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Coke.”
    “Be quiet or leave!” said a girl next to us.
    We laughed but stopped talking. We didn’t want to be kicked out.
    When I watched the movies, I generally tracked the plot. The stories were far-fetched yet fascinating. But Liliana absorbed detail. I decided to watch the film as I imagined she was watching it. And I noticed something.
    Choice.
    Options.
    The characters in foreign movies had both.
    In Romania, jobs were assigned. Apartments were assigned. We had no choice.
    But the characters in movies, they made their own decisions—what to eat, where to live, what kind of car to drive, what type of work to pursue, and who to speak to. They didn’t have to stand in line for food. If they turned on a faucet, hot water rolled out. If they didn’t like something, they complained out loud. It was crazy.
    But crazier—the interactions. They looked at one another for extended periods without diverting their eyes.
    There was an ease between them. Unspoken comfort.
    They weren’t worried they might be standing next to an informer.
    Like me.

13
TREISPREZECE
    Dan Van Dorn. Son of American diplomat Nick Van Dorn.
    A chance acquaintance had become my assignment.
    The diplomatic apartments my mother cleaned were near the U.S. Embassy on Strada Tudor Arghezi. The Van Dorn family had arrived four months prior, in June.
    After reading the criticisms in the British travel guide, I often wondered what foreigners thought of Romania. The regime claimed that our beloved leader was respected in the West—considered a maverick of the Eastern Bloc—because he disagreed with the leadership of the Soviet Union. We saw reports of Ceauşescu being invited to meet with American presidents. We were told Americans admired our hero and Heroine Mother.
    So when I’d caught a peek at Dan Van Dorn’s notebook shortly after we met, I was surprised. He was working in the living room while I sat nearby, waiting for my mother.
    “Homework?” I asked.
    “Nah, notes for my college admissions essay.”
    “What’s the essay about?” I asked him.
    “Romania. But the essays are a waste of time. I know I’m going to Princeton.”
    “You’ve already been accepted?”
    “No, but my dad went there. He’ll arrange it,” said Dan casually.
    He’ll arrange it. What did that mean?
    I was curious to see what notes for a U.S. college essay looked like, so when he used the bathroom, I glanced at his notebook. I expected it to say that Romanians descended from Romans and Dacians. Or maybe something about Transylvania and our castles. But that’s not what it said.
    Romania—Serious:
Fear induces compliance. Nonconformists put in mental institutions.
Amnesty International reports human rights abuses.
Population is fed propaganda and kept in a state of ignorance by Ceauşescu and his wife (who have a third-grade education).
One U.S. ambassador resigned because Washington refused to believe reports that America has been outfoxed by Ceauşescu.
    Romania—Funny:
Romania received a shipment of twenty thousand Bibles from the U.S.—Ceauşescu turned them into toilet paper.
The President of France reports that the Ceauşescus stole everything from their diplomatic suite in Paris—lamps, artwork, even the bathroom faucets!
After the looting in France, Queen Elizabeth removed valuables from Buckingham Palace in fear that the Ceauşescus might steal them during their stay. The Queen knighted “Draculescu” anyway.
    That’s all I’d had time to read.
    At first, I was offended. Evil American. But the words, they circled my conscience. Human rights abuses. Propaganda. Ignorance. Draculescu .
    After seeing Dan’s notebook, that’s when I decided to start a notebook of my own. I wrote in small type, in English. And I kept it hidden. Deep beneath my mattress of rugs, I had lifted the edge of the vinyl flooring to create a secret hiding pocket. At night in my closet, I filled the notebook with thoughts and feelings. I tried to use creative phrases and