.

And as Attila sits down in front of his bound subject, his eyelid quivers.

“Hey, hey, there. Haven't seen you in a while, Novák. Still no snow in sight,
eh? Ah, the world's so gray. But wouldn't it be magical if everything turned
white, huh?” And he has the nerve to wink at him.

“Speaking of white...”

“Ah, yeah, white,” Nicolescu interrupts him, “You wanted to ask me

something... something... let me think, let me think... Was it about a white– rose,
or a– white winter?” Tiberius shrugs and Attila has to press his hands together to
keep him from screaming out loud. “Do you have German connections to
Berlin?” he asks, voice low, teeth clenched.

“East or West Germany?” Tiberius grins and Attila rolls his eyes as a
response. “Oh, but it doesn't matter now, does it? Have you heard the breaking
news? You can now buy bananas in East Berlin, too. Imagine that. Bananas
everywhere. Soon, we'll be flooded with bananas. What a new world order, isn't
it? Don't you find it...”

“Have you ever read 'White Winter'?”

“By whom? Gorbachev?”

With a deep sigh, Attila closes his eyes. As the LP is playing, the oboe takes
over the melody from the clarinet. This is usually the time when his subjects
lower their voice, when their confidence leaves them, when he's sure he has hit a
breaking point. It's the cue to sink his teeth into his prey. But not with Nicolescu.

“I heard he's working on his second novel which is called 'Green Banana...'”

“A copy of the book 'White Winter' was found in your possessions. How do
you explain that?”

“I like a good read. You're not the only bookworm here.”

“It is known as a secret shibboleth for revolutionary members and

sympathizers of the Glasnost and Perestroika movement, of which our Leader
does not approve.”

“Strangely so. Aren't we commies all one big happy family? Why get so
pissy towards our big brother? I don't understand that. Whoops. Now I've said
something.”

The strings set up the great finale of the Bolero. This is the time to stand up,
to bend over his victim, to scream into his face, to smash him to pieces,
choreographed exactly with the moment of the last seconds of the music piece,
when the percussion finishes the coda off in a big loud bang.

But Attila remains seated. This is too easy, it's a trap. He knows what
Tiberius is up to, he knows what information he possesses. What he doesn't
know is how to get out of this alive. Only Tiberius knows where to find Attila's
very own copy of the white-covered book, with the note “I love you, Attiko. See
you in Paris. Forever yours, Károly Viktor” in it. All those years he didn't dare
burning it, to get rid of it. Nicolescu works slow, much slower than he does, but
he's precise. Attila bets all his money: the Mareșal has given his son the order to
be so easily captured by Novák. Like in high school, the Nicolescu heir is
assigned as a spy, he's on a secret mission to hunt down the Hun. Tiberius only
plays the victim and has to trick Attila into thinking he has the upper hand, until
he says one wrong word. So much he figured out.

“It's always such an entertaining get-together here. How time flies when
you're having a good time discussing novels with your pal, isn't it? By the way,
the music's over.”

A break. Attila needs a break. This is not an easy mission, not a walk in the
park. After the “incidents” with the Ukraine and the homosexual disease, this
task is much more difficult to fulfill.

Destroying comrade Nicolescu.

Saving his own life.

 Or vice versa.

12th December, Timișoara

Attila could not hire paperhangers. They would ask too many questions.
Why did he want them to put wallpaper on only one side of the bedroom? Why
did he take off the old tapestry in the first place when it still seemed fairly intact?

But being on his own, he now has to be extra-careful, matching the edge of
the new paper stripe exactly to the one already on the wall. An uneven part of
the wall with rummy pasted wallpaper would be more suspicious than gossiping
craftsmen. So he works slow, two hours before sunrise, before he has to go to
work, shutters closed, eager to not make any sound. He smokes heavily to
counter-attack the smell of the plaster and by daybreak, the three new patches
are perfectly trimmed, and the hole in the drywall installation into where he hid
his copy of “White Winter” isn't to be seen anymore. Nobody would ever think
that there's a forbidden book, the secret badge of the revolutionists, in the
wooden skeleton of the apartment.

Once he owned a little orange wine box which contained old photographs
from the late seventies of him and Károly. Secret pictures they took in a phone
booth, Attila in too large sweaters and Károly in his dapper suits. How he
cherished those pictures. After Károly died, he looked at them longingly night
after night, headphones on, crying himself to sleep. But as he entered the
Department, he got rid of them, cut them and flushed the torn pics down the
toilet.

Thinking now of all the dangerous documents and photos he kept in his
home for so long, he feels a lump in his throat. He's surrounded by books,
folders and cartons containing people's faith and death sentences and– God! For
the first time since he began climbing the greasy pole, he feels so lonely, so
deprived of people. His parents and siblings fear him and act like he's a bomb
ready to explode. His lover from teenage days is dead, his lover from adult days
died by his own hands. His best friend turned his back on him. His colleagues
are fearful communists minding their own business. He has no one to call, no
one to talk to, no one to be human with. He only has work in his life, he's a
machine, no, not even that, a gear in the whole machinery.

When he started his career as a secret police agent, he promised Tiberius to

undermine the Securitate, promised himself to take revenge for Károly's death.
But one day at a time, the job ate him up. That horrible everyday life of files,
papers, stamps; signatures meaning life or death, punishment or release, Gulag
or promotion, torture or a handshake. But what has his life become now? What's
left besides his hateful job? What's left of his family? There had been times
when he used to regularly call Ánná and really chat with her. Sometimes he'd
stop by her apartment for a coffee and just be the little brother who rolls his eyes
at his big sister's rambling. Gábriel and István fled the country before he could
denounce them. And the Novák household at Mihai's Village is empty, Mami
and Tati living the life of two elders without kids, with no one to visit them,
whereas in fact, they had four children with promising lives and careers.

“Was Ánná really that sick or did you lie to me?”

It's the first time in interrogation room A/47 that the record player stays
mute. Attila is tired, he didn't sleep at all last night. Every half hour, he got out of
bed, checked the wallpaper. Did it come off at the newly glued margins? Did it
smell in his bedroom? What if now, just now, they would knock on his door?

“Yes, she was,” Attila whispers. And they both look at the floor, two old
men drinking Raki, lamenting about rusty bones and good ol' times, mourning
the family members who died decades ago.

“Brain cancer?”

Attila sighs, his lips tremble. “Yes. Cancer. Runs in the family.”

“Shit.”

“Hm.”

No more word is said on this day. Both men remain silent. When it's time for
lunch, Attila stands up and heads for the door. But before he leaves, he searches
Tiberius' eyes, nods to him as though to make sure they see each other again
tomorrow.
 13th December, Timișoara

A few weeks ago, he first noticed them. Little light-red spots on his chest he
thought were allergic reactions to something he ate and grown sensitive to. As
they didn't itch, he dismissed it and concentrated on his job. But the spots grew
bigger and more prominent, and it bugged him. He hated these symptoms of
stress. He thought he could be professional, calm and objective with his newest
case, but planning to arrest his best friend for secret conspiracies proved to be
much more emotional than he dared admit to himself.

It was when he noticed a bulge in his mouth and examined these spots on his
palate and his neck, that he went to the doctor and took some blood tests.

On this day in December, as he waits in the consulting room, he barely

searches the pile of magazines for something to read, when he hears the door
opening. One never keeps a Securitate man waiting for too long.

“Mr. Novák, General-Major,” the doctor's voice is grave and trembling. He

sits down in front of Attila and keeps his eyes to the ground. He can't look at the
famous agent directly. “You know it, don't you?”

Yes, he knows. He always knew it. He never wanted to admit it, but he
knows the symptoms by heart. He witnessed them so many times, read about
them nearly as often as medicine specialists. He knew right away from the sound
of the doctor's hesitant, frightened steps.

The spots are a backfire, to remind him who he really is, to show him his
place in life, a quasi-religious message that he should stay humble and not fly
too high. Deep in his heart, he's not Attila The Hun, not Mr. Securitate. Deep in
his heart, he's a gay man, no, a faggot. An enemy of the state in disguise. A man
who's now terminally ill with the homosexual cancer.

He swallows hard as he asks the question and the first thing that comes to his
mind is his mother. Poor little Mami. “How long?”

“Well. One can never tell.” The doctor puts his glasses on. He doesn't have
to read something, but the gesture seems to give him confidence. His hands are
shaking whereas Attila's are calm in his lap. “We're still researching it. A few
weeks? A year? I think...” A long pause. Then: “I think not more than a year. But
it's only a prognosis.”

“A year.” Oh, poor Mami. Let it be a whole year, let her give time to proceed
Ánná's death first, until her youngest son reaches the last stage.

“I must report you to the Sec. But to whom? The one who deals with this is
some General Novák.”

“Yes.” Attila puts his folded hands on the doctor's desk, invading his space.
“See. You don't really have to report this or send my files in. I can do this
myself. I know this Novák a great deal and will forward him these papers.
But...” And there he pauses, watches the fear in the doctor's eyes grow, “If it
comes to my attention, that any information on General Novák's medical record
leaves this office, then remember: you have a little daughter. Such a beautiful
little daughter. And I know where she attends school.”

“I never had a patient with the name Novák Attila.”

“Good.” He stands up, takes the files, and leaves.

Outside the building, on the streets of Timișoara City, a hard winter wind
blows him in the face. Suddenly, the world changes; the light of the pale sun, the
smell in the air, the colors, the odors, the sounds. Everything is coated with the
certainty that it's terminal. Everything is enriching, brighter, lovelier, as if nature
knows he doesn't have much time left, and it spills out all the senses of a lifetime
into one little moment.

One year, he ponders in his head, one year, Mami.

14th December, Timișoara

“What's that thing on your neck? A hickey?” One of those horrible dirty
grins Attila always hated on Tiberius. Trying to not immediately hush his hand
to the collar to cover the spot up, he gulps. “Kind of.”
 “Who's the lucky... person?”

“Maybe...” Attila clears his throat. “Maybe it's your mother.”

“Băgami-aş pula in față ta.”

“Szopjál lovat.”

And then they both have to gather all their strength to not burst out laughing.
There's nothing better than the good old teasing and cursing in both their
languages. In their imagination, they leave the dark, windowless interrogation
room. They leave time and space and travel back to the late seventies, to the
little teenager room in the Novák farmhouse where Tiberius hides from his strict
parents, where Mrs. Novák provides them with lemonade and sweet cookies, and
where they watch and laugh at programs they can catch with their bent illegal
antenna. They were — and they still are — nothing more than young men trying
to have their fun in a system that doesn't allow it.

But they both have orders to fulfill. They both have to bend their identities to
survive.

“When did your engagement with the 'White Winter' group start?” Attila
continues his mission. That little smirk his lips were forming is gone, the little
dimple in his cheek too. He clenches, no, he presses his teeth so hard his head
aches. No weakness allowed. No emotion, no friendship. Just the animal instinct
to save one's own life.

“I don't know.” Tiberius leans forward. “You tell me.”

And so they're in the trenches again, in the war field, room A/47,
soundproof, the only connection to the outside world is a direct microphone
transmission to Mareșal Ion Nicolescu's office, where he listens to what clever
twists his son comes up with to corner General Novák. Where he grows
impatient that after more than a month Novák can't present usable results for the
treason of his son. Where he waits for one or both to make a mistake, where he
waits for one of the two men to be revealed as a traitor, no matter what, so he can
show comrade Ceaușescu what a good agent he is, that he's not afraid to even
arrest his own kin. He hasn't produced anything honorable in the last year. All
the awards go to that fucking Hungarian Mongol and the Great Leader gets
impatient with Securitate agent Nicolescu.
 His son Tiberius and that Novák boy; they're both ants, cattle to butcher
when the winter will be hard and the government isn't able to provide shelter
from the hunger.

No family exists in the merciless battle for survival when the winter comes.
The winter pig has to be slaughtered to endure the barren fields of frozen earth.

15th December, Timișoara

As soon as Attila is home, he tosses his boots into a corner, he loosens his
tie, lets his uniform jacket and trench coat fall to the ground without putting it on
the hanger. Then he slumps on his bed, takes out his wallet and the picture of
Sergiu, holds it in his hands for what seems to be hours. With his finger, he's
tracing his ex-lover's features on the black-and-white picture.

You loved me and I loved you, but there's nothing for us here. And now we're
both dead men.

After he discovered the dark-red clots on his skin that indicate his illness, he
examines them closely in the evening. He added this to his bedtime routine.
Attila doesn't know what's the point of getting naked before the closet mirror and
looking at every one of those skin tumors. He doesn't take his thousands of pills
which his doctor prescribed. The stack of medicine still collects dust on the
kitchen windowsill.

With Sergiu's photograph in his hands and the sight of his sick body, he asks
himself, night after night, who infected him. Was it actually Sergiu? Did he
suffer from that homosexual cancer and it hadn't broken out yet when he met
him? Or was it a random one night stand, a random sex adventure that cast the
death sentence upon Attila the Hun?

Or... oh no! A planned attack, a sick man to infect him? A plan from his
boss, from Mareșal Nicolescu?

And who cares anyway?

 He falls asleep as Radio Free Europe plays an American ballad of the
Seventies.

One year or one month or one day.

He stopped caring.

16th December, Timișoara

“So who's that Sergui... pardon me... Szergej anyway? Is he... how do you
call it– your playboy, lover, partner? Help an uneducated man out.”

The record player is silent. Nicolescu and Novák sit opposite each other.
Today, it's no longer an interrogation, but a meeting between two friends, united
against a cruel father who can storm in any minute and slap them for
misbehaving.

“Why were you so stupid to keep his picture in your wallet?” Tiberius' voice
is soft and low. A lifetime of a tender friendship echoes in it. “Attila?”

A long sob is the answer. Tiberius hasn't heard Attila cry, ever. In their
childhood, in kindergarten, he was always the one whose tears sprinkled out by
the littlest wound. Tiberius stumbled and fell? Of course, he cried. He forgot his
homework? Endless ten minutes of crying. At the kindergarten lunch he didn't
get the green plastic glass but the blue one? Yes, a crying tantrum followed and
Attila watched in annoyance next to him. Tiberius wondered how Attila
managed to be so composed, so calm. He'd given everything to be like him and
not being beaten by his father for his sensibilities.

And now he can see tears running down Attila's cheeks, his lips tremble, his
hands shake and the sobs cut through the silence and cause goosebumps on
Tiberius' skin. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. Today, he isn't tied to
the chair, nonetheless he can't simply put his hand on Attila's to comfort him.
And how do you do this; comforting someone whose life's falling apart?

“I loved him,” Attila whispers. “I loved that man, can you believe that,
Tibi?”

There; Attila looks him straight into the eyes, those striking blue eyes pierce
right through him.

“I loved him, Tibi. And he... he betrayed me. He had to die... He deserved to
die. So I killed him.”

