Barefoot but Dreaming: My Transylvania to California Odyssey

By Paul Miclea

Writing a Memoir often means a series of narrative stories about someone’s life and experiences, providing a set of principles and values that were his guidelines.

This book, however, is different. It walks the reader in another world, now almost forgotten and presents sequences of village life deep inside Transylvania, before and during the communists taking control of Eastern Europe. Some of his life dilemmas, conflicts and resolutions - right or wrong are summarized with closure to some difficult periods and life encounters.

The author describes in simple sentences his struggle to escape the realm of poverty, isolation and injustice, through education and continuous endeavor for recognition, yet, without compromising his belief and ethical upbringing. Always aiming to excel, the author does not hide his failures, disappointments and defeats, thus providing an optimistic approach of never giving up.

The reader will surely be amazed to re-live the emotions of the first love, with its thrills, excitements, but also disappointments and sufferings. But love endures, always wins, conquering the hardest of hearts, as you will discover in this book.

After a stellar professional success that gave him a chance to travel the world and experience life in East Africa, the author was suddenly marginalized due to a political feud, thus leading him to plan and undertake escaping from a tightly-controlled society, seeking refuge and starting a new life for him and his family in California. The struggle for recognition in order to achieve the American Dream was not easy, requiring patience and hard work, but also major adjustments in setting goals and priorities not only for himself, but for the entire family.

Traveling and seeing the world was a passion for the writer from an early age, but it became the coronation of his life during his last years, while completing his almost 53 years of continuous employment, being involved in various projects on all continents. He witnessed dramatic changes in the social, political, economical and environmental concepts, some of them mentioned in the book.

By coincidence the author was involved with, and spent time dealing with tunnels, therefore it was appropriate for him to confirm the saying that there is light at the end of the tunnel, thus providing a ray of hope for young people to break barriers of poverty, isolation and temporary or occasional failures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marinel Press
• Release date: Aug 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996557825

Book preview

PART I

MY CHILDHOOD NEST

CHAPTER 1

LAZ:

A SMALL TRANSYLVANIAN VILLAGE

MOST OF US HUMANS, if not all, want to know more about the place where we were born, to better understand the environment we grew up in and to try explain why some of our first memories left such a strong impression on us. My village is nestled in the most beautiful part of the world, where sunshine makes fertile wheat fields and the moon shines over hardworking hospodars (land owners). No wonder that, from an early age, I wanted to know more about Laz, my village—definitely one of the most isolated in that county called Județul Arad, in western Romania. Even when I became an adult and a world traveler, I maintained a particular interest in learning more about Laz. Doing some research for this book, I found out that there are more settlements with the same name, both in Romania, and elsewhere. Wikipedia Encyclopedia contains a wealth of information on the name Laz.

Perched on a knoll covered by vegetation and surrounded by two valleys with mostly dry rivers flowing from the eastern hills, Cornu and Supuritu towards the west, being at approximately equal distance from the Codru Moma mountain range on the North to the Zarand range on the South, my village Laz has an enviable position, being seen from far away. On its back is the fortress Cetatea Deznei, as if watching over the fertile valley of Crișul Alb (White Crish) coming from the Gold Country of Brad, some 80 km (55 mi.) to the east and flowing through the Arad Plains into Hungary, at Gyula. My village is connected by rural access roads to Dezna, towards the north, across a hilly steppe-like area (the most used access), and to Buhani (through a plain forest), south towards Crocna, Dieci, Almaș, Rădești and Bonțești, or west towards Sălăjeni, through the forest or to Roșia, around it. There is no access to the rugged hills on the east, except for unmarked footpaths. The valley called Valea Văleanului separates the two barren hills of Cornu and Supuritu. To the east the elevation grows higher and higher towards Măgura, a completely forested area. If one would continue further eastward, through almost virgin forests, for some 30 km (~20 mi.) it would reach the eastern boundary between the counties of Arad and Bihor, with the nearest locality of Groși. No, I haven’t ventured on this trail, neither do I know of anybody who has done it, for those forests are notorious for wolves, bears, lynxes and who knows what other wild animals. Yes, I remember having been as far as Măgura, with its majestic groves of oaks, turkey oaks, birch trees, poplars, beautiful linden trees (Dad brought the trees planted along our property), wild cherry and cornel trees, but also lofty fir trees witnessing the passing of time over those table lands of mine.

The name Laz could have come as a diminutive for Lazăr, Lazarus, Lazaro, or Lazaros. Trying to find out about the history of my village from the local sources during one of our regular summer visits in 1977, I interviewed a couple of senior villagers and asked them some specific questions: What did they know about the history of Laz, what did the name mean, when did the settlement begin and why was it located there? (I keep this tape recording to this day and just listened to it recently.) Brother George Ghergar, a family friend and church member, answered something like this:

The village Laz belonged initially to Crocna (aka, Cromna). The area named Zărmăzel was the first settlement, with a first east-west street, from the foothills to Prunii lui Tiți. It was later on that a new main street was developed further uphill, starting from Valea Văleanului and ending at the same Prunii lui Tiți. That was about two hundred years ago. As for the name Laz, a long time ago, while on a train coming from Arad, a teacher told me that Laz means o târsală (a clearing), in an old language. Perhaps the land was covered by bushes and the settlers were asked to voluntarily clear and prepare it for habitation and cultivation. It was obviously a brute job for the settlers to get rid of wild bushes and prepare the land for gardening and dwelling. That was why the new settlement was called Laz.

Interestingly, the setting is quite rectangular in shape, with a wide main street on top of the hill, with sidewalks on both sides separated from the road by trees (always whitewashed) and five perpendicular and narrower streets.

