I remembered the procession, moving slowly against the merciless wind under a sky the color of concrete, starting from the church, where Granny and I thanked everyone who’d come to pay their last respects. Consoling faces pressed against our frozen cheeks. Relief that Father hadn’t shown up. Anger that Father hadn’t shown up. The procession of regret and helplessness moved from the church along the streets of my childhood, the pavements of our games, past our flat and the park full of drunkards. A coffin carried to the cemetery, lowered into a hole. Earth hitting wood. Handful after handful, marking the end of our previous lives. Only Granny and I remained, life having skipped a generation. The flat seemed empty. Gone were the nights by the radio. The news no longer mattered. We no longer cared about outside. We turned inward. Granny started to attend church every day, getting up at five for the first mass. She resigned herself entirely to God, handing herself over to heaven like a premature donation. And me, I withdrew into my books. The radio in Mother’s room remained covered forever. Not even music came out of it again. Not for many years.

I heard Pani Kolecka’s coughing, sharp and thorny. Then I turned to the radio, lowered the volume, and moved the indicator to 101.2, the frequency still etched in my mind after all those years. I lay on my bed, the speakers to my ear, holding my breath. At first it was only music, but already I was calmed. I felt like that music, just for its origin, was cleansing me. And then, not long after, the familiar voice—deep and comforting and clear. There had been several of them who’d read the news over the years, and this was one of them. He was still there. It brought me back to the first time we’d all sat together, the three of us, around the radio in Mother’s room. A voice that could not be spoken over, that would be listened to until the very end: “Radio Free Europe. News at four o’clock. Friday, the tenth of October 1980.”

He talked about the strikes that had gripped the country, halting production in dozens of known locations, including factories, mines, and shipyards. Workers had laid down their tools, demanding the revocation of the increase in meat prices, as well as better working conditions, the protection of the right to free speech, and the ability to form independent trade unions. There had been no violent clashes with the authorities so far. The strikes had not yet reached the capital. But insider sources indicated that they would, most likely that very afternoon. “Residents are asked to remain indoors in case of any violent clashes with the authorities.”

I thought of Mother, of her pointless life, her passivity. Of the years she’d spent listening to the radio, explaining her truths to me, and all of it for what? She’d died a submissive employee at the Electricity Office and had never dared to speak up or live out any of her ideas.