God, how much despair, how much sadness, anger and loneliness lies in
these words. Tiberius can see a crying Securitate man, in full uniform, Attila the
Hun. But he can also see a small child in hand-me-down clothes from his elder
brothers: “Hey, my name is Atti. Wanna be friends?”

“And now?” Tiberius raises his eyebrow. “My father is on a hunt for you. He
always hated you. Arresting me, sacrificing Ánná can't impress him. You can't
prove yourself trustworthy in his eyes, no matter what you do, no matter how
many more people you'll kill, even if you murder your parents for him. Sooner or
later, he'll get you.”

“I know,” Attila sighs with the breath of a dying man. “I know it's over.
Nobody can save me now. I'll just wait for the bullet in my head, that is all. I
wanna die standing upright...”

“Don't talk shit, man. You don't have to die.”

Attila tilts his head as if Tiberius was a stupid kid who doesn't understand
the world of adults.

“No, you know, in your heart you're one of us. You belong with the
revolutionists. Why did you turn your back on us in the first place, huh? No
matter, what you did, you still belong with us. You'll always have a place in the
revolution.”

“I don't know if they'd still accept me. I murdered their... your people.”

“Everyone of us does what it takes to survive in this shit country. Attila.

Come to your senses. You're a dedicated member of the 'White Winter' group.
You're...”

Attila ruffles through his hair. “I... I don't know.”

 “You're a 'White Winter' activist. No more Mr. Securitate bullshit. No more
Faggot Hangman crap. You're a rebel. You're a homosexual.”

“I... I am... I...” His breath is ragged, his eyes stare to the wood pattern of the
table. “Yes. Yes, I am. Yes, I am a homosexual.”

The door opens. Attila can hear heavy boots. And there he enters. The voice
of Mareșal Ion Nicolescu resounds from the dark walls: “General Novák Attila,”
his deep voice recites as Attila can feel handcuffs clicking around his wrists,
“You're accused of treacherous behavior against the Republic and the people of
Romania by associating yourself with a revolutionist group called 'White
Winter.' You are charged with plotting the death of our beloved and almighty
Leader, Nicolae Ceaușescu, and for wanting to overthrow the one true and purest
Communist Party. You're sentenced to death by shooting and are deprived of all
your ranks and titles. The order will be fulfilled immediately.” Nicolescu's
soldiers drag him up from the chair, away from Tiberius, his best friend, his
enemy. Another dear one who betrayed him?

“Good job, son,” he can hear his boss laugh, “How clever to play the double
agent. I almost wanted to put a bullet through your head. Almost believed you
were one of the revolutionists. And now, ladies,” he points at his adjutants, “Kill
the Hun while I'll get in my car and drive to Bucharest. Ceaușescu will be so
happy to hear the breaking news. Ah, I will finally be able to sleep peacefully
again.”

What are you doing? Attila's eyes ask his friend as he's being hauled away.
The dimples around Tiberius' mouth, the tired but hopeful expression, the almost
nonexistent smile only he can realize, says it all: Saving your life, brother. You'll
see. Don't worry.

The execution courtyard is a messy place full of overloaded trash cans and
garbage floating in the air. The gray sky finds its counterpart in the desolate and
cracked concrete walls. Cigarettes crowd the spot like white little cockroaches.
The last cigarettes of dead men walking, their last meal on this earth. But this
gratitude isn't given for High Inquisitor Novák Attila, neither is the mercy of
being blindfolded.

As if they're actors in a theater play, executioners, the judge and the convict
know exactly where to stand, what to do. They had rehearsed it so many times
before; Attila, until now, always in the role of adjudicator though. The two
soldiers pole themselves in front of him, their almost toothless mouths clenched
in a satisfied grin, the red star flaunting on their chapkas, standing like church
pillars in their threadbare Army trench coats.

“General Novák Attila. You were sentenced to death for high treason and
being a member of the revolutionist group 'White Winter.' Plotting against our
beloved Leader Ceaușescu. Undermining the Securitate with your undercover
agent presence,” Tiberius announces. His tight grip holds Attila's hands close
together. The two soldiers prepare their weapons, caress them with their dark
stained fingers. They spit in his direction. Their foul, stinking mouths vomit the
most terrific insults to Attila as if it were small talk: “Băga-mi-aș pula'n măta-ta,
Hunyadi.” — “Fuck you, magyar whore.”

Attila is actually afraid their Kalashnikovs would go off and shoot in a

random direction, with their drunken silly fooling around.

“Any last words?” Tiberius asks in a calm, deep voice.

What you say about dying, it's all false. No flashback of your life is played
before your eyes, you are not a viewer of your own life as a movie. However,
when you are standing in front of a shooting commando, a strange thrill and
arousal floods through your body. You see the weapons, cold metal, which will
end your life in the blink of an eye. Your eyes observe them so cautiously,
curiously, so fascinated. One pull of the trigger, one unspectacular thud, and a
simple mechanism ends hyper-complex biological structure, erupts in your veins,
your heart, your brain, your soul. Attila is familiar with the noise of the weapons,
it isn't that much distinguishable from fireworks. But he says nothing, remains
silent, pouts.

And then, suddenly, Tiberius recites the poem, the secret password. “On
Christmas Eve, there will be snow in Paris.”

“Never!” rasps Attila.

“One,” the older soldier counts and they both raise their rifles.

“And you, my darling, will wait for me under the Arch of Triumph.”
 “Two!”

“We swear, comrade Ceaușescu, that we will honor and fulfill your
commandment,” Attila snarls with a rough and dry voice. A long tired sigh
escapes his throat as he closes his eyes. Finished, he feels like at the end of a
work day, at the end of reading a book, ready to go to bed. Ready to die. What
will it be like? How will it feel? Will he notice the first shot that will go through
his body? The soldiers don't look like precise shooters, more like butchers, but
they'd perforate him with their eagerness. Where will it hit him? Right in the
head? Into his heart? What part of him will die first? What will remain?

What will happen?

What... happens?

Why does nothing happen?

Only now does he realize Tiberius's tight grip is loosened. Of course, he

must have stepped aside to not get in the way. But why don't they shoot? Why
don't they...?

“Ah, come on, Nicolescu. Always in for a little drama.”

Attila hears a rough laugh. Soon. Now. It will happen now. Don't dare to
open the eyes. Now is the moment of death. Keep your eyes closed.

“And snowflakes will whitewash the blood of the overrun dove.”

“Fuck, Nicolescu! Step aside. What the hell?”

No. He does it. He does open his eyes. It's an act of instinct, a childish reflex
of curiosity which the years of training and enforced conformity could not
suppress.

Like a shield, Tiberius is standing in front of him, arms spread wide,

protecting his body against the execution commando.

“You fucker, what's wrong? Let's shoot the Hun, will ya?”

“Tiberius,”Attila breathes heavily.

 “I won't let this happen, Atti. I told you.”

“You're crazy. My life's done.”

“You're my best friend and I won't let this happen.”

“So this is your plan? They'll shoot us both.”

Now the soldiers laugh convulsively, their foul mouths wide open, their
bodies shaking, the weapons swinging on their shoulders like toys. “Ey,
Nicolescu, you're one of those, too? Has he fucked you into treachery?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the other soldier lights a cigarette, “Was it good? Did you
come?”

Tiberius winks at them. “No need to worry. I'm not a faggot. I'm only loyal
to myself. I just wanna see Ceaușescu's head chopped off.”

“Okay, okay, what a feast,” the soldier says, “Now we have two pigs to
slaughter.” He glances at his colleague and high-fives him. “You take the
Mongol. I'll get Nicoles...”

A loud howl interrupts him. It splatters through the ears, mushes the brain.
Sounds become color, the siren becomes a deep red. Ears cease to hear and begin
to see the red alarm, the body stops feeling and becomes a big eye, red color
splashed in front of it. The cacophonous sound spills the existence of the earth
until nothing more remains than the message it carries: “Call to arms! War is
proclaimed!”

Viorica's traditional gypsy dance course ends exactly eleven a.m. on

Saturdays. She always enjoys lecturing her young students, little girls and
teenagers alike, she loves to demonstrate the pirouettes and complicated fast-
paced steps. But far into pregnancy, moving is a nightmare. For starters,
wobbling her six-month-pregnant body out of bed is a long, exhausting task. She
doesn't know how much longer she can walk through the city to the building in
which her dance school is located.

It was a shock when she realized what the movements inside her stomach
meant. Not one child, but two babies. Of course, she cannot be a hundred percent
sure and everybody tells her that the baby is just a large, overactive boy, like his
father, but Viorica bets her life on it: she's pregnant with twins.

After the dance class, she follows her Saturday routine: waiting in the line in
front of the bakery for four long hours to get bread for the weekend, perhaps
some meat from the butcher if the economy is merciful that day. And then,
before she would head back home to her two kids and their grandmother — her
husband's mother who lives with them — she pays the Hungarian church a visit,
lights a candle for Novák Attila, or, as he's known, Attila the Hun, Mr.
Securitate. She still feels a warm nostalgic feeling when she thinks about him.
They were close friends once, in the last year of school. Although the Novák
family considered themselves a noble Hungarian intelligent household, he had
befriended her as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Together with
Tiberius Nicolescu, everybody's darling and offspring of a highly decorated
Communist family, they had formed the strangest three-member friendship there
was in their village. Of course, Tiberius has been the perfect boy to admire,
adore and idolize, but Attila– Attila was a guardian, a protector, thoughtful,
skilled, diligent.

Viorica can't recall when the change happened. But at the last year of school,
Attila estranged from them. He shut himself in at home, didn't want to answer
their calls, ignored her and Tiberius while walking self-absorbed through the
streets, heading straight home after he descended the train from boarding school.
And then, after her little involvement as a cleaning woman on Bulevardul
Corsarii, the three of them finally lost sight. But Viorica still snatches every little
note in the papers about Attila's and Tiberius's careers. She has a little school
book into which she affixes the articles.

After she heard the news that Bogdan died of liver cirrhosis, she met her
second husband, anthropology teacher Daniel Nicolescu — the same name, but
not related to him — a nice guy, slightly socially insecure in the academic way,
with a drive for gypsy culture and a big heart for dark women with black hair
and a hypnotizing way to dance. Being married to this kind man, she can't let go
of the journal nevertheless, although Daniel finds it strange and irritating that she
looks at the photos of Attila and Tiberius as if longing for a long lost love.

These strange thoughts cross her mind on this particular Saturday as she
arrives at the end of the bread waiting line; an extensive line passing the gas
station where people fill the little amount of liters they got from December
rations; bread in left hand, petrol in the other, and the bread would always taste a
little bit like the benzine.

As her child — one of her children — kicks her, she notices her best friend
Oara approaching. They greet each other loudly and enthusiastically and Oara
cannot help but caresses and pats Viorica's belly. “Oh, how big you are. What is
it? It's a boy, ej? Finally a boy, Viorica. Daniel will be proud. A big boy for his
big father.”

Viorica clears her throat. She hates the custom to overstep the other's
boundaries; why does everybody think pregnant women want to be touched at
their belly?

“I don't know if it's a boy.”

“So another girl, Viorica?” Oara sighs.

“Actually, I think it's two...”

“Two babies. Oh my!”

So they talk about baby clothes and which milk formulas from Russia are the
best and the two hours of waiting go by in a flash. But with only ten people in
front of them, the baker announces that there isn't any bread left in this bakery, in
this city, in this county, until Monday.

Viorica puffs out her breath in annoyance. She feels an anger rise in her, the
anger a toddler feels when sweets are denounced. It arises deep in her, in her
heart, no, deeper like that. From the innermost of her heartbeat, she feels the loss
of a heaven-sent thing. But she doesn't say anything. She doesn't moan, doesn't
sigh, she doesn't complain. She simply obeys and immediately her housewife-
mind races and thinks about alternatives for the next few meals.

But then something strange happens. It's difficult to realize it at first. The
sound so unfamiliar, the noise so unknown. It starts as a silent whispered
melody, but soon becomes louder and louder. At the start, it's just a growl from a
closed mouth, a non-consensual tone of tiredness and disappointment. But like a
wave that hits you full frontal while you still think it's some meters away, it
sweeps over the people. The tuneless music takes a form, you understand words,
and the words are: “Fuck Ceaușescu.”

Two simple words, arisen from the innermost center of a nation, a wrath felt
since childhood, a will to break free.

“Oh, my. We should leave,” Oara says, glancing at the soldiers who wait
next to the gas station.

Pressing her hands against her heavy swollen stomach, Viorica sneaks away
with Oara, heads ducked. Don't act suspiciously. Don't stand out from the
conformity masses. Don't yell these two words which could get you to prison, to
exile, to death.

“But you can't go to the Hungarian church now,” Oara says. Her eyes wide-
spread, she shakes Viorica's shoulders, “Think about it. Think about your kids.
Think about Daniel. I sense something's foul in the air today. You heard and saw
the people at the bakery. And you saw the soldiers. You better stay home today.”

“But I...,” Viorica defiantly mumbles, “I have to pray for a special person.
I'm praying every Saturday for him. I can't miss this.”

“And you can't do that at home? I mean, praying? What the hell are you
doing? You should write to our beloved Leader and let him bestow his mercy on
that person. No praying! Religion is a devilish doing of the Catholics, Viorica.”

“But he has already the mercy of Ceaușescu. That's why I have to pray for
him.”

“What the hell, Viorica?” Oara raises her hands, swirls around like some
devil possesses her, “What are you saying? What are you doing? Oh, Viorica. If
anybody should hear us. We'll both be dead. And you, in your circumstances.
Think about it. Think about what you're doing to your family.”

“You're not my mother, Oara,” Viorica makes the effort to turn away from
her friend.

Oara shakes her head as though speaking to a stubborn toddler. “Well then.
But promise me, you won't head for the Hungarian church. Promise me, Viorica,
you won't do any stupid things.”

“Yes, okay, okay. I'll go straight home.”

“I probably should call Daniel and tell him...”

“No. Come on. Okay, I'll go home without stopping by at the church.”

“See?” Oara smiles, self-contently. “That easy.”

They wish each other a good weekend and part.

But of course, Viorica does go to the Hungarian church.

And it's the biggest mistake she ever made.

Confusion is widespread as quickly as the alarm deafens the execution order.

With no commander to tell them what to do in this state of war, the soldiers
waddle in circles, stare in fright at each other and flee into the Securitate
Department building.

Tiberius grabs Attila's elbow and wants to pull him away from the courtyard
with the stains of dried blood, engraved there for ages. But Attila seems
paralyzed, his blue eyes flash at him in shock.

“Is this it? The revolution?”

“Quickly. No time for questions. We have to get into the building, we...”

“But I thought...”

“Atti!” Tiberius yells at him, “Come on. We have to get weapons. Move!
Now!”