Trying to learn about the past and comparing my memories with the feeling of those who lived there all their lives, I could not resist the question about when was the best time for the Laz villagers. Pausing for a minute and being careful to not make a politically incorrect statement, he said:

After the second World War the villagers became good householders, cultivating the land and producing more than they could consume. They produced more than three wagons (30 metric tons) of wheat per season. There were households that harvested up to 5 or 6 metric tons of wheat (5,000 to 6,000 kg)…

Budapest was closer to my village than the Romanian capital of Bucharest, so no wonder there was quite a strong Hungarian influence, particularly among older people like Grandma, who remembered the days when the province belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. And that was not the only foreign influence, for there were families of Jews, Germans, Slovaks, Serbs and even Italians in other localities, but none in Laz. Everybody spoke Romanian exclusively, except for some foreign words overheard in other places, such as Arad, or words in the language of gypsies (tsigans) that often visited our village to beg for food and clothing, sometimes offering to repair kitchen utensils in exchange for such goods.

Grandma Lenuța told me that when she was a young girl, during the Austro-Hungarian Empire, there was a grof (Count) who owned most of Laz’s land and the villagers worked for him as laborers. His residence was far away, on a hill between Dieci and Roșia, from where he and his close assistants could see almost the entire estate. She further remembered how things changed and the land was divided in holde (lots) of approximately an acre, called lanț, but she did not know how the villagers were put in possession of the land. She mentioned, though, how people who were more entrepreneurial started to buy land from those who, for various reasons, did not work it and preferred to sell it. Grandpa Pavel was the one who bought, but Dad bought land as well when we were kids, so that he could let his brothers Lazăr and Iulius own three lots each.

ORTHODOX AND BAPTIST CHURCHES IN LAZ

From what I remember as a child, and from other sources, I know that in those days—and before the communists imposed the cooperatives, thus literally confiscating the land—the village consisted of some 141 households (at one point our house had the number 112), and some 500 souls called Laz their home. There were three churches (Orthodox, Baptist and Pentecostal), a one-room school with enough kids to keep a teacher busy with grades 1 to 7. Most of the households were upgraded after the war and people held various domestic animals: there were some 40 pairs of boi (working bulls) and 30 pairs of horses in the village, herds of milk cows and bivole (black buffalo cows) for both work and milk, sheep, goats and many pigs, as well as poultry belonging to practically every household. In 2013 there were no more than 50 villagers left (although a webpage indicates 114), most of them old, and not a single school child (the school has been closed for years).

Located at 92 km (57 mi.) east of Arad, the commune of Dezna incorporates five separate and distinct localities (ro.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comuna_Dezna,_Arad): Dezna proper, Buhani, Laz (Déznaláz, in some Hungarian documents), Neagra and Slatina de Criş. Some documents mention Dezna as dating from 1318, Buhani from 1441, Laz between 1553 and 1561, Neagra and Slatina de Criș since 1553. Other nearby communes and villages around Laz are: Sălăjeni and Roșia to the west, Dieci, Crocna, Almaș (with the nearest railway station) to the south (more on satul.net/harta-laz-ar/). Sebiș (pop. 6,168 now) and Moneasa (pop. 1,035), both around 12 km (7 mi.), are the main settlements. With the exception of Moneasa, which was—still is—a resort with mineral springs and villas, the economy of this region has always been mostly agricultural.

There’s a landmark that I saw directly from our backyard—the ruins of an old fortress called Cetatea Dezna, located on a 390 m (1,280 ft) high cliff called Ozoiu (or Izoiu). Although Historian Cornelia Bodea (1916–2010), the daughter of an Orthodox priest of Dezna, does not exclude the possibility of it dating since the Dacian times, old documents say that it dates since the 13th century, having been built in the center of a former Romanian cnezat (principality) and used as a royal residence (perhaps in summer?) by the Hungarian King Charles I Robert of Anjou (1288–1342, see Wikipedia). Later the fortress became part of a strategic defensive plan for Western Transylvania against invaders, such as the Turks occupation of Timisoara (1552) and the nearby domains of Ineu. Occupied by the Turks from 1574 to 1596, then again in 1658, after which the legend says the fortress was destroyed by a gunpowder explosion caused by a local girl who refused to be taken to a Turkish harem.

Cornelia Bodea wrote that, based on documents she found, a small wooden church was erected and ordained in Laz in 1739, bearing the name "Pious Paraschiva" and an icon from church, painted on wood was found in Arad. As for the other religions, a Baptist church started in the 1920s, followed soon thereafter by a Pentecostal one. Both these denominations were seen as influenced by the West, especially by the USA through emigrants and, therefore, were discriminated against vis-à-vis the traditional Orthodox religion.

Arad, the center of the entire region was a major city in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. During the reign of Maria Theresa (1740-1780) the town developed and the population grew to 1321 families in 1752, making handicrafts in workshops and processing raw materials from the agricultural sector of the town through the 18th century. The town was visited in 1752 by the emperor Franz Joseph, and by composers and writers who left their signatures there (Franz Liszt among them). Now Arad is the capital city of Județul (the county) Arad and has a population of 173,000 inhabitants. The entire county has 461,730.

I learned from my parents that our small community, while geographically challenged by its isolation and rough access roads, was still prosperous and self-supporting, with sufficient cultivable land for those 140 or so families living there. Each and every family owned a house and a garden almost equal in size. The land outside the village’s footprint was clearly parceled in lots of approximately one acre separated by răzoare (boundary ridges) and there were several territories named Zarmazel, Uric, Drumul Romii, Lungile, Hodăi, Ganulești and Tigani. The villagers knew well how to rotate the crops, so that the nutrients were optimized. From what I remember, a parcel cultivated with corn one season had to be followed by a crop of wheat, then for a year or two hay only or clover was allowed on that land and the rotation continued (obviously there were exceptions).

