“As educational as it is thrilling...[T]he power of I Must Betray You [is] it doesn’t just describe the destabilizing effects of being spied on; it will make you experience them too.” ？New York Times Book Review
★ "Sepetys brilliantly blends a staggering amount of research with heart, craft, and insight in a way very few writers can. Compulsively readable and brilliant." ？Kirkus Reviews, starred review
★ "Sepetys once again masterfully portrays a dark, forgotten corner of history." ？Booklist, starred review
★ "Sepetys’s latest book maintains the caliber readers have come to expect from an author whose focus on hidden histories has made her a YA powerhouse of historical fiction…Sepetys is a formidable writer, and her stories declare the need to write about global issues of social injustice. For that reason and her attention to detail, this is a must-read." ？School Library Journal, starred review
★ "Cristian’s tense first-person narrative foregrounds stark historical realities, unflinchingly confronting deprivations and cruelty while balancing them with perseverance and hope as Romania hurtles toward political change." ？Publishers Weekly, starred review
"A master class in pacing and atmosphere." ？BookPage
1
Unu
Fear arrived at five o’clock.
It was October. A gray Friday.
If I had known? I would have run. Tried to hide.
But I didn’t know.
Through the dim half-light of the school corridor I spotted my best friend, Luca. He walked toward me, passing the tedious sign shouting from the concrete wall.
New Men of Romania:
Long live Communism―the bright future of mankind!
At the time, my mind churned on something far from communism. Something more immediate.
School dismissed at 7:00 p.m. If I left at the right moment, I’d fall into step with her―the quiet girl with the hair hiding her eyes. It would feel coincidental, not forced.
Luca’s tall, thin frame edged in beside me. “It’s official. My stomach’s eating itself.”
“Here.” I handed him my small pouch of sunflower seeds.
“Thanks. Did you hear? The librarian says you’re a bad influence.”
I laughed. Maybe it was true. Teachers referred to Luca as “sweet” but said I was sarcastic. If I was the type to throw a punch, Luca was the type to break up a fight. He had an eagerness about him, while I preferred to evaluate and watch from afar.
We paused so Luca could talk to a group of loud girls. I waited, impatient.
“Hei, Cristian,” smiled one of the girls. “Nice hair, do you cut it with a kitchen knife?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Blindfolded.” I gave Luca a nod and continued down the hall alone.
“Pupil Florescu!”
The voice belonged to the school director. He lingered in the hallway, speaking with a colleague. Comrade Director shifted his weight, trying to appear casual.
Nothing was ever casual.
In class, we sat erect. Comrade Instructor lectured, bellowing at our group of forty students. We listened, stock still and squinting beneath the sickly light. We were marked “present” in attendance but were often absent from ourselves.
Luca and me, we wore navy suits and ties to liceu. All boys did. Girls, navy pinafores and white hair bands. Embroidered badges sewn onto our uniforms identified which school we attended. But in the fall and winter, our school uniforms weren’t visible. They were covered by coats, knitted mufflers, and gloves to combat the bitter cold of the unheated cement building.
Cold and dark. Knuckles aching. It’s hard to take notes when you can’t feel your fingers. It’s difficult to concentrate when the electricity snaps off.
The director cleared his throat. “Pupil Florescu,” he repeated. “Proceed to the office. Your father has left a message for you.”
My father? My father never came to school. I rarely saw him. He worked twelve-hour shifts, six days a week at a furniture factory.
A slithering knot coiled inside my stomach. “Yes, Comrade Director.”
I proceeded to the office as I was told.
Could outsiders understand? In Romania, we did as we were told.
We were told a lot of things.
We were told that we were all brothers and sisters in communism. Addressing each other with the term “comrade” reinforced that we were all equal, with no social classes to divide us. Good brot...hers and sisters in communism followed rules.
I pretended to follow rules. I kept things to myself, like my interest in poetry and philosophy. I pretended other things too. I pretended to lose my comb, but really just preferred my hair spiky. I pretended not to notice when girls were looking at me. And this one―I pretended that studying English was a commitment to my country.
“Words are weapons. I’ll be able to fight our American and British enemies with words, not only guns.”
That’s what I said.
Our weapons course was called Preparing Youth for Defending the Country. We began training with guns at age fourteen in school. Is that old or young compared to other countries? I remember jotting that question in my secret notebook.
In reality, my desire to speak English had nothing to do with fighting our enemies. How many enemies did we have, anyway? I honestly didn’t know. The truth was, English class was full of smart, quiet girls. Girls I pretended not to notice. And if I spoke English, I could better understand song lyrics that I heard illegally on Voice of America broadcasts.
Illegal, yes. Many things were illegal in Romania―including my thoughts and my notebook. But I was convinced I could keep everything hidden. After all, blankets of gloom are thick and heavy. Good for covering things, right?
I proceeded down the dark hallway to the office.
I was an idiot.
I just didn’t know it yet.
2
Doi
I
entered the school office. The old, brittle secretary glanced at me, then looked to her lap. No eye contact. She pointed a shriveled finger toward the director’s office.
My stomach curled, tighter.
A windowless box. Smoke-stained ceiling. The stale, suspended tang of moldy paper. Hanging above the director’s plain, blocky desk was a portrait in a golden frame. Identical portraits decorated all of Romania―classrooms, train stations, stores, hospitals, and even the front of books.