As if emerging from a coma, Attila stumbles back into reality. Tiberius

almost tears his arm out of his shoulder joint, opens the rusty door and pushes
him into the Securitate building. Surprisingly, they manage to avoid people as
they run to the corridor to Attila's office.
 “We need to get your Tokagypt. D'ya have any more weapons for me here?
Kalashnikovs?”

“What do you... What do you mean?”

“Open the fucking door!”

“Is this your plotting? Who has set the alarm?”

“Oh, you stupid fucker,” Tiberius almost rips Attila's coat as he searches for
the office keys. Finally, he finds them and manages to keep his hands steady as
he opens the door. From outside, shots are heard. In the inside, it's unbelievably
calm. But the silence carries with it a long howl, inaudible for the ear but rushing
through muscle and bone, like poison that's injected in your bloodstream.

Tiberius doesn't lose any time and hurries straight to Attila's desk, opens the
drawers in a haste, not minding papers flying out, leaving a mess behind.
“Where's your fucking gun?”

“Is this the army's doing? Here? In Timișoara?”

“We need to get your fucking gun, Atti!”

“Huh.” Bent like an old man, he takes the keys out of Tiberius' hands and
opens the very last drawer. The one where he keeps his most precious things: a
love letter by Sergiu, a picture of Ánná and him, and his Tokagypt-58.

“The plan is to launch the revolution in Timișoara...?”

“No, fucking no. Everything is planned for Bucharest. I don't know about
any plots involving this fucking city,” Tiberius snarls. “This isn't the doing of the
revolutionists. All of them are positioned in Bucharest now.”

“In Bucharest? Now?” Attila's hisses in a high-pitched voice.

“In Bucharest. Now. We have to get there. Asap!”

The alarm sounds on and off irregularly. One moment it's just a shriek for
some seconds, then a long pause, only to be interrupted by a ten minute howl.
Uncertainty everywhere. Is it the revolution? Is it the counter-revolution? Is it
war? Is it a false alarm?

“What shall we do?” Attila asks sitting down, back pressed against his office
chair, arms put protectively around his knees.

“We get ourselves a lot of weapons and ammunition and a fucking car and
then we head to the capital.”

“The capital...” Attila repeats whispering, eyes drooping as if he's drifting

off to sleep.

“And we must find you an Army coat. I don't think it's a wise idea to still
being recognized as a Securitate...”

“Who's in there?”

The voice cuts through the room like a knife. “Novák? Traitor! Hey,
Georghe, the motherfucker's in there.” The harsh grunt is accompanied by the
shaking of the door knob. Tiberius seems shocked, though only for a moment.
But his training as a soldier undertakes his fear and as the door vibrates by
kicking boots, he's already thinking about how to get out of this situation alive.
Crawling like a spider, he heads to the window, waving for a paralyzed Attila to
join him. His mouth forms a clenched “Come on!” as his fingers expertly open
the window in a split second without making any sound.

“Novák. I know you're in here. Come out or I'll shoot the door to pieces.”

Slowly like syrup, Attila's muscles spur into action. Like a toddler, he
scuttles on all fours to Tiberius, nearly slips and drops on his belly.

“Lose your fucking Sec coat,” Tiberius whispers.

“Novák! I'll shoot in three. One...”

Attila tosses his coat into a corner of the room. As Tiberius finally opens the
window, a cold blow flies through the air, whooshing like a ghost.

“Two.”

And then the bullets rip the wooden door to shreds. This is the symphony to
which degraded High Inquisitor Novák Attila's office is riddled with bullets.

On her way to the Hungarian church, Viorica is surprised to find the outside
of the priest house over-crowded, full of people holding candles in their hands,
heads down to the street as if in silent contemplation. Has the priest died? She's
wondering. But on second glance, they don't seem like a congregation of
mourners, but more like an army, a private mass of bodyguards, human shields
for the entrance of the building.

“What's going on here?” she asks a middle-aged man in a disheveled leather

jacket, the winter chapka on his head.

“It's priest Tőkés. He refuses to leave. He disobeys Ceaușescu's orders,” he

says smiling, tears in his eyes.

“No, bullshit,” intervenes another man, “He was about to do what the fucker
told him. He's a revolutionist and they politely told him to pack this things and
leave Timișoara. But we won't let him. He has to stay. We'll fight for him. We
won't let Ceaușescu deport him.”

Viorica read it in the papers the week before: Tőkés openly preached
criticism to the regime and he was then redeployed to a small village in the
middle of nowhere.

“But all those people... Protesting? What about...” Viorica observes the
soldiers, hands tightly gripped around their Kalashnikovs. She observes a
woman who hands out orange candles out a box. And she observes the mass
growing bigger and bigger. More and more people come, without a word spoken,
in silent accomplishment, as it's the most natural thing in the world they join the
group guarding Tőkés' house.

“They will shoot you. They will shoot all of us,” she nearly cries pointing at
the service men.

“No, what the heck, why should they?” someone replies, gesturing wildly,
“We're just standing here. We ain't doing anything but standing here. They can't
do anything.”
 “I've been here since yesterday. I slept on the street last night,” says an older
woman with a flowery headscarf, “I won't leave now. They won't take our priest
away.”

Suddenly a strained shocked sigh spreads around the people. At first, Viorica
thinks a soldier is positioning his rifle on his shoulder, ready to shoot into the
crowd. Oh, this is it, she panics, so my two babies will never see the light of day.

But then she realizes that the Miliția guardsmen, along with the people, are
staring at the two windows which are slowly opening. The shadow behind the
window has some difficulties with the handle, but finally, the curtains are parted
and priest Tőkés Laszlo himself appears.

“He's here. He's here. He's come out,” men and women cry, scream, sob.

“Silence. I want to hear him. He's saying something.”

“Shut up. Tőkés will speak. He wants to speak!”

But it's difficult to remain silent. Like children who are over-excited by an
event, over-excited by their own curiosity, they babble questions, they demand
others to shut their mouths, but their own excitement cannot be silenced.

“Brothers.” The word crystallizes out of the noise. “Brothers. Comrades,”

Tőkés addresses the people, “Go. Go home. You may go to your homes. Nothing
will happen to me. I promise.”

There they are. Viorica sees the gray uniform out of the corner of her eye; a
Securitate officer, a beastly creature creeping and hiding in the gathering.

“We must really go,” she trembles, voice terrified, “This cannot end well.
We must go.” But there's no way out. By this time, she's in the middle of the
knot of people. Like atoms in a stable molecule, the men and women do not part,
do not make way for her.

“Please go home,” Tőkés begs.

But they stay.

“Long live Tőkés!” someone yells and the Securitate man aims at the
window. However, he does nothing, doesn't shoot. Yet.

“Long live Tőkés! Long live Tőkés!”

Despite all the terror and anxiety in Viorica's body, she begins to feel a
tickling thrill. A certainty that she isn't only in the middle of a small dangerous
protest, but in the middle of something huge happening, in the middle of history.
An hour ago, her only concern was what she'd prepare for Saturday's dinner and
now she listens to the music, the melody, the chant, the consistent drumming of a
song she knows will end in a life-changing tush: The revolution.

“Long live Tőkés Laszlo. Long live Tőkés Laszlos.” And then a new
instrument begins to play, a new theme, taking up from moderato assai to presto
allegro: “Long live Tőkés. Long live Tőkés. Freedom. Freedom! Freedom!
Down with communism. Down with Ceaușescu! Freedom!”

“Are you hurt? Did he get you?” Tiberius presses against the outside wall of
the building. In the very last second, he managed to pull Attila out of the
window. He was surprisingly heavy, and almost instantly the office door burst
open. Now the bullets fly around their heads like tossed fireflies.

“I... I don't think so.”

“There. Military jeep on ten. We'll head there.”

“I don't have the key to the car.”

“The key?” Tiberius scoffs as another cascade of shots is spilled into the air.
“As if I need a key to drive a car. Come on, move, you son of a bitch.”

As they crawl alongside the courtyard to the parking lot with the single jeep,
the shooting ceases. Has the soldier run out of ammunition? Or is he simply
following them? Is he standing at the window, aiming at them while they crawl
like crabs to the vehicle?

Without even thinking or preparing himself, Tiberius brakes the jeep's

window open with his elbow, his arm plugs into the vehicle's interior and opens
the door. Not caring about the shards on the seat, he jumps inside and
immediately pulls off the fuse panel covering. Frowning, in full concentration
mode, his strong fingers work delicately as he reorganizes the wires. “Fucking
get into the car, Atti,” he growls as another shot misses the hood of the jeep. He
doesn't look up to see if the soldier's already here. His only mission is to get the
machine going. The engine starts with a rusty rattling. Tiberius presses his foot
on the gas pedal as Attila pulls himself into the footwell at the very last moment.

As Tiberius pushes the car to the entrance gate of Bulveardul Corsarii, a

bullet smashes the back window open. The sprinkling of the shattered glass
sounds like a Russian winter ballet composition as the sky turns into a gray
afternoon, leading into night. They don't know if the sun will ever rise the next
day, if this is the end of the Socialist Republic and therefore, the end of the
world.

The streetlamp turns on at the very moment when the military truck parks in
front of the nineteenth century apartment building. Attila has found an army coat
similar to Tiberius' in the supply compartment in the back of the jeep. His eyes
dart to the windows of the third floor, his home. The lights are all out, curtains
drawn, everything seems empty. Too empty.

Tiberius, experienced soldier that he is, senses it too.

“Someone's inside,” he whispers and presses his gun against his cheek, the
cold metal comforting him.

Attila blinks, clenches his teeth, hulks his shoulders, prepares his muscles for
the task. They were heading to the autostrada en route to Bucharest, but
suddenly Attila expressed the unquestionable need to get his copy of the “White
Winter” book from his apartment.

“I'll be backing you up. You take the book and we'll leave. Clear?” Tiberius
asks and Attila replies with a slight raising of his eyebrow.

Only communicating through hand gestures, they leap out of the car and
Tiberius is amazed how quickly Attila manages to attach the silencer to his gun.
His thumb and his middle finger work as if he's done that daily. What has
happened to the shy boy who loved listening to classical music on headphones in
his cute little children's room, avoiding parties with his class mates?
 In the entrance hall, they crouch under the stairs and shudder by the metallic
clanks which resonate from above.

Tiberius' finger points to their boots and Attila immediately understands.

Knowing each other for ages, they harmonize smoothly as a team, as they were
in class, cheating the teacher at tests, sneaking out of boring lessons, avoiding
trouble for their pranks.

Silencing their foot fall wearing only socks, pressed to the wall, they can
now understand the rough voices of the men inside Attila's apartment.

“I'll piss on his bed. That assfucker deserves it.”

“He probably likes that. He'll jerk off on your urine thinking about your
wang.”

“Bedroom?” Tiberius' mouth forms the word silently and although they're in
danger, he doesn't waste the opportunity for a bad joke; he purses his lips and
winks at Attila.

“At the end of the corridor,” Attila completely ignores the teasing.

Tiberius holds one finger up, then two. And then they enter the apartment.
Pushing the kitchen door open with his shoulders, Tiberius rotates in the room,
checks the corners, checks under the table, and invites Attila to come in. They
kneel next to each other, backs pressed to the humming and vibrating fridge and
wait, listening to the men swaggering about their sex adventures. Then there's
the sound of heavy paper being torn apart. The wallpaper.

“They got it. They found the book,” Attila says.

“What? Where did you hide it?”

“In the wall.”

“In the wall? Oh man.” Tiberius's mouth twitches as if he's bitten on a

lemon, “What are ya? An amateur? The wall, really?”

“I panicked when you mentioned the book, okay?” Attila shows him the
middle finger, “Asshole.”
 “Son of a bitch.” Tiberius hisses with a smirk. The voices from the bedroom
become louder; the soldiers are advancing.

Tiberius is prepared to move faster and more invisible than he's ever done.
Fighting is not easy in the small and narrow space of Attila's kitchen. But he
plans every move in his head; jumping from his hiding place like a predator,
disarming both soldiers at once, bending and twisting their hands so they almost
break.

But Attila is faster.

Before he realizes what's happening, still planning and plotting, Tiberius

hears two silent clicks and a dull bluster as two dead bodies fall to the ground.

“What? You fucker! You finished them? You...” Eyes wide in shock, he
observes Attila snatching the book with the white cover away from the coat of
the dead soldier.

“They were just rats. Relax.”

“I don't care about those idiots,” Tiberius sighs and fumbles one cigarette out
of his pocket. With a deep longing, he inhales the first breath as if he's starved
out. “I care about the ruthlessness you've developed, little Attiko.”

“People change, Tibi.”

“Freedom. Freedom! Freedom! Down with communism. Down with

Ceaușescu! Freedom!” No more word of Tőkés. He disappeared from his
window and his name isn't heard anymore. The people are now facing the other
part of the street, leading to the city center, and aren't focused on the priest house
anymore. And the chanting gets louder and louder, ever louder, fists in the air,
wild animal prey ready to fight, knowing the wolves — the Securitate men —
are encircling them, infiltrating the masses, ready to bite from within. Like a
thousand small fishes, they gather into a huge swarm, preparing to fight the
monster shark, shouting the same melody again and again, which has gotten into
a manifesto: “Freedom. Freedom! Freedom!”
 17th December, Timișoara

“Wake up. Wake up. The city is going crazy. You gotta see this.” Tiberius
shakes Attila and slaps him in the face, so hard he falls off the couch. Close to
six in the morning, they fell asleep in the living room, on the floor and couch,
dead to the world. After many sleepless nights, no atom bomb could haven
awoken them. With Attila's finest Pálinka, they toasted to their own freedom and
the freedom for the people they hoped to reach. There were still a few crystal-
clear drops in Tiberius' glass as his eyes gave in and closed for a well-deserved
sleep. Used to the hard wooden boards of the prison, he was content with a few
pillows on the carpet. Attila surrendered to tiredness on his small sofa, his long
feet crossed above the armrest.

“What time is it?” he moans, his eyes stick together from sleep.

“Fucking shit. It's four already. We almost slept a whole day.”

“I can sleep another more,” Attila groans and turns his head away, crosses
his arms and begins to snore again.

“There are tanks on the streets, man. You gotta see this.”

The drawing of the curtain rattles in Attila's ear like screeching fingernails
over a chalkboard. “Haven't you seen enough tanks in your life already, Căpitan
Nicolescu?” he mumbles half-asleep.

“But not in Timișoara, so near to the City Center.”

“Baszd meg.” Jolting up from sleep, Attila joins him at the window. And
there it is. Two tanks roll through the street, right under his apartment building.
A row of soldiers stand on the same pavement where Tiberius parked their Army
jeep the other night. It's no longer there, stolen, occupied, who knows. It doesn't
matter, Attila's German MVV is still in the underground garage. Or so he hopes.