There were no homeless people and no beggars in the village, but there were gypsies coming from other villages to beg for food, clothing, etc. There were traditions and customs, some religious in nature, some more pagan than religious. For example, the Orthodox priest, holding a cross and a censer, followed by some parishioners, used to go on a procession to anoint the village entry troița (roadside crucifix) at Bobotează (Epiphany), then to bless the wheat-seeded fields in the spring and again to bless the good crop around the Pentecost.

The situation worsened a lot a couple years after the war, when a system of cote (quotas) as percentages was imposed on each crop, particularly for wheat, that was controlled more easily at the batoză (thresher). Later on (1948) the system was more appeasing, for the quotas were based on the total land owned by a family, whether cultivated or not (actually it was then that the government introduced a plan for each landowner, trying to increase the crops, but without any incentives). The quotas were for wheat, corn, oat, potatoes and peas, and even for pork and veal meat, regardless if the landowner cultivated that particular produce or raised animals. He/she was obligated to donate the established quotas or face prison. In addition, the villagers were obligated to carry their quotas to Sebiș, some 12 km (8 miles) from Laz. The government did not pay a single cent for all those quotas, until several years later (around 1956), when they introduced a new system of contracts that were voluntary in theory, but obligatory in practice, and the price paid was much lower that what was paid on the market (mostly black market).

It may seem strange, but even now, after so many years, I remember vividly the lamentations I heard from Dad regarding that draconian system, leaving families without grains and produce for the table. On the other hand, before that system was imposed, I remember my parents being able to sell some crops at the market, which was the only way of getting some much needed cash. However, that was no longer possible after the communist regime was installed.

MY FAMILY—FACTS AND STORIES

I wonder myself about the question: What is family? Or even better, who is my family? Where and when did it start? Where and when will it end, if ever?

Grandparents. Most of what I know about my family comes from my paternal grandmother, whom I tape-recorded during many hours of conversations in the 1960s and early 1970s. My grandmother, Elena (Lenuța) was born in Laz in 1891, the single child of Costan and Lena Mihăilă. Her parents were both natives of Laz, with a good household and communal husbandry, with many relatives in the village. Her mother died at age 39, as a result of a second childbirth —a baby boy that lived only two weeks. Her father was a good, peaceful man, who did not remarry and died in 1933 at the age of 69. Grandma Lenuța was schooled for four years in Laz and knew to write and read. She married in 1907, just before turning 16, to Pavel Miclea (born 1882, died 1938). Pavel was nine years older than her and came from a village called Câmp, near Vașcău. I don’t know anything about his parents and whether or not he had any siblings. Grandma said that he was not schooled, but was an intelligent man, a hardworking migrant, well respected and nicknamed bănierul (the well-off guy), for he saved money earned as a daily worker for landowners, particularly during the summer harvesting season. Apparently he had some competition from local lads who wanted Grandma’s hand.

Grandma Lenuța told me Grandpa Pavel worked for her parents during the summer and lived in their house for several weeks. During this time they saw each other, but did not talk directly. They did, however, have a chance to find out some details about each other and could study their respective behavior. After completing his work agreement, Grandpa Pavel came back with a known man or friend from Dezna and asked to talk to her father privately, a conversation that turned out to be a marriage proposal. Now, by this time Grandma’s father knew pretty well how good a worker Grandpa Pavel was and liked him. The only remaining issues were, first, what would he bring as his fortune, given the fact that he did not own land in Laz, and, second, whether or not Grandma would like him. Apparently the first issue was resolved immediately by the promise of Grandpa Pavel that he had enough money to immediately buy three lots of land, the equivalent of almost two acres. As for the second issue, it was even simpler; Grandma, who by now understood the reason for that private discussion, was called in and asked directly by her dad, something like this: "Listen Lena, this man has come here to propose and is asking you to marry him. We know him by now and we discussed what he could bring. But, now I am asking you: Do you like him?" Ashamed and shy she answered: I’d like him, but only if you approve.

And so it was a done deal! Pretty soon Grandpa moved in and lived with the family for six weeks preparing for the big wedding ceremony. However, the newly betrothed were still separate, did not even eat together until after the wedding. Why did it take so long? Grandma told me Grandpa was an orphan and while he had money, he did not have enough clothes and it took some time for them to be made before their wedding.

What’s in a name? Miclea, as a family name, is not very common in Romania and by some accounts it started in Transylvania. Perhaps the most known person with this name was one Stefan Micle (1820–1879), born in the city of Năsăud, who became Rector of the University of Iasi (Jassy). In 1864 he married a fourteen-year-old young lady (he was 30 years her senior) named Veronica Câmpeanu, soon after she finished the Central School for Girls in the city of Iasi, where Stefan was her graduation exam proctor. Veronica Micle was an inspired poet, however, she became famous not by what she wrote, but by being the lover of the most celebrated Romanian poet, Mihail Eminescu (1850-1889). I don’t know where Stefan Micle’s parents came from, but where my grandpa Pavel’s family lived was some 170 miles (270 km) from Năsăud. As for using Miclea or Micle, it was often a matter of preference. I was called Micle many times and by many people.

The wedding was a big affair, with all of the villagers invited—most of them came—with tables set in the courtyard and a band hired for the event. Grandma told me that they received some monetary gifts, plus the dance proceeds: two kreuzer per dance, a total of seven korunas (Austro-Hungarian currency!)—enough money to buy a wall clock with weights and a one-week movement, striking the hour, which was a family asset for three generations and I remember it.

Thinking of Grandpa Pavélea I speculate that, perhaps, I inherited my passion for traveling from him, for he was the first traveler in the family, as he often walked for a full day from his village of Câmp to his new place in Laz, traversing hills and valleys (I only did it twice, once with Iovan, the second time with cousin Liviu).

