The cold was gnawing on us, desiring to numb our souls and preparing us for what was to come. That January day haunted me painfully. I could still see the mass grave in the Heroes' Cemetery, where empty, bloated, emaciated and humiliated dead bodies lied on top of the other. I could still feel the smell of those times, of blood mixed with death, of bullets and gunpowder, of courage, hope and freedom. Thirty-five years passed and I still couldn't find any answer to the questions. Who and why? We had NO right to bury those days in oblivion and ignorance.
Florentina Ghițescu
My life unfolded between two screams. The first one was my own, the moment I entered the stage, the other one was that of the children at the sound of the earth hitting my coffin when I left the world. Like two exclamation signs in Spanish, like two brackets in an ocean of eternity. Between two screams I enjoyed the sound of waves, of the wind through the poplar's leaves, of the seagulls at sunrise. But most of all I enjoyed the silence as I drowned in your eyes, the smile and the tranquility in my heart.
Gabriel Moldovan
The funeral is peaceful; the priest reads the prayer for forgiveness and the soil falls over the coffin. Old Ghiță, with his usual bitter expression leaves this world. I step back and almost fall in a freshly dug grave. I look up at the gravedigger. Be careful, he says. But what is with this grave? I ask. My name is written on the marble cross. It's been reserved, the gravedigger sighs; mr. Ghiță said he didn't want to be alone. On the other side, the spirit of old Ghiță smiles at me. Neighbours until the end. The ground beneath my feet starts to crumble.
(Translated by Irina Vild / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.