“What are they doing?” Attila squints. A bunch of young students run
towards the main gun of a tank, they shout something he can't understand. And
then three of them are shot. “Joj, Isten éltese.” It's the first time in years he feels
shocked. “I ask you again: this really isn't the revolution you planned?”
 “No, fucking no! For the hundredth time: my men are all in Bucharest now.
'White Winter' will take place there. I don't know... I don't...” Another shot,
another one dead. He can see it through the lace cloth of the curtain, the disaster
is shrouded by embroidered white flowers in the Slavic style. “D'ya have a
phone?”

“Do I have a phone?” Rolling his eyes, Attila lights a cigarette, sits down at
the dining table and tries to steady his spinning head. “Entrance. Near the door.
You almost knocked it over yesterday.”

As Tiberius is talking to the capital garrison, a few slivers of the

conversation slip into the living room. He's still so tired after all those hours of
sleep, he can barely keep his eyes open. He sees double as he looks out of the
window. A few more tanks are rolling by, a few more civilians get shot by the
soldiers, accompanied by Tiberius' voice from the entrance hall: “Yes, yes... I'm
here. Timișoara, Iosefin burrough. What's... What's happening? What? The City
is closed? No way in or out? Fucking shit.”

Attila's throat is aching, the beginning of a severe flu. He searches his

shelves for an aspirin and when he finds one, he doesn't bother to go into the
kitchen for water, but swallows it dry.

“I said... fucking no! I said– I need you in Timiș, like yesterday. Get into the
next fucking helicopter and move your asses here... Wha...? Yeah? I am only a
Căpitan? So tell the General what's happening here, you idiots. Mission's at
stake.”

Viorica is ducking in a side street near Café Opera, the Orthodox Cathedral
in her point of view. Although she slept in the street, she feels refreshed. The
winter of 1989 is unusually warm, and the people around her, the supporters of
priest Tőkés, have provided each other with mantles, fur coats, sleeping bags and
hot tea and coffee. It has been months ago, before her pregnancy, that she slept
that well. On the brink of a historical event, she wouldn't have switched sleeping
on the street with a warm comfortable bed, may there be as many comforting
cushions for her knees and belly as a pregnant woman can desire. In the evening
she had phoned home, that she'll be out the whole night with some friends and
for the first time in her marriage, Daniel got angry with her: “Are you insane?
Haven't you noticed the turmoil on the streets? You'll get killed! Think about the
kids.”

“Turmoil? What turmoil? There's nothing wrong. This is a festival. It's

exciting.” She screamed as the phone went dead.

A festival. It was a festival when the masses that had gathered at Tőkés'
house marched to the City Center. It was still a festival when the amount of army
men increased. Still a festival when the Miliția beat up some of the civilians who
stepped on the flower beds and threw water cannons at them. Those were drunks
anyway, she thought, they deserved it. They behaved badly and they stepped on
the beautiful violas.

Indeed; everybody tried to avoid trampling on the flowers that were still in
full bloom this late in the year, as if they were the emblem of the uprising. As the
night dawned and the hurly-burly receded, she didn't want to go home. There
was something in the air, a promise for tomorrow, for something great to happen,
something like the ascension of the Messiah.

I don't wanna miss this, I don't wanna go home now and witness it on the TV
when I could say, I was there that day, she decided.

And so she's here, heavily pregnant, supporting her huge belly with her
hands, in company of soldiers and revolutionists, students and Generals, adults
and children. The whole day, she heard demonstrators speak about political and
economical topics she didn't quite understand. All day long she waited, a woman
bought a large pot and made soup for all. They sang songs — Gosh! A young
student even had a guitar — and every one or two hours the suspense arose.
Now, everybody thought, that special something will happen now. But no, only a
few fights occurred. Eleven in the morning promised the climax, as a hustle
bubbled into a serious clash between the Miliția and supporters of Tőkés, but
then it was over before it really began. Again at two and three.

But... nothing. A disappointment grows in Viorica. There has to happen a big

bang. Not just those little skirmishes.

“Oh my. Are those... is this sound... a tank?” A young woman calls.

Viorica turns her head. And really: there, between the Opera building and the
Banca Transylvania, there it is. A tank, that big main gun pointing right into her
heart, making it stomp, a loud drum ringing in her ear, flushing her face in
excitement.

There it is.

The beginning.

“What the hell? I told them to call back. What are those motherfuckers
doing?”

It actually helps to groan, it makes Attila feel better, it eases his fluish
headache. “Would you please not run in circles right in front of me? I'll vomit
any minute now.”

“But we gotta do something. We can't wait here and do nothing. They're

shredding years of work.”

“Who are they?”

“Is this one of your famous interrogations, Mr. Securitate or have you finally
come to your senses, Atti?”

“Ah.” He presses his hand on his forehead. Right to the spot that hurts to
much, “We have to reach Bucharest somehow, am I right?”

“But not if I don't know what the fuck's happening here. Not if I don't know
what's happening in the capital either. Have they shattered the revolution? Damn.
Nobody knows anything.”

“Then...” Attila stands up, his body tilts back and forth, trembling, he has to
steady himself with his hand on the table, “let's go.”

It stops being a festival when the first murdered man falls dead next to
Viorica on the ground, his eyes spread wide in surprise and disbelief, his mouth
open, the last word he articulated in his life, is plastered on his lips. She can
almost hear his hoarse last breath, forming a “What's...?” on the edge of a panic
attack, on the edge of death.
 A scream escapes her mouth. She's never heard herself scream like that, not
while losing Bogdan's babies, not when she gave birth to Daniel's. A scream, a
never-ending scream in the middle of the world's end and if her life were a
movie she'd go directly into labor between tanks and soldiers, murdered women
and kids. A woman she'd befriended at this strange festival would have to help
her delivering her twins, a boy and a girl, right here on Piaţă Operei, at the dawn
of a new time.

But her life never was a movie, neither a fairy tale. She's standing alone and
can't stop screaming and nobody cares for that desperate pregnant woman. The
bond that blossomed among Tőkés' supporters dissolves. No friendship, to
camaraderie, no unification against the oppressors. The only thing that remains
is the animal instinct to save one's own life and not care about others.

“Are you insane? You can barely walk. Let alone make it through this mess
of a city to Bucharest.”

“We need my car...” Attila sighs dreamily and fumbles in his pants for his
keys, “I have a German car with blackened windows. They'll let a German car
pass. They won't halt and check on us.”

“You're really insane. Why are you so sure about that? If the Sec won't halt
us, then the revolutionist surely will shoot a bullet through your sweet precious
head. Or the other way round,” Tiberius growls, “One can never be sure who's
on which side in this whole topsy-turvy.”

Attila finds the little glass from the previous night and chug-a-lugs the last
half of his drink. “I have a reputation to maintain, comrade Nicolescu. Come on,
to the garage. We have to be quick. I don't know if there are any Miliția in the
building yet.”

“That's the stupidest idea you've ever had,” Tiberius salutes, “I love it.”

Viorica ducks under the roof of the café, that fine elaborate Café Opera she
never even dared to beg in front of the entrance doors. She presses her knees
against her belly, can feel her children move, she can feel her heartbeat drum as
her panting breath pumps in unison with the shots of the soldiers.

This is what a deer feels like during a hunt, she thinks and closes her eyes,
unable to do anything more. One of her last thoughts is not about her kids, but
about how pathetic she might look, a rat hiding from her exterminators, a
cockroach in the dark.

I would have made a terrible soldier's wife to Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu,

she sighs. And then a bullet hits the wall, one centimeter away from her skull.

And then...

Tiberius whistles. “Woohoo, chic-chic. What a nice car. A Căpitan can only
dream of such a thing, eh?”

“Very funny.” Attila tears open the door. “Get in and shut your mouth.” And
then he slumps on the passenger seat.

“Hey. What are yer doin'?”

Rubbing his forehead, cooling it on the cold window, Attila closes his eyes.
“I don't feel able to drive.” He throws the keys to the driver's seat. “You're gonna
do it.”

“Ha.” Tiberius can't suppress one of his famous boyish smiles. “Really? You
sure? Hehe,” he laughs as he gets into the MVV. “A German car! I'll be drivin' a
German car. Blessed be Attila the Great. Okay.” Celebrating it like a religious
ceremony, he slowly puts the key into the hole, turns it ceremoniously as he
would light a candle at a baptism and when the engine purrs, he grins full of
glee. “Ah, do you hear that? Isn't that a beautiful sound? No tuck-tuck-tuck as if
you were driving a tractor, as the Dacias do. This is so ravishingly silent, so...
smooooooth.”

Attila feels the urge to vomit. That's exactly what Ánná said when he
showed the car for the first time. The picture of her pops into his mind and
something nags him... Something he forgot, something important. What is it?
His mind is working slow, his mind is...
 Dead. She's dead.

Only two weeks ago, he and Tiberius had to witness her death. But it seems
Tiberius has forgotten it already. There's that careless glimmer in his eyes as he
drives the car; an innocent boy who's unwrapping his birthday presents and not
the man who lost the love of his life. Is Tiberius that cold, that emotionless? Or
is he hiding his feelings, focusing on the task that lies before them, and when it's
finished — when they're both still alive — will he shatter? Will he collapse?

“City's closed. What shall we do now?” Attila whispers and his throat is
aching more and more, as Tiberius expertly drives out of the underground
garage.

The low evening sun hits their eyes hard, they have to shut them at the
sudden explosion of light.

“Dunno. Will see how far we get, how long we'll survive. This mess isn't
going as planned.”

They don't get any farther than a few meters. Right on the pavement, before
they can hit the road, one of the Miliția men guarding the street is waving his
hand at them.

“Mission one. What shall we do with him? Shoot him or lie to him? A) or
B), Mr. Securitate? Oh, I forgot. You always asked me for the right answers in
tests.”

Attila rolls his eyes and Tiberius grins as he winds down the window. Is this
all a game for him? Or is he shielding his desolation behind that goofy mask?

“Hey, hey, nice evening, isn't it, comrade?” Tiberius greets the soldier,
casually puts an arm on the open car's window frame. If he had sunglasses, he'd
look like he was on a vacation.

“Sir,” the soldier salutes, “may I ask where you're driving to?”

“I'm tryna escort this traitor to his execution,” Tiberius answers while
pointing at Attila.

“Hm.” The officer leans his arms on the rolled-down window, the glass edge
cuts a sharp line into his uniform sleeve, he bends forward and squints. “Isn't
that... Novák Att...”

“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.” Tiberius wiggles and trembles as the dead
man's body falls on his lap. He hasn't fully realized what's happening, he asks
himself why there's a stream of blood running from that head hanging on the
car's window frame onto the driver's seat. Shit, I'll stain Novák's precious car, he
thinks the second before it hits him.

Comrade Novák has shot the Miliția officer, a quick and precise blow in the
forehead, his trademark. As the blood ceases to rush in his ears, and his whoozy
vision corrects itself after the first shock, he can hear a click from the passenger's
side.

“Gotta move away before they know what's going on,” Attila says, reloading
his gun, pointing to the soldiers observing the street.

“I have to... what? Where?”

“Shit. On the gas. Now!”

What is he doing, that man in the distance, running to them, to the MVV?
Tiberius' expert eye immediately springs to the insignia. Frozen in amazement
by the scenery — and why is that; he, a soldier, overwhelmed by it? Was he
always like that? Is that the reason his career stopped? — Tiberius just stares at
the Army officer pointing a gun at the windshield. Five meters away, only four,
the others are turning to them, wondering...

“On the gas, you motherfucker!”

Attila's outcry rips him from his paralyzed state and his brain quickly
changes to battalion mode. As the first bullet gets stuck into the window glass, it
cracks into a spiderweb of ice crystals. With a loud screech, Tiberius jolts the car
onto the street, hitting another soldier at the hips. Another shot, and another.

“You stupid asshole. Why have you reloaded? Shoot!” he yells and his heart
skips a beat as the car lurches from side to side. But also he feels the urge to
laugh, to giggle, to shout out in excitement as they manage to pass the watcher's
brigade on Strada Miron Costin. Meandering through the parked cars and
bicycles on the narrow street, they soon reach the river Bega and the Orthodox
Cathedral at the City Center. And there, on the other side, in the shadow of the
colored turrets, all the other places are hidden by tanks marching and trampling
on the greenery around the Catedrală. The inner heart of Timișoara, that
beautiful old metropol crusted by the Red Star, is blockaded by the Army. The
City Center, the Cetate, with the Universitate Politehnica, the Café Opera, the
record store, the clothing shops other cities can only dream of; places of their
adulthood, strung like pearls on a necklace along a squared park, with the
Cathedral on the one and the Opera House on the other end, two friends or
enemies facing each other.

What once was the stage of their high school years, is now a deformed
painting by Salvador Dalí. The dawn of the winter evening casts an iron-silver
shadow, reflected by an army of Kalashnikovs. The barren dark-brown branches
echo in the mud-colored tanks. People in worn-out jackets run across the Piața,
careful not to crush the winter flowers, running against the wall of Miliția men
and Securitate executioners, shouting “Freedom! Libertate! Uniți! Down with
communism!” and suddenly as if they were smacked like flies by an invisible
hand, they fall to the ground, legs twitching in their last seconds living, and then
they're dead.

Tiberius automatically halts the car by the sight of the war-like chaos. Attila
does not know if he's shocked, joyous or afraid. He does not know if this is a
revolution or a mass murder. And the armed forces seem to be confused, too. It
does not hinder them from shooting random people who get in their way. It's
blind execution, frightened little children with machine guns. He can feel every
bullet in his bones, shattering his ears, shattering through his own heart. No,
they're not children, they're hungry butchers who came across a huge horde of
fat pigs and they celebrate an ancient slaughter ritual, howling at the blood on
the pavement, at the holes in the destroyed buildings, at the shining moon in a
paling sky, that casts his light over dead bodies.

“City's closed? Hello? D'ya hear me? City's closed. Can't go further than
here. City's closed.” A voice and a knocking emerges into his consciousness.
Another member of the infantry hammers his fist against the window on the
driver's side. Switching from consternation to the will of action, Tiberius is
quick-witted as he points to the insignia on his epaulets. “Red Army,” his lips
form and apparently the officer understands him, categorizes him as a fellow,
salutes and makes way.
 “Well, that was easy,” Tiberius grins.

“Hm.” Attila is not so joyful about that. In all that chaos and confusion, one
man can let you pass, can let you decide the fate of the Republic, while the very
man standing next to him shoots you right in the face. This is indeed not the
revolution he heard Tiberius talk about. This is survival of the fittest. No one
knows if the identification as “Red Army officer” paves you the way or earns
you a shot in the head. From this point of no return, past the barricades, past the
Church, in the City Center, everything is luck, a guessing game, improvised.