WALL CLOCK THAT REMINDS ME OF GRANDMA’S

In 1908, Grandma gave birth to her first child, a girl who lived only seven months. Next she gave birth to a baby boy, Constantin (Costan, also nicknamed Tanu), my father (9 February 1910, died 27 June 1955). After that followed a girl, named Marișca, then a boy, Liviu, but both died early. Then came Floriță (1919-1985), Lazăr (1923-1972) and Iulius (1927-2000). Being the oldest of the four siblings alive and after his father died in 1938, my father remained the head of the household, helping his parents, younger sister and two brothers.

I did not know the maternal grandparents: Floricu died in 1934, one year after his wife baba Marie’s passing, and three years before my coming. That left me with one grandparent only, the good, clever and wonderful baba Lenuța—Grandma, the pillar of our family. We will all remember her love and care forever; thank God for her life and her good advice. She lived long enough to see ten great grandkids. I was fortunate to tape record annual conversations with her from 1966 through 1973, while on vacation in Laz or Sebiș, and it gives me enormous pleasure to hear her warm voice as if we were together in the same room again. Most of what I know today about my family comes from those recordings (now converted to digital files for posterity). All these recordings started with a prayer by Grandma, thanking God for the opportunity of meeting again and praying for the entire family, naming all of us. Then she used to sing a hymn, answer questions, tell stories and give advice, sending messages to Iovan, Adorean or Costel, to whom I played the messages or gave them the tape. True treasures! How I wished I had Dad’s and Mom’s voices taped.

The wall clock of three generations. It was the first clock I saw. More than 50+ years after Grandma’s wedding, the clock no longer operated properly and had stopped unexpectedly. Grandma said she asked a young handyman by the name of Igaș, to repair it. But after examining the old clock, he said that he could not do much, for it was too old. He offered to give her a newer tabletop alarm clock in exchange for the old one and Grandma agreed, for she could not live without knowing the time. The new clock worked just fine, but it was not the same. Grandma missed her wall clock and every time she wanted to have the time, she would look at the bare wall. That was not to last long, for she sent word to Mr. Igaș that she had changed her mind and wanted her wall clock back, working or not. So she got the historic clock back, perhaps cleaning and oiling it now and then, and she never let it go again, as long as she lived (1975). What happened to it after her death, I don’t know, but I wish I had saved it, in her memory and for its sentimental value. Coincidentally, about a century after Grandma’s wedding and when I completed 25 years of continuous service with the same company in Oakland, California I was offered a catalog to select an item as an anniversary present and I picked a wall clock. Not exactly the same, but it sure was in memory of Grandma’s wall clock (and I still have it!)

My parents. Grandma told me that Costan, my father, was good in school and liked to learn, completing the seventh grade in Laz. Later on, after becoming involved with church activities, he attended short courses organized in Buteni, where he learned to read music, to play the harmonium and eventually became a church choir director. He also attended theology classes and later on was ordained as a Baptist pastor.

In 1929, when he was 19, my father married Persida Toma, a 16-year girl from the same village, who was a beautiful and gifted brunette, known for her voice and singing talents. Initially his father did not want her as a daughter-in-law because she did not have much wealth—she had only three lots of land and there was another girl who had four. Grandma intervened and convinced her husband to let my father marry Persida, for they loved each other and they knew could buy more land if they wanted to.

MOM–YOUNGEST–WITH GRANDMA MARIE, SISTERS LENA AND MARIUTA, AND BROTHER IOVAN ~1916

About my mother’s family I have written information from my Uncle Iovan, her brother. Mom’s great-grandpa Toader Ilieș came from Răștirata and his wife, Dilinca Ilieș was from Rănușa (Ramna), but moved to Laz and built a house at No. 50. They had a single child, a daughter named Persida, who married my great-grandpa Vanu Toma, a villager of Laz (household No. 89) who moved to their house and later on had two children: Florea (nicknamed Floricu), my maternal grandfather and Floare, who married Simion Covaci, lived at No. 17. Maternal grandpa Florea married Marie Lulușa, from the village of Sălăjeni, in 1900. Not sure if she had a sister or more, but I remember stopping in Sălăjeni to visit an Aunt Lena and other relatives, while traveling on foot to Sebiș or coming back.

My mother, Persida, was born in 1913 and had two sisters, Lena (Elena) (born 1901, died ~1973), Mariuță (born 1904, died ~1980s) and one brother, Vanu (or Iovan, born 1903, died ~1952). Grandma Marie died on June 21, 1933 and grandpa Florea died on August 9, 1934. Mom went to the primary school in Laz for four years, and married Dad when she was 16 in 1929, moving to his place at No. 111. Young and physically fit, the couple was well liked and pretty involved in religious activities in the area, both being exceptionally gifted musically. Many villagers remembered her strong soprano voice years after she was gone at an early age. From what my Grandma told me, Mom was very agile, perhaps a little impatient, but Dad was patient and calm. They lived a good life and often were considered an ideal couple. Unfortunately they did not have any pictures taken of them together.

MOM’S ONLY PICTURE

Their marriage produced three children who lived: Iovan born in 1931, Adorean in 1934 and me in 1937.

WHEN I OPENED My EYES

It is quite normal for us humans to delve into the past, trying to reconstitute parts of lost memories, and I am no exception. Not only that, in comparison to others, I have gathered that I only have a few childhood memories, and they are a bit blurry. Therefore, it is a challenge to remember and write about this part of my life. What I know about my early childhood is what little I remember directly, as well as what I was told by others.

