2025 Short Story & Essay Contest: Second Place, Adult Short Story Contest
By Laura Kuhlmann
Wads of cotton, soiled red. They rise from Ana’s knuckles like frozen flames. Little Daria stares in fascination at her aunt’s bloodied fingers, while her grandmother, Varvara, tries unsuccessfully to pick the cotton out of Ana’s cuts. Congealed blood has anchored the once-white fibers to the wounds.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Ana cries. “What do I keep doing wrong?”
Varvara shakes her head and points a bony finger towards the kitchen, lit by flickering candles and the dying twilight.
“It will come off with some warm water.”
Daria follows the two women inside the kitchen. Varvara fumbles around the table for a matchbox, pushing aside last week’s paper, dated Dec. 17, 1989. She squints at the black-and-white picture of Bucharest’s Opera House, before turning towards the gas stove and lighting a match.
There’s no running water again, but Varvara has saved some from the day before, in the large blue bucket. She keeps it close to the window, next to the radiator, where it stays nice and cold. Not a drop of hot water has run through the metal ribs of the heater since the first gunshots that marked the start of the revolution had echoed through the streets. Not that there had been much hot water circulating through any of the pipes in the previous months. Or years. The air in their apartment is just warm enough to allow quick dashes from one blanket to another.
In the trembling light Daria’s brown eyes study Ana’s fur coat: white, with black stripes. Red streaks adorn the sleeves and the area around the buttons. Ana’s swollen stomach protrudes through her coat.
“Child, why don’t you go back to your room?” Varvara tells Daria.
A loud crack, like a firework, resonates from the street. A second, a third, and then a fourth. Daria rushes towards the window.
“Child, no!”
Varvara catches Daria by the elbow and flings her towards the door.
“What did we tell you?” Varvara bends and brings her face close to that of her confused granddaughter. “Stay away from the window, sweetie. The glass may break.”
“But why?”
Her small voice slices new worry lines on Varvara’s face.
“Some people have stolen guns, Daria,” Ana answers. “The army is fighting side by side with the people now. Your uncle is fighting with them.”
Varvara straightens her back and shoots her daughter-in-law a menacing look. “Why don’t you go check if the electricity is back?” Varvara nudges Daria out of the room. “See if the TV will turn on.”
Daria backs away from the kitchen and dashes behind the door of the living room, only a few feet away. She peeks from behind the threshold and smiles at her grandmother. Varvara raises a finger and shakes it at her granddaughter, too tired to make her threat look convincing. Daria’s head disappears in the darkness.
The pot of water bubbles on the stove. Varvara picks it up and drops it onto the table next to Ana. “Why do you tell her these things?” Varvara asks.
“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you leave Bucharest with her? You’d be safer in the countryside.”
“You know we can’t leave.” Varvara gestures for Ana to sit. “Don’t confuse her even more, please. She’s only five, she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it means that her uncle is a general. She just knows she saw him on TV with Ceauşescu. And because you like to play tricks on her, now she thinks that Ceauşescu is also her uncle.”
“He won’t be for long,” Ana whispers.
Varvara grips Ana’s wrist and squeezes it tight. “What did he tell you? Where is he?”
“He left. Not before he emptied the last bottle of whisky. For courage.” Ana scoffs. “Then disposed of the bottle the only way he knows how.” Ana raises her bloodied hands, stares at the cuts. “At least he didn’t break it on my head.”
“He told you where he’s going?” Varvara’s voice is shaking.
“Why is he always so angry?” Ana’s eyes glaze over. “How could he be so sweet before we married, then become…” She spreads her cotton-wrapped fingers.
“Where is my son?” A glob of spittle escapes Varvara’s mouth and lingers on her chin.
“Târgovişte-city. The Militia caught the Ceauşescus. They’re turning them over to the Army.”
Varvara releases Ana’s wrist and wipes the saliva from her chin with the back of her trembling hand.
“I told him not to go,” Ana says. “I told him to send someone else.”
Varvara averts her gaze and heads over to the cabinet above the sink to pick up a roll of gauze and a bottle of moonshine. “It’ll have to do.” Pharmacies are closed, and good rubbing alcohol has anyway been scarce for months.
Ana’s fingers curl in anticipation of the pain. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip as her mother-in-law dabs an alcohol-soaked cotton wad on her knuckles.