At the intersection, they turn into Bulevardul Regele Ferdinand I. past the
beautiful neo-classicistic Palațul Széchényi, along the ugly concrete buildings
which infiltrated Timișoara in the Sixties and Seventies. Window shops are
shattered, people are stealing bread and wine. A teenager is feasting on canned
spam meat, ducking under the entrance of a shoe shop, a dead soldier lying next
to him, arms widespread, his helmet rolling after a bullet hit him. Machine guns
drum in the distance, a constant percussion underlying what seems to be a piece
of music. And like the flute in Attila's beloved “Bolero,” their limousine is
rolling along, a delicate melody passing the trombone voice of a tank. They park
next to burnt out cars at the Roman Catholic Church of the Holy Cross where the
students of the Hungarian Politehnica had their enrollment celebration. Good old
times, long gone.

“We have to get out of the city,” Attila shouts as something explodes near
the tram station. A bunch of civilians carry dead men, not older than twenty-five,
and line them up at the church steps.

“This is a mess. What d'ya wanna do here?”

“I don't know,” Tiberius gets out of the car, his head whoozy, his eyes
reluctant to focus on the overwhelming sight. It always annoyed him that he
couldn't concentrate in such moments of stress. That's why he never made it past
the Căpitan rank, that's why he was never assigned serious missions in the field.
He had his unit he could play with so he didn't annoy his father working with
comrade Novák on the important adult things.

“What are you doing? We gotta make it to Bucharest, don't we? Tibi? Why
did you stop?”

“Timișoara,” Tiberius only whispers as his eyes gaze into empty air. Slowly
the shooting melody increases to fortissimo. The bass drum of the driving tanks
resounds in the shaking of the earth, resounds in the body, resounds in the heart.
While the strings repeat the glorious militaristic tune and bullets are flying
through the air like little tushes of the cimbalom, Tiberius marches across the
street, to the back door of Café Opera where the people line up their deads. He's
whispering something Attila can't understand. His hand stretches out for
something or someone in the distance. From the left, a bunch of soldiers are
approaching, and from the right, a dozen men are hiding behind tables taken out
from the café, their guns pointing at the rushing Army men. Surprisingly, they
manage to shoot three of them for the price of one of their own.

And Tiberius is in the middle, sleepwalking to the hill of dead bodies.

That's when Attila sees it, too. A familiar face in the crowd of lifeless
victims. A young woman, pregnant apparently, a familiar face. What was her
name again?

Victoria?

No, Viorica.

She was once a cool friend who covered up the boy's mischievous pranks,
who took the blame for things they messed up. That woman who cleaned room
A/47 for some time. One of the few service people Attila could trust.

“Tiberius. Tibi. Come on. Into the car!” Attila is shouting. He almost has to
vomit as he starts running. His legs feel like pudding and they ache so badly. The
world is spinning and suddenly there's no air anymore for him to breathe. But he
reaches his friend before he can get caught in the skirmish.

“Viorica,” Tiberius' hoarse voice coughs.

“I know. But she's dead. And you're too, if you don't...”

“She deserved so much better. Ánná once told me she was in love with
me...”

“What the hell? No time for that shit. Get into the fucking car!”

“I did this.” Tiberius spreads his arms, in the middle of the street, in the
middle of the fight, in the middle of the revolution gone wrong. “I messed up.
And she died. Look at her, she was pregnant...”

“For fuck's sake, Tibi!” Attila is dragging and pulling him back, but his
illness has soaked away most of his energy.

“Look, so many dead women. And children. So many...”

“Come on. Come on. Come! On!”

When a bullet hits the roof of the car, they jump back in. Tiberius wakes up
from his trance and with shaking hands, he wiggles the key into the keyhole and
starts the engine.

“We have to get... the autostrada... Circumvent the Center... we'll get to the
autostrada...” Attila is panting. A sour taste festers in his mouth and his head
ponders. Tiberius doesn't answer, doesn't say anything. He maneuvers the car
through barricades, doesn't care for approaching soldiers, no longer halts under
any circumstances anymore. When someone shoots at their vehicle, he
automatically ducks lower in his seat. Drive. Drive and never stop. Drive or die,
drive or die. Driving is the only important thing.

“What the hell was that? Why did you do this?”

“Hm?” Căpitan Nicolescu hums as though he missed some chunk of small

talk.

“You never really cared for that woman. Why do you do this in the middle of
the apocalypse? Why do you have these blackouts sometimes where you do
stupid things? Why did you leave the car anyway? They could've killed you.
What kind of soldier does that shit?”

“Now you sound like my father.” He shows Attila his middle finger. “Shut
up or I'll beat you until every one of your fucking teeth fall out.” And with a
lower voice, as if he wants to say sorry for his outburst: “I know I am a bad
servant of the state. You don't have to point it out.” He balls his hands to fists.
“And could you please stop that moaning, you big faggot? I'm getting
uncomfortable with you in the car when you groan like that.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience.” Attila rolls his eyes. He cools his forehead on
the cold window. He hides his hands in his lap, presses his thighs together to
stop the shaking. “I am feeling like shit, just so you know.”

“Bad time for the flu, man.”

“Fuck you.”

Driving at the autostrada undisturbed, they almost forget they're in a war

zone. It hits them again as they reach the city's border. The road ends in a
barricade, guarded by two tanks with their main guns pointed right to their
foreheads.

“What now? Căpitan Nicolescu, what you do suggest?” Attila asks

sarcastically. “Now, we need a good plan... What? Why? Tiberius? What the
fuck are you doing?”

The car is accelerating, the tanks' long main guns are moving, aiming at
them.

“You can't... You can't get past... You should have stopped. Tiberius.” Never
has he heard the engine as loud as now. The speed needle is deep in the red and
the car squiggles, it scrapes at the balustrade, Tiberius is slowly losing control.

“Tibi, you can't...”

“They're too slow. You'll see.”

“Anyád picsája,” Attila curses and closes his eyes. He presses his back into
the seat, grabs his hands into the armrest, and for the first time in years his
suppressed Catholic believe emerges to the surface and he feels the urge to make
the sign of the cross.

“Too slow... Those motherfuckers are too slow loadin'. They can't get this
baby of a car.”

“Holy fucking Mother of Christ.”

Oh God, is he dead? Did they both die? Were they blasted by the tank gun?
He doesn't feel anything, no aching in his limbs and throat, no pain. This must be
heaven then? No, there it is. The throbbing feeling in his body. He smells burnt
tires, hears a humming and beeping sound. So his senses still work; he's not
dead. Attila opens his eyes again when he hears Tiberius laughing and his
triumphant voice cheering: “Ha. Haha. Did you see that? Did you see that shit?
You didn't see it, did you? Whohoo, I did it! I did it!” He glees as they leave the
city in the darkest night, and Attila slides down, bundles up in fetal position in
his seat and chokes on bile and vomit.

18th December, outside of Timișoara

It's close to dawn when the crescendo of the mass murder ceases to ring in
the ear. The darkness of the night on the autostrada is like a soothing blanket,
comforting the sensory overload, tumbled down from smells of blood and
excrement, thuds of bullets, visions of young men and women having their guts
spilled onto the street. The humming engine of the MVV sounds like the calming
lullaby of a mother rocking her baby. And really; Attila's head slumps to the car
window, eyes closed, mouth half open and drooling in his sleep. The aircon
barely can warm up the winter night in the car and it gets heavier to steer it on
the freezing street. Tiberius thinks about searching for a guest room to rent for
the night.

But isn't it too dangerous to spend the night in some Carpathian village
motel? So much more could happen than a car accident on an icy street. The host
could recognize you, could despise you, and before you can check in and brush
your teeth, the secret police wolf pack would bolt down their secret hideaways in
the mountains, glad to catch some of their own kind; the deposed alpha leader,
the infamous Attila the Hun.

To warm him up, Tiberius lights a cigarette and grabs the steering wheel
tighter. No, he has to run the risk. It will take him a day at least until he arrives in
Bucharest. And he's already exhausted. Sooner or later, he has to rest. But he
wants to get a good distance between him and Timișoara, submerge deep into
Transylvania. Can he drive another hundred kilometers more and not fall asleep
on the steering wheel? He has to.

Tiberius jumps out of his skin by Attila's sudden loud moan. He almost
steers the MVV down a slope.
 “Fuck. Don't do that again! All my nerves are strained to the max.”

Pressing his legs together, Attila bends forward and massages his ankle. “I
think I may have caught a bullet or two.”

“Huh.” Tiberius gulps. He can barely keep his eyes open, although he
overslept a day in Attila's apartment. “How bad is it?”

“Only a strive. A bullet through the car chassis.”

“Shall I blow on it or will you survive?”

Attila spits out a throb of phlegm. “Thanks, I think I can manage.”

Tiberius cannot help but smile. There's something in the air, despite all the
danger, uncertainty and freezing cold. Something tickling and hyper, like the day
before a birthday; you know for sure that something exciting will happen.
Romania was always so melancholic, always so bittersweet in their national
mood, their art, their culture. But this is even more of an exciting situation:
driving with your best friend through the dark forests of long forgotten myths
into revolution and the dawn of a new era.

And yes, he has a cassette with the perfect soundtrack for such a dark,
lonely, wonderful night. “Hey, Atti, would you mind turning the radio on?” He
fumbles in his shirt pocket and takes out a mixtape. The only classical piece of
music he ever listened to. “Here. Put it in.”

Before the first jab of the drumsticks hit their ears, he knows exactly to
which memories Attila is taken back. On the last day of school, before they
entered the military draft, Attila told him: how many times he had the “Bolero”
on record while secretly visiting an apartment that was so well known as a
clandestine place for the 'White Winter' revolt. Not meeting there with fellow
comrades of the pro-Western movement, but actually kissing his lover — their
teacher!

“You have it on cassette tape? And always in your pocket like a pack of
cigarettes? Why?” Attila disturbs Tiberius' thoughts.

“It's an inspiring tune, isn't it? It reminds me of a great time and a very cool
guy. Great sports, you could take on the world with him.”
 “Sounds cool,” Attila whispers melancholic. Hiding his hand stump, he
looks into the dark sky. “Do I know him? What's his name?”

“I'm not sure if you know him. His name is Novák Attila.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, “No. Doesn't ring a bell.”

And when the last note of the orchestra leaves them in silence, the
realization hits them hard.

Viorica is dead. Her unborn child is dead.

So many citizens dead, murdered, slaughtered like a mass thrashing of

winter pigs in order for the regime to survive another merciless winter.

Tiberius rubs his heavy and greasy eyelids with his rough fingers. “We
should find somewhere to sleep,” he sighs, “Any ideas where we're not peeped
on?”

“There ain't a lot of secret informers in the cottages in Târsa. The farmers
there don't care for more than their own ghastly distilled booze.”

“Unless you pay them cigarettes for information.”

Tiberius observes Attila's finger caress the steamed-up window. “No,

cigarettes ain't enough for them. You gotta pay them underage virgins if you
want them to co-op.”

“Ew,” he snorts. “So this is where the orphaned daughters of murdered state
enemies disappear?”

Attila does not respond.

“This is where my father ordered them to be sent to? As a prize for

information?” From the corner of his eyes, he can see Attila's Adam's apple
tremble until he finally admits. “Yes. He gave the order for that.”

“That bastard. I swear, if I ever see him I'll kill him. And you? You played
along? You simply obeyed his orders? You knew and you remained silent? What
a great revolutionist you are!”
 “My department couldn't risk openly criticizing the boss of the secret
service, you know.” Out of nowhere, Attila bangs his fist to the glass of the car
window. “Wrong,” he blurts out. “I couldn't risk being caught as compassionate,
as sensitive, as human. I had to play my role as the brute. One trembling eyelash
and they'd send me there.”

“To be fucked by old toothless peasants?”

“Tiberius.”

“So this is the no man's land. The Carpathian Gulag, eh? You becoming a
piece of meat?”

Without asking, Attila takes out a cigarette of Tiberius's package. “In the
East, every single human being is just meat.”

The roof and the shutters of the wooden cottage are painted in a shining blue
color, flowery ornaments frozen in an artificial never-ending spring. The old
woman, comes out, alarmed by the approaching of an expensive foreign car in
the middle of the night. The knot of her headscarf around her chin wiggles as she
speaks in a high-pitched voice, only one porous black tooth in her mouth:
“Domnilor, domnilor. Gentlemen, gentlemen. Binecuvântați, bless you, bless
you, domnilor.” She bows the whole time, and caresses Tiberius' hands as old
women always do, but also she spits continuously as if she wants to be sure to
exorcise any demon out of them.

“Can you give us a place to sleep for a few hours, babă?” Tiberius asks.

“No, no. Oh no, my dear God in heaven. I am so afraid, I am so poor and

miserable. I have no room for you gentlemen, I may be cursed, shame on me,
shame on me.”

Tiberius rolls his eyes and fumbles some bank notes out. “Here. Your God
bless you.” And then he cringes as she attempts to smooch wet foul kisses on
him.

“My dear domnule, may you be blessed, may you be given what your heart
desires, may you live forever. Come in, come in, please do come in. I have a nice
bed and magnificently brewed Țuică.”

“No, we don't drink, babă. But a bed for five hours of decent sleep would be
great.” Tiberius glares an alarmed look at Attila, whose expression is sleepy and
his gait wobbly. What would he give for an hour of drunken oblivion, to be
carefree and swallow the bitter burning schnapps without thinking about the next
day. But he knows, they have to be careful. They have to watch every single
word that comes out of their mouths. You're not safe here, you're not safe
anywhere.

“Are you hungry? You must be hungry. Come in, sit at the table, I can reheat
my sarmale for you.”

“No, thanks, we're falling asleep while standing,” Attila waves a hand to her
but she doesn't stop talking. “No, no, it takes only a minute. What a host would I
be if I wouldn't offer you something to eat?”

So they're shoved to the little corner table near the window and Tiberius can
see that Attila's sharp senses and his secret police training take over. Almost not
noticeably, with a little twitch of his eye, he checks the outside every minute, a
slight movement of his little finger indicating Tiberius that the surroundings are
clear. Tiberius takes out a pack of cigarettes and offers him one. “Relax. We got
this. We have our guns right here,” he grins as he pats the holster hidden under
his jacket.

Attila doesn't respond, only sucks on the newly lit cigarette.

“Remember, Attiko, when we were at class and only had to watch out so the
teacher never caught us cheating? And we thought we'd... Oh, no, no. Not so
much, babă. I am really not hungry.”

“Take it, take it. It's my pleasure.”

“But only half full, please.”

“Oh, you young men. You eat like birds, heh?”

And so they sit, backs aching, eyes burning from sleep deprivation, while
they gulp the sour stuffed cabbage rolls and listen to the old granny's tales from a
past long forgotten. The good old times of the fatherland war, when daddy joined
the Wehrmacht and the kids back at home in the cottage could do whatever they
wanted without the strict fatherly intervention. When he fought for Hitler and for
the victory of the Aryan race, four-year-old babă and her brothers tasted daddy's
booze without the fear of getting beaten up.