I was born on June 15, a Tuesday, and was registered at the Dezna town hall on June 17, 1937 (the rule then was that if the child died within two days there was no need to bother registering the event). It was quite interesting how our parents managed such good family planning with Iovan being born on June 11 and Adorean on August 21, with almost exactly three-year intervals between births. That means we were all conceived in mid-September, perhaps at the end of the summer work season, when the parents were happy with the crop and the nights became longer. As for the name, I believe Grandma, who told me she consoled Mom about me being a boy, suggested the name Pavel, in honor of her husband—my paternal grandfather.

The first to be born, in 1931, was Iovan, a boy named after Mom’s brother and paternal grandfather (although they were actually registered as Vanu). Then, three years later came Adorean (who was named by Dad after Constantin Adorian, a well-known Baptist pastor those days). After three more years, it was my turn. They gave me the name of the paternal grandfather, to show respect, as this was a family tradition. Grandpa was alive when I was born, unfortunately only for another year, so I did not know him, but Grandma told me moșu Pavel held me on his lap.

Naming the kids. It was a tradition in Laz and elsewhere those days to name the newborn after somebody dear and respected in the family, dead or alive. For example, Grandma’s dad was named Costan and her mom was Elena and they baptized her as Elena, too. Then when Grandma had her first child, he was named Costan (Constantin on paper), after her dad (it would seem that grandpa Pavel did not insist on his parents’ names, of which I know nothing). No wonder, then, that we have in our family another Elena (my sister) and no less that four Constantins (including me, plus Costin, as a variation). My mom, Persida, was named after an aunt of hers who died one year before she was born, but sadly enough none of our daughters were named Persida. There were other relatives who named their daughters Persida, but not us! (And we were all blamed for this lack of respect for Mom—shame). Note: Persida is Persis in English, a Biblical name mentioned by Apostle Paul once only in the New Testament (Romans 16:12: Salute the beloved Persis, which labored much in the Lord. A Google search explains the name as being of Greek origin, meaning of Persis or from Persia. Another interpretation of Persis is precious—interesting.

I learned years later that I was an unwanted boy since Mom prayed for and expected a girl. Being the third boy in a row was probably a big disappointment for Mom, and apparently she said it loud and clear, so much so that I heard it in Australia in 2010, from a lady my age whom I never met before. She was born in a neighboring village, Crocna, into a family that befriended my own (our dads knew each other very well and she heard the story from her parents). Little did I know in my early childhood years about being such a disappointment to Mom. When I started to understand and react to the realities around me, I was already accepted, nourished and loved. She did her best, although I experienced very little of her love since she died at an early age. Many of my close relatives told me that I inherited some of Mom’s physical features and mannerism, and that she taught me to sing and was proud of my musical talent.

I have but a few memories with Mom. There are a few sequences I remember, such as walking along a path coming from either cânepiști or from the forest towards Buhani, when she protected me against some neighboring kids. I also remember an event with Mom, when the house was being renovated and much improved, but we did not have a water well. Dad hired a team of experienced well diggers, and after looking around the property, they decided that the best location was near the house, where they hoped to find an underground source of water. Before starting to dig, Dad called the entire family and the diggers, and said a prayer, after which they let me start the dig and I was very proud. Luckily, although our house was on top of the hill on which the village was located, they found a strong vein of fresh water at the depth of some 8 meters (26 feet) and that well has never dried up. Needless to say my parents were happy to have such a blessed source of fresh water in their courtyard and many of the neighbors, even passersby, enjoyed the good water, particularly during those hot days of summer.

One other thing I remember well was that a childless family (Teodor and Vesalina Tol) in our Baptist church wanted to adopt me. Not only that, they often invited me to their house and offered me sweets and things I did not have at home (pencils, erasers, notebooks), trying to earn my trust, but I did not feel any interest or attraction of moving away from my family, particularly from my brothers, and neither did my parents. Actually I remember Dad telling me he did not want to give me for adoption (years later, that family adopted another boy who happened to be a Miclea, a distant relative now living in Chicago, who became Grigore Tol).

Brotherly conflicts. I detested my given name from very early in my childhood. The trouble was created by Adorean, who used to bully me by calling me with Grandpa’s nickname—Pavélea—with a strong accent on the second syllable, making me protest and even scream in anger. Obviously I did my best to protest and seek help from Grandma (the parents were out in the field most of the time during the day), but Adorean was a master at bullying and hoaxing, always coming up with an excuse. The story was repeated daily, so much so that I decided I had to change my name—but how? Adorean’s mockery was not the only one that made me hate my name. The diminutive used for Pavel was Pavalutz, literally little Pavel and I hated it as much as I did Pavélea. No wonder, later on I asked my classmates in school and even college to call me by the last name, Miclea, which I definitely liked. I did not have any other nicknames, except perhaps in primary school, when some boys called me (actually all three of us) Mârtanu (tomcat), as a combination or extension of Dad’s nickname Tanu.

Adorean was the master of pranks and provocation, able to always find something to demonstrate how smart he was in all circumstances. For instance, if we were at the dinner table, with Grandma carefully dividing the chicken or pork meat among all of us, he would hide part of his meat until I finished mine then showing it to me, as if Grandma gave him a second helping, thus making me protest. But it was fun to be with him, for he always invented or improvised something to create excitement. No wonder that later he became a notorious storyteller and confabulator. He did it so well that you never knew what was true and what was his imagination. He was smart and creative, but more preoccupied with what was out of the ordinary, unheard of and unbelievable, something that only he knew or heard of. Adorean was handsome and liked to be neatly dressed. I envied him for his creativity, but also for his beautiful, curly blonde hair. My hair was darker and straight, and as a kid I always had problems with my hair, while his was so naturally curly.

