The Power of Testimony

SAVING MY ASSASSIN
The summer that I was seven years old, my family and relatives
retired to the front porch after dinner to enjoy their last
evening in Techirghiol. Around midnight, startling screams
cut the still night.
“That’s Anna,” Mother said. “Our neighbor’s granddaughter.”
The screams continued from next door. “Nooooo! Don’t
kill them.”
Kill whom? I glanced toward my parents. Often our neighbor
girl, Anna, screamed in the night, but I didn’t know why.
She lived with her grandparents next door, but I didn’t see
her often, and I was warned not to talk to her. Each scream
cinched my heart and seared all the way through to my gut.
I wrapped my arms around myself. I looked from my parents
to my relatives, hoping for answers.
Mother frowned and waved her hand like she was swatting
away a mosquito. “Let’s go inside. That home is supervised.”
She nodded toward the house, and everyone rose.
Seated in the family room, my relatives shook their
heads, but no one spoke or moved to help. One of my uncles
mumbled something. My aunt, an attorney, put her finger to
her lips. “Don’t speak. Too dangerous.”
So they conversed in whispers. I heard bits and pieces about
how just a few months ago, the Securitate had taken my aunt’s
coworker to an unknown location for a month because he was
accused of missing participation in a Party parade. When the
coworker returned home, his health was visibly deteriorated,
and he was unable to work or provide for his family.
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