Tiberius checks his watch and with much effort, he manages to cut off the
old lady, and announces bedtime at three in the morning.

Babă prepares an improvised bed out of cushions and sheep skin at the
fireplace, and there they lie down, next to each other, soldiers in the field.

But he can't sleep.

He can't get the thought out of his head: the good old times, the past.
Remember, when we were just classmates and best friends?

It was in seventh grade, when the Russian teacher, who didn't succumb to the
threat the name “Nicolescu” bore, caught Tiberius cheating on the single subject
he couldn't understand; Dostoevsky's “The Idiot.” And it wasn't enough that the
teacher dragged him in front of the class, humiliated him by pulling his ears and
slapping at his fingers until they were bloody. He immediately called Mareșal
Nicolescu at home and told him what a disobedient comrade his son was.
Tiberius didn't dare going home that Friday. Without saying a word, Attila
sensed his anxiety. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, they marched
to the Novák house, like brothers, and Tiberius stayed there for a weekend which
he remembered as one of the best in his entire life. For the first time, he
experienced chatty, lively meals, surrounded by a vast loving family. There was
Hungarian music, dancing. Of course, Attila's beautiful sister Ánná was present
and this weekend, he fell in love with her. But what he cherished the most during
all these years was the warmth and the brotherly intimacy he'd shared with his
best friend as they slept in a room, talking into the middle of the night about
everything.

“Tell me, Tiberius,” Attila whispered to him after the third time his father
had come in and told them to finally be silent, “do you do that too? Stroking
your thing when you think of something... sexy?”

And Tiberius had laughed which caused another visit by Mister Novák:
“You guys, come on, it's late. We can hear you through the walls. Please.”
 “Yes, it's perfectly normal,” Tiberius answered after Attila's father shut the
door, “What's on your mind when you do it? Some actress or some girl from
class?” he asked.

“Hm, I... can't exactly tell. It's everything and nothing.”

“Everything and nothing,” he repeated while drifting off to sleep.

He thought about men, Tiberius now realizes. And he wanted to tell me then?
He trusted me so much that he'd committed such a dangerous secret to me?

“Hey, Atti,” Tiberius whispers in the dead of the Carpathian night, “Are you
awake?”

“No,” Attila growls and Tiberius almost bursts out laughing. “You can't
sleep either?”

“Your cabbage farts make me nauseous.”

“Tomorrow, we'll arrive in Bucharest,” he says and his voice hangs in the air,
words unspoken.

“Who knows,” Attila replies, “Good night, Tiberius.”

At the pale lilac dawn, they sneak out of the cottage, nerves and senses hyper
sensitive for every movement surrounding them. As if they were mice eager to
watch out for the owl who sat at the tree the whole night, patiently waiting for its
prey, to snatch it silently when the time is right. Tiberius's fingers shiver from
the cold and the nervousness as they try not to wake up the old woman.

With a roar as loud as the thunder rumbling in the mountain valley, Tiberius
starts Attila's car. But the blink of an eye later, he feels cold metal at his neck, a
sharp blade, scratching at his bearded skin.

“Don't move, rat,” the rough voice rasps. Slowly, but ever smirking, Tiberius
raises his hands.

“So the old bitch was indeed a spy. Wow.”

 “Any last words, Nicolescu?” the soldier's voice sounds familiar. One of his
own unit. What's his name again?

“Yes,” Tiberius hears Attila reply, “Eat me, dickhead.” And then a terrible
choking sound fills the air of the car, a white dampy mist dances in front of
Tiberius, the pumped out breath of a man dying, the ghost of a human being. He
closes his eyes, doesn't dare to look. Not because he's afraid to see a man die —
he has seen that a thousand times — but because he cannot dare to look at the
sight of Attila killing a man with his bare hands. The soldier's knife scrapes his
neck, a few blood drops rinse out of the little wound, before if falls out of the
lifeless soldier's hand.

The opening of the door, the thud of a dead body tossed to the freezing
ground.

“We're clear,” mumbles Attila, teeth gripping a cigarette, hand loading his
gun between his thighs.

Tiberius shakes his head, shrugs, and pushes grimly on the gas pedal.
“Bucharest, here we come.”

19th December, Bucharest

It's close to evening and the sky darkens as they reach the Bucharest garrison
in Sector 1 near Grivița Borough. There's little movement in the yard, but most
of the windows of the large squared building are lit. Tiberius stops the MVV at
the checkpoint and rolls down his window. He lets out a sigh, realizing he has
held his breath for far too long. But now they have made it. They have made it to
the Capital, the arena of 'White Winter.”

“Căpitan Tiberius Nicolescu,” he announces himself to the guard, “And I'm

bringing a special guest with me: comrade Novák Attila.”

The guard lights a cigarette and scoffs. “Novák Attila? The Novák Attila?”

“Yes, the one and only ruler of the Huns, Ostrogoths, and Alans, Flagellum
Dei. At your service,” he grins while Attila shows him his middle finger.

“Password?” the guard asks, but before he can open his mouth, Attila
answers: “Wir sind das Volk.”

Both look surprised. A silent moment of uncertainty passes, then the gate is
opened for the car to pass. “Welcome back, Attiko,” Tiberius sighs as he parks
the car in the courtyard. “Why, you have become such a big boy. How time
flies.”

“Shut up.” With a loud bang, Attila closes the door and circles his car. He
observes the shattered window, the bullet holes and the dents in the bumped
chassis.

“Good German quality. If we'd driven a Cadia, we would've been dead by

now.”

“You'll pay for this. You'll get me a new one!” Attila teases him and searches
in his ill-fitting trench coat for a cigarette package. Smoking has become
calming now, they would have become insane without it. Attila turns to the
building and wraps his coat tighter around his body. It's so strange how much his
face has changed in the few days, no, hours; the cheekbones are more prominent,
the once neat sleek hair is thin, wildly disarranged and becoming gray. His
shoulders sag, his skinny right wrist looks like that of a young boy in too large
clothes that belong to his father. “And now?” he asks as his hooded eyes observe
the building.

“Well, we'll announce our arrival to the General and wait for our orders.”

“Orders.”

“Yeah,” Tiberius blows the blue smoke into the air, “But don't expect too
much. In Bucharest, we're just two young unimportant peasant boys. Little fish
in the ocean. This is not Timișoara.” And by the mention of that city, he freezes.
No, this is indeed not Timișoara.

“Okay, I'll wait for my orders.”

“And let's hope my father hasn't followed us. Really, why did you never
overthrow that bastard? Why could you never infiltrate the Securitate? Why
were you so occupied with hunting those assfuckers while you could set a trap
for the Mareșal? No excuses, you could've easily yanked that asshole.”

“As I said, I was busy saving my own ass,” Attila snaps. “No. Nobody could
infiltrate the Securitate. Either they get you or you become one of them.” He
swallows and his haggard cheeks look even skinnier. “Controlling the mind of
the people brings out the worst in mankind. You can't survive it and remain
sane.”

“Yes, I see.” Tiberius eyes that run-down body. Ten years, only ten years.
That's nothing. And yet, these years have wrecked him. Is this his fault? He only
wanted to save his friend's life by hiding him in the lion's den. And now Tiberius
isn't sure anymore if he only postponed the death sentence. Shaking his head,
shaking the thoughts away, he slaps Attila's shoulder. “Hey, come on. Let's get
in. You need some chicken soup to get back on your feet.”

The 21th of December it will be. A new era will begin at the winter solstice,
the dark night of Ceaușescu's reign will end then.

And Căpitan Nicolescu will wait in the garrison, he'll be part of the
commando who'll escort a captured Ceaușescu to his execution.

Orders are clear.

Yes, of course, he will wait. Of course, he won't be present at the speech in

the Center when the mutiny is planned. How else could it be? Has he ever
thought his General had bigger plans with him? It's just another disappointment
in a long list of his career.

Tiberius slams the door shut to their room, the envelope with the order in his
pocket. Slumped on a chair, curled in his blankets, sweating and panting like a
dying man, Attila watches a movie at the small black-and-white TV with a
flickering picture.

“So that's it,” Tiberius announces, and Attila wraps the blanket around his
head: “Okay.”

“That's not funny, Attiko. I invested so much in this mission. It was the light
at the end of the tunnel. It was everything for me and I thought I'd be more than
a stay-at-home cadet guarding an almost empty building.”

“Vlad III. Drăculea was Voivode of Valachia when the Turks invaded
Christendom of Romania in 1462,” the narrator's voice from the TV explains.

“Well, as I said, we're not the big fishes here. I didn't expect to be a mighty
leader, but this... this is humiliating.”

“I'm sorry. Orders are orders. In dictatorship and in revolution.”

“Yeah, I knew you'd say that. What crap are ya watchin'? Can you turn down
the volume?”

“Sorry, my ears are getting worse,” he replies as the pictures from the screen
mirror in his eyes; Vlad impaling the Turks on the battlefield. And Attila does
not dare blinking.

“His foes send his beloved wife false message of his death. Devastated, she
committed suicide and was damned to remain in purgatory forever.”

“Your ears? What are ya, sixty years old?”

“Feels like it, yeah.”

Tiberius growls. “Anyway. Get this: the General said I failed. I failed my
mission. Can you believe that?” Tiberius rages, marching from one corner of the
room to the other, but Attila's eyes are glued to the screen. He urges Tiberius
away when he's right in front of the TV. “They expected the Securitate
Department from me. They wanted me to turn those motherfuckers into
revolutionists. Me? This was your job and they blame this on me! All because
my father is the big boss of those bastards.”

“Hm,” Attila mumbles and turns the volume up, as Vlad Drăculea, striken by
the death of his wife, kills his priests, tosses over the altar, rips open his own
veins, screaming, shouting, blood rinsing out of his mouth and arms: “I renounce
my God. I curse the blood of the Lord.”

“Oh, man, could you please turn this shit off?”

 “The blood of the Lord will now be the nurture of death. It will bring me
death, it will bring death to my kin, to my people. Cursed be Thy blood in
eternity.”

“Atti? Yoohoo? Attila?” Tiberius waves his hand at his friend, who's
hypnotized by the pictures, here and there interrupted by snow interference.

“Cursed be Thy blood. I'll suffer a never-ending death. Your cursed blood
will poison me and never will I see heaven.”

“What the fuck, Attila?” Pulling the TV's cable out of the socket, he gets
another chair and sits right in front of him. “I'm talking to you. What's wrong
with you? You're acting so strange. And you look like crap, man.”

“Oh, now you're the interrogator, huh?”

“Yeah, very funny.” Tiberius stands up again and not knowing what else to
do, he loads and un-loads his gun, double-, triple-checking the ammunition.
“Seriously. It's like you're dying or something.”

“Dying?” Attila's eyes get glassy, he stares dreamily to the blank wall,
darkened with stains from dirty soldier uniforms. “I'm not dying, what are you
thinking? I can't die, I'm immortal, my foes have cursed my blood and now I am
bound to suffer in purgatory forever.”

“I always hated your terrible jokes, Atti,” Tiberius scoffs, looking through
the window, into the distance, southwards to the Parliament Building.

20th December, Bucharest

After he comes back from his bathroom routine, Tiberius catches a glimpse
of Attila's deformed left hand. A little fire is lit in the tiled stove, the iron door
open and Attila is standing in front of it. He can't see his face but he hears the
sound of paper being ripped to shreds and the flickering fire munching on the
unexpected feast. As soon as Attila realizes Tiberius in the room, he flinches,
tosses what Tiberius recognizes as the 'White Winter' book into the fire and hides
his hand.

“So it really was syphilis,” Tiberius remarks, eyes on the single leather
glove.

Attila shrugs.

“Why are you burning the book?”

“Unnecessary baggage.”

“What? Man! We risked our lives rescuing that damn thing from your
apartment. And now you say it's unnecessary.”

Attila doesn't reply, but lights a cigarette in his awkward way with that
damaged hand and blows the smoke out into the badly heated room, eyes
looking dead at the pale carpet.

“But you're still with me, with us? You're still a member, ain't ya? You're still
on our side?”

Attila sighs. “Tibi, see... I don't know if I will be useful in what you've
planned here in Bucharest.”

“But don't tell me you're a double agent or crap like that.”

“Shut your face. I only want to survive, I don't wanna fight for a cause. I'll
be the man behind, and stab every enemy that gets in your way, okay? Your
bodyguard or something. I'm good with that, I'm a precise shooter. That's what I
can do best.”

Deprived of the heavy winter uniform with the mighty fur collar, Attila now
looks like the young man he really is and not a stressed-out General.

“When I got you into the Sec, I really had high hopes you'd undermine those
motherfuckers like I did in the Army. You were always a rebel, you were perfect
for us.”

“Perfect? Me? I never was a rebel. I just wanted to fit in, I wanted to have a
good life, that's all. The Sec got me money, an apartment, a car, a job that
seemed... right at the time.”

“Oh, come on. You can't tell me that now. The time is just so ripe. Berlin has
broken through the Wall. Hungary is on the way to a free country. It will be so
easy for us to do the same thing.”

“And then? What happens next? Why do you want to end a system that's not
perfect, yes, I'll admit, but we're used to it, and it gives us stability. I don't know
what you will build up when you succeed. What world will this be?”

“What the heck are ya talking about? It will be a free democratic country.”

“So? And then? What will happen to us, to you? Now, you're an officer of
the Red Army. In such a world, you'll be nothing.”

“I'd rather be a jobless beggar than a Căpitan in this shit Republic based on
mistrust and hate.”

“See. I don't care anymore. I'll help ya and keep the flies off you, that's it.”

“But why?” Tiberius takes a few steps into Attila's direction. The urge to
grab his arms and shake him is strong, but somehow he's reluctant to touch him.
“You'll be able to make your own decisions, have the job you want, vote for the
political Party you want, choose the... life partner you want.”

“I will be considered faggot scum no matter in which system I'll live.” He

flings his cigarette out of the open window, ice crusts grow on the wooden
frame. “No, thank you. I am your bodyguard now, your adjutant. Order me what
to do and I will do it. Basta.”

“The Army is behind us. Committee member Iliescu is behind us. Nothing
can go wrong. We'll strike tomorrow when he'll give his speech at the Central
Committee. Ceaușescu's time has come.”

Tiberius can't concentrate on the words of his General. His eyes and
thoughts drift to Attila, sitting hunched in a corner, almost disappearing in an
Army coat a few sizes too large.
 “Excuse me,” he hears Attila's papery voice whisper into the meeting, but
almost no one catches the phrase. Slinking, he shuts the door behind him, and
with a slight nod to the other soldiers in the room, Tiberius follows him outside.