Daria’s breath gets stuck in her throat. From the living room, she watches as pain distorts Ana’s face. Her aunt whimpers and the sound chases Daria deeper inside the living room. She takes refuge in the corner, next to the TV, and fumbles for the switches. The ceiling light. The TV. On and off again. The house remains dark and quiet.
“Child, leave them on,” Varvara orders.
Daria shuffles back to the kitchen, now smelling like alcohol.
“Where are her parents?” Ana asks in a shaky voice.
“Hospital. All doctors are on call for Christmas this year.”
“Forgot. Merry Christmas,” Ana whispers and smiles shyly.
“Godless Christmas.” Varvara wraps the gauze tighter around Ana’s knuckle. “No light. No snow. No tree. No church.”
The light erupts from the living room and the TV zaps to life. An angry female voice booms across the hallway: “Shame on you. Shame.”
Varvara and Ana run to the living room. Daria follows them and stops close to the door to stare at the uniformed men filling the TV screen.
The camera zooms in on two people sitting behind a wooden table. A man and a woman, grey-haired, wearing bulky winter coats; his—black; hers—white with a black collar. Varvara and Ana gasp as they drop onto the couch.
“Gran’ma, is that uncle Nicolae?” Daria points at the image of Ceauşescu and his wife, Elena.
But her grandmother and aunt have lost their voices. Their eyes are glued to the TV, lips parted as they watch Ceauşescu raise his arm and swing it back and forth, to the steady cadence of his speech. His voice rising, his hair in disarray.
“I do not recognize this tribunal, I only answer to the Grand National Assembly.” He repeats it over and over again. He repeats it as two men grab him from behind the bench and tie his arms behind his back.
He only stops when his wife starts yelling: “Take your hands off me, you animals!”
“Daria, honey, go to your room.” Varvara’s gaze is imprisoned by the TV.
Daria swallows and remains immobile, her will to decide cancelled by the screams filling the room.
The camera cuts to a grey courtyard. One black and one white silhouette lean against a concrete wall. Firecracker noises erupt from the TV speaker. The cameraman follows the captain, still holding his rifle, as he approaches the two people, now crumpled at the foot of the wall. The image zooms in on Ceauşescu—his eyes open, his shirt, showing through the unbuttoned winter coat, soaked red.
“Daria,” Ana yells, “go to your room. Now.”
Daria sprints to her bedroom and slams the door behind her. She listens to the noises coming from the hallway. No one has followed her.
Through the door, she can hear Ana’s sobs and Varvara’s phlegmy voice:
“You must go home, Ana. He’ll be back from Târgovişte. This big burden is off his shoulders now. He’ll need you. And plus, what about your child? Once he’s born everything will be better between you two, you’ll see.”
Ana’s sobs grow louder. “I don’t know if I can take him anymore.”
“Now listen here.” Varvara clears her throat, and her voice turns harsh. “Your family, your country is not something you discard when you think you’re tired. My son did his duty to this country and by God, he will do his duty to this family. And so will you.”
The sobbing intensifies.
“This is a new beginning,” Varvara says in a softer voice. “For this country, for our family. You’ll see. Everything will be different.”
Daria grabs the wood chair sitting next to the door and drags it across the carpet, toward the window. She pulls the drapes apart and climbs on the chair. Her forehead rests against the cool glass, as below her streetlights come to life. Rain pummels the building. This year, there had been no snow. No coat of white to hide the grey asphalt, the yellow and rusty leaves rotting on the sidewalk.
Daria tilts her head to study the small hole that has appeared in the wall, just outside her window. The little pockmark is full of rainwater, oozing out and dripping down the concrete.
“Beginning,” Daria whispers.
Her grandmother’s words echo in her head. Does this mean it’s now safe to go outside? Daria touches her palm to the glass and pushes against it with all her strength. The invisible barrier holds firm, no matter how hard she presses. The beds of her tiny nails are blue from the cold, so Daria pulls the sleeve of her scratchy wool sweater over her hand. The imprint of her fingers lingers on the glass—an incriminating ghost.
Daria closes the drapes and leaps off the chair. She opens her door cautiously and peeks out. The apartment is quiet, peaceful. No more raised voices or sobs. Only the smells of hot wax and moonshine linger in the hallway. She tiptoes to the living room, her stomach growling. Her grandmother and aunt are still on the sofa. Ana’s shoulders shudder, as she inspects the new gauze—already turgid with blood—that Varvara had wrapped around her knuckles.
“Gran’ma?” Daria calls. “I’m hungry.”