When I was around four, several of us kids were playing in the yard with whatever improvised toys and things we could find. Adorean had a stick in his hands and he decided to attach some sort of a metal wheel to it, and tried to throw it far away. Unfortunately he did not look around and all of a sudden I was hit by that metal object right on the mouth. It cut my upper lip, with blood gushing all over me. I started to cry and when Adorean realized he was in trouble, he quickly disappeared while Mom took care of me, threatening him for his misbehavior. Somehow Mom managed to stop the blood and applied a dressing on the wound (perhaps with a blackberry leaf—that was known to help), then went out looking for Adorean, but he was nowhere. He took refuge with Aunt Florița and came home after a day or two, when my wound had started to heal and Mom‘s fury had mellowed down. Since then I carry this little sign of a joyous day from my early childhood.

That was but one of Adorean’s adventures that created memories. About the same time, he was playing one day with his classmate and neighbor Terenti, wanting to cut something with the axe. The guy was holding the piece of wood carelessly and Adorean cut one of his fingers. There were many stories with Adorean—my first friend and enemy, but there’s no room for all of them here; may he rest in peace.

Among his other talents, Adorean had a gift of drawing cartoons of faces and situations. Our privy’s walls were all covered by his cartoons of neighbors, children, animals, birds—everything. He was also a creator of nicknames and had a special method of teasing someone to the point of bullying and making fun of him or her. Despite this, he was quite popular among his generation and later in life became well-known within the entire region, from Arad to Brad, and even beyond. Adorean lived in Concord, CA for several years, with wife Marie and daughter Didi, plus her two sons, before his passing in May 2010 while on a visit to his hometown of Brad. He was buried there, in a brand new (and expensive) cavou (vault), specially designed and built by his order (with some fixtures bought here in California).

OUR HOUSE

We lived in a relatively large house, by comparison with others, on the main street and in the middle of the village. The household consisted of four dwellings: the main house in an L shape, with three bedrooms and a pantry, with access to the attic, and a cellar in the basement. Then there was a coptoriște (summer room) with its own storage, where the hambare (wheat granaries) and other grains or produce were stored; a barn for six adult animals: vaci (cows), bulls, bivole (buffalo cows) and a separate structure, cocine, with a couple of pigsties, compartments for sheep and goats, as well as chicken coops (geese and hens). It was joy and celebration when the animals had babies and we sure enjoyed the company of baby lambs or goat kids, as well as calves or heifers.

We had a well or fountain some 8 m (25 ft) deep, as well as a privy outhouse—both very useful for our country-style life. The yard was fully enclosed, with a small gate for people and a large one for carts. The large animals had direct access to the barn from the street, and when they returned from grazing, waited for a while and if nobody came, they bellowed (mugeau) for us to open the door. Next to the barn there was a space reserved for storing the hay, in three or four hayricks (cocks), one stack for chuff, as well as a manure or dung-heap. The yard sloped down slightly towards the garden behind the summer structure and the birds’ shed. The entire lot was around one acre. There was a sidewalk along the property and it was our job, as kids, to keep it clean (particularly of animal dung or hay blown by the wind (we had to sweep it on Saturdays, to be clean on Sundays and all holidays). I barely remember, being very young, when my Dad and Iovan brought several young tei (linden trees) from the forest and planted them along the sidewalk, creating a pleasant shade along our property. It was a custom to treat the trunks with white lime, giving them a nice look and protecting the tree from insects. Not only that, Dad built benches along the house and that was the preferred place for us, as well as our neighbors and visitors, to spend time on Sundays and holidays. Soon after the war, sometime in 1945, Dad bought several blocks of stone from somebody in Dezna to build a nice arch for the entry, as well as for the house foundation. This was a major and specialized job, for which he hired two Italian brothers from Sebiș, Bruno and Romeo, who lived with us for several weeks while working to artistically install the stones. They also wrote, per Dad’s request, his name on the entry arch and the initials MC artistically combined on top of each other and placed in the middle of the front house siding, like an emblem. What was unforgettable for the rest of our lives was not only the skills of those two stone crafters, but their quarreling every day, particularly after drinking some homemade țuică (plum brandy) they bought from the villagers (it was a no-no for us). When the entry was ready and the house was repaired and completely repainted, it was the best and most attractive house in Laz, making us very proud, but also obligated to keep it in such good shape.

We were a large family in the mid 1940s, when my two uncles were still single and living with us. I remember those dinners when there were eight of us around the table: there was a bench behind the table and usually the three of us would sit there, perhaps together with one uncle, with Dad and Mom on the side and poor Grandma, who was the cook, almost always eating after us. Sometime she put her plate on the stove to stay warm for later. All our meals started and ended with a prayer or grace either by Dad or by Grandma. Occasionally one of us was asked to seek a blessing or to thank God for the food, but not too often. Even after my uncles married and left the house, we were a large group, for soon the family grew by two when sister Lenuța and Costel came in 1946 and 1949, respectively.

There were times when we had guests, both relatives and friends, particularly during the summer. Some were visitors to the church and often Dad brought them home for lunch. For these occasions Grandma either set two tables in the courtyard, or organized the lunch in two sittings. Thank God that, during all those turbulent years and through the war years with its many troubles, we never suffered from hunger. It is true that we did not live in luxury, but we never suffered or were without bread, milk and dairy products, homemade marmalade and preserves as well as fruits during most of the time. There was no fridge or freezer and no store in the village. Most everything was fresh, but in summer we used the cellar and occasionally some food was lowered with ropes into the well where it was cool. For fruit, there were a couple methods to keep them during winter: one method was to bury apples and potatoes together in a pile covered by a layer of dirt and wheat straws, to prevent freezing. The other one was to place apples in the hayricks when they were made. In winter, when we drew hay to feed the animals, occasionally an apple came out of the rick and rewarded us for the task. However, the principal method was to smoke prunes and slices of apples, pears, quinces, etc. and store them for winter, when they were served as desserts, even cooked as pies or added to mămăligă (polenta). The pantry was full of jars with various preserves, syrups, stewed fruits and compotes, with Grandma in control of everything.