“Oh man, you should be in bed with some tea and an onion compress around
your stinky feet,” he says as he finds him leaning on a corner outside the
building and vomiting onto the frozen grass.

He waits for Attila's famous Hungarian cursing and swearing, but nothing. A
Novák who doesn't churn out insults is really a thing to worry about. Attila pants
and moans, nearly cries.

In the distance, in the fading light of a winter afternoon, he can see a middle-
aged woman with a bucket in her hands going to the fountain well. She might be
an officer's wife, mother? Many women are accompanying their men. It could be
their last day living; will they all be dead tomorrow, will it be an easy overthrow,
a peaceful demonstration as in Berlin, or is this the eve of war? Nobody knows.

The woman stops at the fountain as she lowers the bucket. Suddenly, her
moves are frightened and unnatural, she's ceaselessly making the sign of the
cross. With shivering hands she's taking out her necklace; Tiberius can't see it
from this distance but he knows that all women her age wear the picture of Jesus
in the little golden capsule, and she's kissing it and kissing it and kissing it as
though her life depends on it.

Only after a few moments, he can comprehend what she's hissing: “Strigoi!
Holy Mother of Christ, sweet sweet Jesus, help me, beware me from the evil of
the devil. A strigoi! Strigoi!” Louder and louder, her finger pointing at Attila as
if to ban a demon, she's shouting: “Strigoi! He's a strigoi! The son of the devil!”

In the last moment, before Attila falls to the ground, eyes nearly shut,
Tiberius catches him and drags him to the entrance door of the garrison
dormitory. “Easy, easy, fella. You're some drama queen, ain't ya? One little flu
and people think you're Vlad the Impaler himself.” Only then does he notice the
smeared blood rinsing out his mouth. “Okay, what an epic prank, huh? Like in
the good old days at the Politehnica. Hat's off.”

“Shut up and bring me to bed,” Attila rasps with a terribly sick voice and
while other soldiers or officers pass them by, Tiberius jokingly explains “He's
gotten his period” or “The magyar Dracula is on our side, too. What can possibly
go wrong tomorrow?” but inside, something is wrenching his heart at the sight of
his poor comrade.

21th December, Bucharest

On the morning of Winter Solstice, ex-General Novák Attila sits in the little
dining room at the end of the corridor in the common soldier's wing of the
building, and tries to swallow scrambled eggs, but his throat feels sore and tight.
He has no appetite and he gives up eating. He remembers the day his mother
came home from the hospital, visiting Grandfather, crying. Attila was ten and
had a Major crush on one of his classmates and it embarrasses him to this day
that he was annoyed by his mother. There are more important things than dying
old men, he thought back then. But to be polite, he asked: “Grampa died?”

“No, Attiko. He stopped eating,” Izabella replied. And somehow, this was
worse than him being dead. “Oh, Atti. That horrible, horrible cancer. It gets us, it
gets us all.”

Yes, cancer is the hunter on the heels of the Nováks. Lurking, waiting,
sooner or later, he'll get everyone. And so it's his turn now.

On the 21th of December in 1989, Novák Attila, aged twenty-seven, stops

eating. He pushes his plate away, folds his hands in prayer and closes his eyes.
Communism hasn't destroyed the Catholicism in a true Hungarian. He solemnly
declares to himself and to God that this is it, the end.

Mr. Novák Attila. You're accused of treacherous behavior against the

Republic and the people of Romania by wanting to lead a happy life with
someone you love. You are charged with plotting the death of our beloved and
almighty Leader Nicolae Ceaușescu by dedicating yourself to Károly Viktor and
Sergiu Tudorescu. You're sentenced to death by slowly dying. The order will be
fulfilled in a few days, or a few weeks, or months. Not more than a year. But it's
only a prognosis.

“Mi Atyánk, aki a mennyekben vagy, szenteltessék meg a te neved,” he starts

the Prayer of the Lord, but his inner voice sounds more like an angry Hunnic war
cry.

He hasn't finished yet, when suddenly the door bursts open and Tiberius
bolts in with two men of his guard company. “Shit, everything has gone wrong. I
told them I should have been at the Center.”

“Relax, Nicolescu,” a fellow comrade by the name of Țăran wants to calm

him down, “It's not lost yet.”

“We'll get another chance, you'll see,” Locotenent Racoviță soothes him.

From what Attila knows, Ceaușescu gave a speech to his people — a total of
a hundred thousand citizens of Bucharest who were paid or forced or whatever
to attend the Leader addressing his people. The Army under Tiberius' General
planned to drag the people to their sides, encouraging them to boo Ceasuescu
out, giving them backfire, so they could finally overthrow and capture him.

“What went wrong?” Attila asks.

“Oh, it's the Securitate magyar,” Racoviță spits out.

“Everything went so well,” Tiberius narrates and casts Attila an angry

expression, “That motherfucker started babbling, the crowd started booing, the
Army started to cover them and move forward to the building. But then those
Securitate motherfuckers had to shoot. Even the assholes of the Miliția changed
to our side, but no. The Sec had to destroy everything.”

“Why are you looking at me like that? I'm not one of them anymore. You
deprived me of my titles and ranks, Nicolescu.”

“Very funny,” Tiberius replies and Racoviță and Țăran grin widely.

“Stubborn idiots,” Țăran shakes his head, “That's what the Securitate men
are. Even the Minister of Defense turned his back on Ceaușescu. Are these direct
order from the Mareșal in Timișoara, Nicolescu? Your father...”

“I'm not responsible for my father, don't talk shit. Nobody in this room is to
blame, calm down. We're in this together. Hey, are ya still eating this?” Not
waiting for an answer, Tiberius takes Attila's plate and shoves the breakfast eggs
into his mouth.“
 “And now?” Racoviță asks, “What do we do now besides gorging on eggs
like the losers we are?”

“Don't know,” Tiberius munches, “Guess we'll stay put and wait for our
orders. Story of my life.”

As Attila looks into the mirror, he's amazed how fast he's declining. After
ten hours of not eating, his body is spending its last reserves. His gums are
bleeding heavily from the tumor spots, the pointy canine teeth look like fangs in
his mouth. The skin on his remaining hand takes on a gray color, receding from
his fingers, leaving his fingernails long and lilac, they seem as if they grew too
much in the last few hours. His facial skin sags and the veins barely pulsate
blood to his brain. Breathing becomes more heavier.

How pathetic, he scoffs, now I am dying and the only cities I've seen are
Timișoara and Bucharest. Not even Budapest. Let alone Paris.

How naive was he to think he would one day travel the world with his lover?
But still, to the very last day, until yesterday, he thought he'd fulfill his dreams.
After the revolution, he always comforted himself, I'll just have to survive until
the day of revolution. And then I'll be a free man.

But the day of revolution passed, and he's still not a free man. He's a dead
man.

“Hey, Atti. Guess what? Gorgeous news,” Tiberius dashes into the bathroom,
unbuckles his belt, yanks off his pants and pisses into the toilet, right next to
him. Attila presses his hand on his mouth as he feels a wave of nausea by the
smell.

“Ceaușescu has rescheduled his speech for tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” Attila snaps, avoiding a look at Tiberius' penis.

“So we'll get another chance.” When he's finished and buckled up again,
Tiberius spreads his arms and grins like an idiot. “Isn't that wonderful? Huh?
Huh?”
 “Congrats.” Holding onto the wall, Attila slowly exits the bathroom and
slumps down on his bed, one arm above his aching eyes.

“You'll be coming with me tomorrow?” Tiberius asks, sitting at the desk by

the window.

“You are finally allowed to be there?”

“Yeah, because I was a good boy and behaved guarding the garrison.”

“Again: congratulations. But I won't... I can't come.”

“Huh? Why's that? You have to! You don't want to miss that.”

“Look at me. I barely can stand upright.”

“Ah.” Tiberius laughs and bops Attila in the shoulder. He's surprised how
bony his friend has become. “You gotta. This is it, our lifetime achievement.
White Winter. This is it! You can't chicken out now.”

“I don't know...” he sighs, falling asleep, not knowing if he'll wake up the
next morning, “We'll see what tomorrow brings.”

22th December, Bucharest

They're one of the last ones to come to the Piaţă of the Parliament Building.
It's already crowded with cheering folk, thousands and thousands of civilians,
their worn-down winter clothes a uniform of their own, holding up the
Romanian flag, posters, signboards, and banners depicting Nicolae Ceaușescu
and his wife Elena.

God, these pictures are old, Tiberius thinks as he observes them. They are
showing the Great Leader and Elena as they were in their youths, some decades
ago. You must be blind and delusional to not notice that the Party has handed
them out for the people. All are clapping and cheering in unison as the mayor
announces Ceaușescu. Everything is just a show, the people are paid background
actors. Could they be more dumb?
 “Dear comrades, please allow me to speak from my deepest heart at this big
meeting in the capital of the working people...”

“Son of a bitch,” Tiberius snorts and spits a lump of slime to the ground.

“... the much beloved and esteemed Leader of the Party and the country, the
eminent Revolutionary patriot. Over six decades, he has given his heart to make
the country prosper, free, and independent...”

“Full asshole and motherfucker,” Tiberius laughs.

“...the General Secretary of the Party, President of the Republic, our comrade
Nicolae Ceaușescu.”

“Yaaaaay,” Tiberius squeaks as he waves his middle fingers up to the air.

Hands clapping from the massive crowd, thousands of paid supporters to

shout and chant in unison as the Great Leader appears far away on the balcony
of the Parliament Building. Everything is plastered in red banners, transparents
and flags. It is a well-designed picture, which the artists from the Propaganda
Department have painted. But through the stomping song, Tiberius can hear
Attila moaning. In the last moment, Tiberius talked him into coming to the
revolt.

Thick pearls of sweat are crystallizing on Attila's forehead and he presses his
hand against his eyes.

“You look like shit, man.”

“Shush!” A man of the crowd with a thick mustache bumps him, “I wanna
hear what's the Leader's saying.”

“He doesn't say anything. He needed a whole fucking minute to fake his
sincere greetings to his people.”

“When will this end, Tiberius?” rasps Attila.

“Hey, this is not a vacation trip with the car. This is history. Don't be
impatient.”
 From the microphones, the hoarse voice of Ceaușescu is transmitted: “I also
want to address and thank the initiators and organizers of this great event from
Bucharest, considering it as a...”

It starts as a slight buzzing, like a wasp that got lost in the chamber. In the
first seconds, nobody realizes what's happening, why the masses go from
cheering to aggressive screaming. But Tiberius knows what's going on.
Throughout the gathering, Army officers have given the people the secret sign to
start booing.

And there it is.

The beginning. White Winter.

No more hail to the father of the fatherland, no more “long live Ceaușescu.”
Now it's “Freedom! Down with communism! Unity and Solidarity! Down with
Nicolae!”

As Elena Ceaușescu's frightened voice whispers from the loudspeakers

“Someone's shooting!” Tiberius yells “Timișoara!”

He can see a few soldiers and officers who instruct the men and women to
shout, to yell, to put all their hate for Ceaușescu into one act. And they obey like
they're used to. It seems they don't care what they're doing as long as someone
commands them. These Army men are all revolutionists. And by the time,
against all odds, all the booing, the yelling, the shouting, transforms into on
coherent word: “Timișoara! Timișoara! Timișoara!”

Tiberius dreamed of this moment for years. As he lay awake in bed, he

imagined what it would be like. In the silence of the night, he imagined the
oppressed people breaking their chains and rattling for their freedom. Then a
warm flush would run through his veins, an excitement igniting his cheeks, a joy
making his heart skip some beats. But now, in the real situation, he can't feel a
thing. He's in soldier mode, focusing on his comrades and the civilians, holding
his weapon tight, focusing on a tumbling Attila who barely can stand on his feet.

Ceaușescu's confused voice is heard over the hundreds of speakers. He

repeats one word, like a child, like the dumb village idiot that he is, over and
over, the same stupid word: “Hallo? Hallo? Hallo? Hallo?” paired with Elena's
“Silence! Silence!” and the sound of a finger tapping at a microphone. They're
like bad teachers who desperately want to bring order to a mischievous crowd of
students.

And like the Ceaușescu couple, Tiberius stays in his paralyzed fashion, not
knowing what to do, although he's planned every step of this act carefully. He
pinches the skin on his hand. No, this can't be real, this can't be happening. He
must be dreaming it. Impossible that a suppressed nation turns on the tide and
fights for its freedom in the blink of an eye. And they're shouting a name, the
name of the city where it all started, the city he knows so well, he loves so much:
“Timișoara!” It feels, it smells, it sounds like a dream. Any minute, he expects to
grow wings and fly over the parliament.

“Comrades. Stay quiet. Comrades, stay quiet. Quiet! Hallo? Hallo?”

Tapping. Shouting. “Hallo? Hallo? Hallo? Hallo?” and “Silence! Silence!
Silence! Silence!” Desperate, helpless, ridiculous. So, these two people, Nicolae
and Elena, these dumb rednecks are the ones who brought devastation to a whole
country, who drove his fatherland into wrecked misery? Tiberius doesn't know if
he should laugh or cry.

“Stay quiet in your seats.” Ceaușescu's voice resounds from the speakers,
angrily growing into a toddler's tantrum. And then more lower, but still audible:
“This is a provocation.” And then another endless minute of a helpless “Hallo?
Hallo? Hallo?” and “Listen! Quiet!”

“Now I am curious what the Sec dumbasses will do,” Tiberius growls as he
side-eyes a man in a gray uniform, his facial expression hard and steady, but his
fingers tremble around the Kalashnikov.

“One more time I desire to emphasize that we have to demonstrate with all
the power, force, and unity for the defense of the independence, integrity and
sovereignty of Romania,” Ceaușescu continues his empty talk, “This is one of
the fundamental problems of out entire nation.”

“Oh, he's crap,” Tiberius spits out and lights a cigarette. His eyes don't leave
the Securitate man standing against a wall, laughing as the crowd resumes its
cheering and clapping.

“Hey, what... Atti?” In the last moment, he manages to catch his friend as he
slumps down. His hands wrap around Attila's bony arms, and he tries to steady
him upright. “Come on, get yourself together. A simple flu can't bring you down
like that. This is it, this is the moment we've been waiting for, like forever.”

“Tibi, I... I... I cannot...”

“Save it. This is a historical moment. No excuses. I don't care if you'll die in
the next hours. You gotta finish this now. Where's your gun? That Tokagypt you
love so much, ej?”

“I... don't... know...” With half-closed eyes, saliva and blood drooling out of
his mouth, he searches in his pockets. “I think I forgot it.”

“You forgot it? Attila the Hun forgot his fucking gun?” Tiberius rolls his
eyes. “Oh, shit. That's serious. Come on, we have to... what... what's
happening?”