Him.
Nicolae Ceau？escu.
Our beloved leader. Our hero. Maverick of the grand Communist Party of Romania and vampire to the necks of millions. Illegal metaphor? Absolutely.
The new portrait depicted our hero with blushing cheeks and wavy, thick brown hair. He and his wife, Heroine Mother Elena, had guided the country of Romania for twenty-four years. I didn’t linger on the picture that showed a much younger version of our leader. Instead, my eyes pulled to the stranger seated below the portrait.
Mid-thirties. Unbroken line of an eyebrow. More scalp than hair. Hands each the size of a tennis racket and shoulders extending well beyond the width of the chair.
“Close the door,” instructed the man.
I closed the wooden door but did not sit. I was not told to.
The stranger peeled through a file in front of him. A photo clipped to the upper edge of the folder showed a young man with messy dark hair and pale eyes. And that’s when the floor of my stomach collapsed.
Sitting a meter away was not just a hulking man with one eyebrow and paddles for hands.
No.
This man was executioner, black rider, and spy. He was an agent of the Securitate, Romania’s fearsome secret police. Within his grasp sat a file and a photo.
Of me.
“They say there’s one Secu per every fifty Romanians,” my sister Cici once warned. “There are twenty-three million Romanians. Do the math. Securitate agents, they’re everywhere.”
We called them “the blue-eyed boys.” Nickname aside, they were generally easy to spot. In Romania, if your family was lucky enough to afford a car and could wait five years until one became available, you knew what you were getting. There was only one brand of car―Dacia. They came in a few colors like white, blue, or green. But the secret police, they drove black Dacias. A young man in our apartment block drove a black Dacia. I watched him from our balcony. I was intrigued from afar.
The man in front of me drove a black Dacia. I was certain of it. But I was not intrigued.
I was scared.
The agent leaned back, bullying the metal chair he sat upon. His eyes drilled silent holes through me, splitting the walls of my confidence. He waited, and waited, allowing the holes to fill with fear.
His weight suddenly shifted. The front legs of the chair clapped to the floor. He leaned across the desk, exhaling the dead nicotine that lived on his pasty, yellow tongue. His words still haunt me.
“You’re Cristian Florescu,” he said. “And I know what you’ve done.”
3
Trei
H
e knew what I had done.
What had I done?
The truth was, most Romanians broke the rules someway or another. There were so many to break. And so many to report that you had broken them.
A songwriter wrote negative lyrics about life in Romania. He was committed to an insane asylum.
A college student was discovered with an unregistered typewriter. He was sent to prison.
Complaining aloud could get you arrested as a “political agitator.” But I hadn’t complained aloud. I did most things quietly. Secretly. So what had this agent discovered?
Was it my homemade radio anten
루타 서페티스 [저]
루타 서페티스는 1967년 미국 미시건 주에서 리투아니아 이민자의 손녀로 태어났다.
힐스데일 칼리지에서 오페라를 공부하다가 전공을 바꿔 유럽에서 국제금융을 공부했다.
졸업 이 주 만에 불현듯 인생을 즐기고 싶다는 생각이 들어 로스앤젤레스로 가서 음악 산업에 종사했다.
십오 년 후에는 테네시로 과감하게 삶의 터전을 옮겼다. 이후에도 음악 관련 일을 하면서 여행을 즐겨 지금까지 6대륙 42개국을 다녔다.
2011년 첫 장편소설 '회색 세상에서'를 발표했다.
스탈린이 발트 3국에서 인종청소를 단행하기 직전 리투아니아를 탈출한 할아버지의 실화를 접하고, 무려 2천만 명이 희생됐지만 반세기가 넘도록 여전히 침묵에 싸인 역사를 세상에 알리기 위해서였다.
충격적인 역사적 사실을 담담하고 서정적인 필치로 그려낸 이 책은 전세계 40개국에 판권이 팔렸고 뉴욕 타임스 베스트셀러에 올랐으며 퍼블리셔스 위클리, 월스트리트 저널 등 각종 매체에서 '올해의 책'으로 꼽혔다.
2013년 두번째 장편소설 '아웃 오브 이지Out of Easy'가 미국에서 출간되었다.
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알아두세요!!!
도매상 및 제작사 사정에 따라 품절/절판 등의 사유로 취소될 수 있습니다. 오픈마켓업체의 배송지연시 주문이 자동으로 취소될 수 있습니다. 출고가능 시간이 서로 다른 상품을 함께 주문할 경우 출고가능 시간이 가장 긴 기준으로 배송됩니다. 유통의 특성상 출고기간은 예정보다 앞당겨지거나 늦춰질 수 있습니다. 택배사 배송일인 서울 및 수도권은 1~2일, 지방은 2~3일, 도서, 산간, 군부대는 3일 이상의 시간이 소요됩니다.
;)
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교환 및 반품이 가능한 경우 
상품을 공급 받은 날로부터 7일이내 가능 
상품은 월~토요일 오전 10시 이전 주문분에 대하여 당일 출고/당일 배송완료를 보장하는 상품입니다.
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상품은 유통특성상 인터파크에서 재고를 보유하지 않은 상품으로
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