Sleeping was a little more complicated. There were not enough rooms and beds for all of us and I don’t remember having a bed of my own. We shared beds as needed, and often when we had guests some of us slept in the barn, or in summer on a pile of straw under the sky. What nice memories I have of those nights. As a matter of fact, in winter it was warmer in the barn than in the house, for there the animals kept the temperature constant (obviously the smell was part of the heating bill). As a kid I slept most of the time with Grandma. Actually she always took care of the youngest kid, more than of the others. She also used to put us to sleep in the afternoon and I remember waking up nervous for not finding her there. Later on I slept in the same bed with Adorean and we had as many arguments during sleep time as during the daytime.

We had a good garden in the backyard, used mainly for fruit trees, but also as a playground for us and as a pasture for animals. The garden was fully fenced. Usually we did not cross the fence, but there were always exceptions. Dad loved trees, was a good grafter and we had several fruit trees: a big walnut tree was just behind our summer cottage, next to it was a sour cherry tree, further down a large apple tree and two pear trees, a few more walnut trees, several young apple trees of different kinds, all planted and grafted by Dad. In the back there was a tall cherry tree next to a walnut tree that was a challenge to climb, but we always managed (at that age!) to conquer it and enjoy the fruit (sometimes climbing the walnut tree first, then crossing onto the cherry tree that was taller and without branches close to the ground). There was a hole that filled with water after it rained, where Dad attempted to dig a water well, but there was no source of water so it was abandoned. A dry creek ran across the yard, east to west, but we rarely saw water running for longer than the duration of the rain.

Between the large apple and pear trees there was a nice patch of lawn, where we used to throw a blanket and rest on Sundays during the hot days of summer, when we did not have guests (not too often). It was one kind of family outing and unfortunately we did not have many occasions.

MY MOTHER’S SHORT LIFE AND SUDDEN DEATH

After having me, Mom did not give up on having a girl, but unfortunately had a miscarriage of twin girls around 1940, then in 1942 gave birth to a stillborn boy. Four weeks thereafter, she died completely unexpectedly, leaving the three of us orphans and my father devastated. That was a shock that hit not only the family, but the entire community and its vicinity. Mom was only 29, in the prime of life and she did not know what it meant to be sick. My father suffered terribly and remained comfortless for the rest of his life, a widower at only 32, with the tasks of raising three young kids and taking care of his own mom who had been a widow for several years.

Although I vaguely remember Mom, I was very interested to know why she died so young and how did it all happen. Since I was a kid, I’ve heard many versions and explanations of her death and I was under the impression that her passing was a mystery that preoccupied an entire generation of Lazans. No wonder that, when I became an adult, I started to collect information from people I knew as trustworthy and made a couple of tape recordings. Here’s how Grandma remembered Mom’s death and how she related it during my tape-recording of 1973:

"Four weeks after she delivered the stillborn boy there was Christmas on a Friday and since the church was closed and the door sealed with red wax by the Antonescu fascist government we used to keep services in our home. Persida was joyful, sang with the choir and at the end of the service, addressing the choir said: ‘Listen, you don’t know a single hymn suitable for funeral services, in case somebody dies.’ One of them answered: ‘Yes, that’s true; why don’t you teach us?’ Persida knew many church songs and she sang with them some new hymnals for funeral services, in a joyful atmosphere. The day after Christmas was normal, but the weather became colder and windier. During Saturday night, again everything normal, but after midnight Persida had to go to the toilet (that was an outhouse). I heard it and told her not to go out for it was too cold, but to use a bucket that was set in the storage room inside the house. She insisted on going out, then I told her to cover herself with an overcoat and she refused again, saying she did not consider it so cold. Soon after returning to the bedroom, she started to groan and lament that she felt a jolting pain in her abdomen that wouldn’t go away. The pain continued during the day and as family became concerned, word spread and Mom’s sisters and close ones came to offer remedies.

There was no physician, nurse or pharmacy in the village, but there was a dispensary and Dr. Mișca in Dezna, some 5 km away. However, being a Sunday and being so proud, your mom did not let Costan, your father to go get the doctor, saying that if she does not get better he could go on Monday. Her sisters offered remedies such as warm compresses and some herbal teas, based on their guessed diagnostic, but nothing helped. Sunday night, around 4 AM, while she was still in pain and surrounded by her sisters, Costan went to your Uncle Iancu to take the horse carriage and go bring Dr. Mișca from Dezna. Soon after your Dad left, all of a sudden Persida asked me: ‘Mother, do you let me die?’ I said, ‘But what could I do for you? If I could I would offer my life to save yours.’ Then we talked about the doctor’s coming and I advised her to move to another bed that was more accessible, and she immediately accepted and moved. After awhile, she asked me: ‘Are the children asleep?’ I said ‘Yes, but why do you ask? If you want to see them, I will wake them and bring them here.’ She said: ‘Wake them and bring them here.’ I went and brought all three of you and you stood next to each other in front of her. She looked at you without saying a word, then turned her face towards the wall. I took you each by the hand and brought you back to your beds in another room. She was quiet after that and minutes later, when I went to check on her she was gone, peacefully. I started to yell in desperation, and asked that somebody go to Dezna and tell your father not to bring the doctor and pay the fee for nothing, for Persida is dead. The horrible news spread fast and soon the entire village knew Persida was dead. The house became packed with people—her sisters, your aunts, uncles, cousins—all were there. Your father returned soon after daybreak and when he entered the room and saw her body he fell down in a faint—another tragic episode. Your Aunt Florița, his sister, and others started to administer massages and to give him drinks. He recovered late in the afternoon. The funeral services followed, with many participants not only from Laz, but from the neighboring villages, too. Although a believer, your father could not accept the situation and almost became mad. He started waking up during the night and walking outside, hoping to see her.