Suddenly, the masses start pressing forward, into the Parliament. And now
there are no flags or banners in the air anymore, but hundreds of thousands of
arms, fists of the revolution, and the chant that is forming over the Piaţă: “Down
with communism! Down with Ceasuescu! Freedom!”

“Ceaușescu has fled into the building. We'll storm in,” the news spread from
the front rows backwards. And the people, filled up with rage and hunger, with
misery and the deep desire for a change, push forward. To the Parliament! Storm
in! Storm into the Holy Sanctuary, get him, get Ceaușescu!

This is it. This is the day that will change everything. And Tiberius can only
see heads and backs and feet and nothing more, as he drags Attila along a wall.
He wants to be one of the first people who'll witness it life when Ceaușescu will
be arrested. He wants to spit Ceaușescu in the face when the Army handcuffs
him. He has to.

“Come on, Atti. We're falling back. Move for fuck's sake!”

“I can't... Gotta leave me here.”

They stumble over the wooden boards of the banners. And the people hustle,
some shots are heard but too few to be a counteract of the Securitate. No, in
overall, this is it. The Leader has given up.

“On your feet, come on,” Tiberius screams at Attila as he falls on his knees
and is nearly trampled down. Tiberius glues his eyes to the far distance to the
Parliament's balcony where Ceaușescu is no longer present. But it seems to him,
like in a nightmare, he can't move his legs. Something or someone is holding
him back, and the designation is getting farther afield. “Attila, don't let me down.
I want in. I want to get him. I...” But too late. Too far away. He'll never make it.
He'll never make it to the front row.

Then there's a little moment of silence, and he's hypnotized and immediately
calmed down by the sight of it. From up above, a residential building, people are
throwing papers down. A million documents, until now imprisoned in people's
secret surveillance records. Black ink on white paper damaging generations of
citizens. Ripped out of their file folders, tossed into the air, erased, freed. What
was once a documentation about possible anti-government behavior is now a
white snowstorm flying through the air.

Awed by it, Attila can finally manage to stand up. He spreads his arms,
closes his eyes, and is surrounded by the papers once collected by the Securitate.

It's actually beautiful to watch him like that. With the ruffled locks that
spring out of their straightly gelled back captivity, he looks almost like the young
Attiko Tiberius still remembers. The boy who always copied his homework. The
boy with the old-fashioned taste in music. The boy who liked Bobby from
“Dallas.”

“Hey, look.” Attila laughs as he points at the little white flakes of paper. The
air fills with white snippets and it covers heads, shoulders, cobblestones. “Look,
Tiberius. It's snowing.” God, how joyful his voice sounds. Never ever has he
sounded like that. Like a little boy who's unwrapping Christmas presents and
gets the one toy he always wanted, the one his heart desired for years. “It's
snowing. It's snowing, Tiberius. We did it, comrade. We did it.”

“Yeah.” Oh my God, he's so proud of this guy, his friend, his little brother.
And look at him, look at that glow in his eyes. When has someone ever enjoyed
life more? When has he ever seen Novák Attila so happy? Tiberius salutes, holds
two fingers up for the victory sign. “Freedom, Attiko.”

He doesn't immediately notice the outcry. His mind assumes another chorus
of “Olé, olé, olé” or “Libertate, libertate” but when he realizes the words, it is
too late.
 “Strigoi! It's a strigoi!” an elderly man shouts, stepping back from Attila,
making the sign of the cross.

Suddenly he world freezes, everything seems to happen in a time lapse.

Attila's blue eyes are questioning, asking him. His lips move in silence but
Tiberius knows what he wants to say. It's like telepathy. What's happening,
Tiberius? What is happening with me? He pants. A stream of blood is running
out of his mouth, and his eyes seem to stop functioning and can't focus anymore.
Tiberius can't explain what's happening, he can't explain why Attila is
unbuttoning his shirt, stumbling, face white like snow. And then he doesn't know
if he should look away or stare at it: Attila's belly and chest are sprinkled with
dark-red lesions. Blood is dripping out of a wound near his shoulder.
Disbelievingly, eyes wide, hands shaking, Attila presses a finger on the wound,
grinds the thick blood in his fingers and stares at it as though he's never seen
anything like it. He of all people, the High Investigator of room A/47.

“Strigoi! He's a strigoi. Domnule, Holy Mother of Christ, save us, he's a
strigoi!” Shouts are coming now from every direction around Attila. People form
a circle around him, pointing their fingers at him, angry peasants, wielding their
pitchforks at the monster. “Vampire, the devil, strigoi. Kill him!”

The splash of blood comes first. And then the sound of another shot. Like
thunder and lightning backwards. It hits Attila right under his belly button.

“Kill him! Kill him!” the people chant at the spell circle around Attila, at the
parade that was meant to be the end of Ceaușescu, of an era, the beginning of a
revolution. The White Winter is becoming a red one.

Attila's hand is full of blood. His eyes look confused as he observes his
hand, presses it against his belly. More blood. Deep, dark, black blood.

Tiberius, what is happening?

“Kill the strigoi! Save us from the devil.”

Tiberius, what is happening?

“Noooooooo. Stop it!”

Another shot hits him. Right into the chest. He stumbles.

 Bullets fly through the air like mosquitoes.

“Atti!”

“Go back to your grave where you belong. Tatăl nostru care eşti în ceruri,
nu ne duce pe noi în ispită, ne izbăveşte de cel rău.” The prayer sounds like an
exorcism ritual. And only now does Tiberius find his voice again, only now does
his body obey him. He sprints to his friend, elbows his way through the
Bucharestian fanatics. He has to hit a man in the face, he pushes away women
and soldiers that look like kids. “Attila. No! Stop it, get away from him, he's one
of us. Stop. Now!”

Only after a third shot in the middle of the chest, the firing stops. Who was
the man who started it? Who was the one who killed Novák Attila? No one can
decide anymore who fueled the spark to a flame. The crowd dissolves around
them, marches on to the building, resumes their cry for “Freedom.”

“Tiberius. No. Get away.”

“Lemme, hey, it's all good. It's okay, come on, let me steady ya.”

“Hogy az isten basszon meg teged a seggednél fogva. NO! Don't touch me.
My blood is poisoned. Don't touch me.”

“Don't be dramatic, Attiko. Let me help ya...”

Attila hoarsely howls, raises his fists against Tiberius, ready to hit him. “Get
away from me, I'm cursed, my blood is toxic. A kurva isten bassza meg.”

“Don't talk shit, man. You're not Dracula.” He's a heavy man and Tiberius
has to knee on the cold ground as Attila's strength leaves his body, as he's falling
into Tiberius' arms. “Sh, sh, sh. It's okay. Hey, come on, you son of a bitch, some
patches and you're as good as new.” He tries to arrange the coat around a
freezing and shaking Attila. “Gotta keep ya warm, brother. Come on, stand up,
and we'll search for a doctor.”

“Tiberius.” A horrible death rattle escapes Attila's throat. “I can't. Tiberius,

I...”

“Shut the fuck up. Save your energy. Don't be stupid, man.” Oh God, he's
crying. He's actually fucking crying? But why? They only have to find a doctor.
He has to bring Attila into safety, and then... And then...

“No. No, it's over, Tibi,” Attila shakes his head.

“Fuck, you never know when to shut up, do ya?”

Attila's eyes flicker. He looks so tired, but he's smiling as he closes his eyes.
“It's snowing, Tiberius. It's... snowin'.”

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, Atti! Come on.” He slaps his cheeks, shakes him.
Attila's hand tries to grab him one last time, but he reaches into empty air. And
slowly, his movements become feeble, anemic. “Atti! You son of a bitch. Stop
bitchin' and stand up! Atti! Atti! No, Atti!” But his body knows. His body is
already crying, mourning. His mind refuses to believe, but his body knows.

Comrade Novák Attila is dead.

And the first thing that he can think of is, how on earth can a dead skinny
body still be so heavy, even heavier than he was in life? He has to lay Attila's
corpse to the ground, he feels so powerless suddenly.

Mouth open, eyes wide, not knowing what to feel, his brain shielding him
from the shock that just happened — he's reliving the same emotional roller
coaster that shook him when he witnessed Ánná's death. And then he suddenly
feels a cold sensation on his skin.

As he looks up, he realizes it.

Emotions sweep and leave him like ocean waves. One second, he wants to
scream. The next, he can't feel a damn thing.

He only looks up into the white sky, the endless, empty, godless sky.

It is snowing.

25th December, Târgoviște

 It looks like a classroom meeting, Tiberius shakes his head as he stands in
the corner of the small room, where the trial upon Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu
is held. A gathering of teachers who discuss an extraneously bad behaving
student.

He and his wife managed to flee Bucharest by helicopter and tried to escape
the country by hiding in a tank, but were captured a few hours later by the Army.

And then Tiberius can't choke down the memory of Attila. He remembers
the good old days in the Politehnica, both trying to hide their yawns in math,
both scribbling on the pages of their copies of Dostoevsky, writing little notes to
figure out what they'll do in the afternoon. He has Attila's wacky laugh in his
ears, as the judge announces the accusation: “Genocide by starvation, lack of
heating and lighting. But the most hideous crime was suppressing the soul of the
nation.”

How strange the doomed couple behaves. Elena sits slumped in her chair,
almost looking like falling asleep in her winter wool coat, head heavy on her
hand, while her husband defeats himself with wild gestures, voice husky as if he
caught the winter flu: “It's a lie that I made the people starve, a bold faced lie.
This shows how in the past few days, treason has replaced patriotism.”

A tear escapes Tiberius' eyes as the Ceausescus are sentenced to death. But
they both don't seem to take it seriously. Mr. Ceaușescu tosses his chapka
defiantly on the table, Elena rises slowly from her chair, stretches her legs as
though she took a good long nap. Everyone, except the two of them, knows that
these nineteen minutes are just a show trial, an appetizer, a supporting film to
water one's mouth for the main movie: the execution.

Tiberius grips his Kalashnikov tighter, as Elena's unnerving voice shrills in

his ear: “If you want to kill us, kill us together.” And she repeats it again and
again and again, as one officer searches for a rope to tie their hands: “Together.
Together. Together.”

His own hand twitches at the trigger. He has to pull all his strength together
to not shoot them right here, without a warning splatter their bodies to the wall,
no matter who else he'd catch.

And then, as if waking from a dream, Mr. Ceaușescu's voice howls up in

panic: “What kind of thing is this? I have the right to do what I want. What are
you doing?”

And the devil's wife snaps: “Don't tie us up. Don't offend us. Please don't
touch me.” Repeating it like a broken down record player, apparently the only
thing she can do: “No. No. No. Don't tie us up. That's not good. Don't tie us up.
Don't tie us up. Shame. Shame. Shame. Shame on you!”

The situation gets more chaotic as her voice gets louder: “I brought you up
as a mother. Stop it. You're breaking my arms. Let go of them. I'm a mother. I
have children. I have children. Let me go. Let me go. Let me go!”

Don't forget to set your machine gun on automatic, Tiberius reminds himself
as if assembling a shopping list while rummaging through his kitchen, while the
Ceaușescu are pushed outside.

In the execution courtyard, he doesn't remember how many rounds of

ammunition he fires. He doesn't remember how many bullets scatter them or
how many miss. He doesn't remember if he aims for him or for her. The only
thing he memorizes is that he doesn't wait for any order, but immediately shoots.
The gunfire is like music in his ears, painted in red on the wall of the firing
squad.

Satisfaction, revenge, a Bolero. Carefully planned through the years as

moderato assai, enforced in presto allegro.

And then...

Freedom...?

30th December, Mihai's Village

Tiberius is one of the six pallbearers. Attila's funeral is set one day before the
year ends. Snow is falling as the uniformed men march to the freshly shoveled
grave, right next to Ánná's, still covered high in colorful plastic flowers. It was
always a bittersweet sight when the cemetery blossomed. Tiberius loved the
bright hill of flowers when someone was recently buried. He loved the colors,
especially in winter.

He leads the coffin past the Nováks who have to say goodbye to another
child of theirs within a few weeks. Izabella's suffocating screams can be heard
above the deafening white snow. She's so broken she can't stand right up
anymore and her husband has to steady her. József's face is empty, no tears left
in his scrawny light-blue eyes which remind Tiberius so much of Attila's.

They lay the coffin on the ground. The Romanian flag is wrapped around it,
the very flag that resided in Attila's office: blue, yellow and red; the Communist
insignia cut out from the middle. After the revolution of Bucharest, everyone
removed the golden wheat and red star from their flags, caps, books; a cruel
Pharaoh's name scratched out from history. There's no “Socialist” in the
Republic anymore.

Tiberius salutes to Attila's parents. After so many years in the service, after a
military lifetime, this comes naturally to him. “He died for the freedom of our
country. He died for a good cause,” he says. He knows they don't believe him
and he doubts it himself.

Nobody dies for anything. They just die.

They had to hire a priest from one of the neighbor villages because their own
Catholic was revealed as a spy for the Securitate and fled to Hungary as soon as
the land lay in confusion and society fell apart. But this reverend doesn't know a
personal thing about the deceased man he'll bury. So after the Lord's Prayer,
Tiberius himself addresses the congregation of mourners. He takes down his cap,
clears his throat and blinks. The tears in his eyes make if difficult to read the
paper he has composed for his deceased friend. He never thought he would be so
emotional, but when he hears his own voice shake, he can't go on reading. The
only words he manages to say are: “After all, Novák Attila was a good guy. He
was my brother.”

But it is enough.
 Postscript

It's difficult to explain the Romanian soul to an outsider. To me, they always
seemed like an American-Russian hybrid. But the little fine details of their
national moods, their ethnicity problems, their attitudes, how history effects
them personally, are more complicated to understand.

I always admired depictions of Eastern melancholy, especially from the

communist era. No one can capture the oppressed soul of the East like Eastern
people themselves. An American writing a communist is different than an author
like Pasternak describes them.

Nevertheless, I had to make the reference to Dracula.

When I started the novel, I remembered so many scenes from my own

childhood, but I decided mid-way that this novel had to turn into a different
direction. So when I outlined my main characters, Tiberius Nicolescu and Novák
Attila, I modeled them as some kind of “Universal Totalitarian and Universal
Revolutionist.” They are symbols rather than accurate characters from the
Banatian Puszta. That's why I chose the Roman version Tiberius instead of the
Romanian Tiberiu.

And yes, Tiberius' doubts were right. After 1990, the revolution couldn't
keep the promises it made. Ceaușescu's successor Ion Iliescu turned out to be a
supporter of the revolutionists, but he remained a communist his whole life. He'd
supported the revolution, but only to raise himself into power. Thus, historians
discuss today, if the events of 1989 that started like an uprising of the people,
were, in fact, controlled from Iliescu's side.

To this day, Romania is still one of the poorest countries in Europe.

© Hildebrandt, Ludwigstr. 15, 72766 RT