21 December 1989
I’d just arrived back home, after playing outside. It was an ordinary day and the sound of the “manifestation” was something very familiar. The phone rang, I picked up and it was my mom; cool and precise as always, “Ioana, there is something bad going to happen, close the blinds, don’t answer the doorbell and go and hide under the stairs!”
22, 23, 24 December 1989
I rushed under the stairs, feeling very curious to know why the sound of the crowd had changed. Then, when night came, the light through the wooden shades was not forming straight lines but round shapes. I was not afraid, I imagined I was in a Charles Bronson or Sylvester Stallone movie. I used to watch those with my dad. Broken glass and lots of bullets flew into our house. To this day I hate the sound of fireworks.
25 December 1989
When my mom came she was quite pale and just shouted, “Where is your dad?” I didn’t know. I can’t remember much after that. I only know that somehow I managed to get to my grandmother’s house with my mom, far away from downtown. I quietly watched on TV the dearly beloved leader getting shot, alongside the world famous chemist Elena. On the 27th my dad came, only to tell us, in tears, that our house was in flames.