What do I remember of Mom? Not much. I feel really sorry that, unlike my older brothers, I cannot recall a significant memory with Mom. To learn more about her, in 1977 I tape-recorded a conversation with Aunt Mariuță, her older sister, and listening to her recount the story, I was even more saddened that I didn’t remember her voice. But try to imagine that young girl, so ambitious and dedicated to be heard that she climbed a tall tree to sing from on high, so that neighbors could hear her singing. Surely singing was her gift, her legacy. Here’s an excerpt from that conversation:

"Your mother was nine years younger than I, a very devoted and pious woman, with a pleasant and distinguished personality, first among all of our generation. She was well-known for her gift of singing and often, in her youth, she climbed a cherry tree wherefrom she sang loud, to be heard by the entire village.

After you were born and still wanting a girl, she became pregnant again, but unfortunately she was not careful with her pregnancy, going to Arad and carrying heavy baskets full of apples to sell at the market. She also worked in the field, without any concern for her pregnancy. Something went wrong and she had a miscarriage, and aborted what turned out to be twin girls. We were all scared, for she lost a lot of blood. The fetuses were buried without being named and she started to recover gradually. She was never the same after that. And yet, she became pregnant again and was due for delivery before Christmas of 1942. Sofia, my daughter—your Mom’s preferred niece—visited her often and told me she did not look well, for her legs were swollen and had a blue color. However, she had no pain and our midwife Lena did not notice anything wrong, except perhaps that she appeared weakened from aborting the twin girls. When she was due, something happened: your Uncle Iovan asked your father to help him with the work on sacrificing the pork for Christmas, as was the custom. When your father came home at lunch, to see how Persida was doing, she sensed the smell of pork meat, but he did not bring anything for her to eat, as she probably expected. Perhaps it was then that the child died due to her craving for pork meat. When they finished the work with the pork and Costan came home, he brought her some meat, but it was too late. Soon after that she gave birth to a stillborn boy that was overdue. After that birth she did not have a normal discharge, as a normal lying-in woman, but some yellowish stuff. She started to recover, but continued to be defiant in what she did and how she dressed, pretending she was well, until Christmas when she fell confined to bed. The day before she died I was in Sălăjeni, visiting with our Aunt Mariuță and when I returned to Laz, I stopped at your home to see Persida, who said to me: Nana, do you see my hand? I am dying. I gave her courage, but she did not respond. I went home but returned soon together with my other sister Elena, and I asked her how she felt. Her answer was ‘still bad.’ However, she was not sad. Actually she could even laugh. During the night we tried what we believed right, but some recommended hot and others cold compresses. Around 4 AM your dad came to us to take the coach and the horses to go bring the doctor from Dezna, but it was too late, for she died before he could return."

Regarding the cause of Mom’s death, there was another explanation or suspicion that came from Uncle Iovan, who was a sanitary (medical orderly) during the war and who thought she might have had an acute appendicitis. To this day I don’t know what was the true cause of Mom’s passing at such a young age. I sure have a vague memory of all three of us standing in front of the bed in which she laid down hours before her death. But what I remember most vividly was walking behind the funeral couch that carried her lifeless body to the cemetery that awful day of December 1942. I did not notice a great difference in my life immediately after her passing, at least I don’t remember it, for Grandma was our center of gravity and she was always there. As an example of a five-year old kid’s mind, Aunt Mariuța told me that when she asked me about Mom’s loss, all I mentioned was the regret that she did not make me new izmene—homemade white pants of hempen fabric, all made by hand—as she did to my brothers.

As for Dad, he was gravely marked by the loss. I remember a story he told me: that soon after Mom’s death he went to the wheat mill in Dezna and when he returned with the cartful it was night and he barely saw the road. He said that he noticed a light like a lampaș (hurricane lamp) approaching him from the opposite direction. He stopped the car and waited, dreaming it was Mom, but the light passed by without anybody holding it. One of those mysteries he could not explain and neither can I.

DAD REMARRIES

Through his contacts within the church, he heard about a 23-year young widow from the village of Tomești, near Baia de Criș, some 80 km away, the sister of another Baptist believer. She lost her husband in an accident and did not have children of her own (more on her story later). Dad travelled there, they met and liked each other, but she was reluctant to marry a man ten years older and with three young kids, living far away from her family. Dad took me and my Aunt Florița on a visit (it was my first by train), to demonstrate that I, the youngest one, was a good boy in need of a mom. Somehow she was moved by my good behavior, and soon they decided to rebuild their lives. In 1943 they got married and the new mom, Marița (Maritza), moved with us (more on this in Chapter 27). A few days thereafter Dad went to war, far away (around Brașov), returning after one year, with a heart condition caused by exposure to the horrors of war, with bombardments and much suffering around him. He was never the same after that, and died of a heart attack eleven years later. In his absence, Grandma and Stepmom took care of us the best they could, perhaps with help from our aunts, uncles and grown up cousins. There have been many desperate moments, particularly when we did not hear from Dad and there were so many war casualties all around. Yet we kept praying and hoping better days would come our way. When Dad returned, we all were not too happy to notice how sick and weakened he was, except that he would now be home with us. When the war ended it seemed for a while that life would become normal again, and we were hoping to enjoy some prosperity, not knowing what political changes were ahead of us as a people and a country. Dad started to organize the household as best he could, with all of us doing his or her part to cultivate the land, to raise farming animals: bulls and cows, sheep and goats, chickens and geese. He also bought, in association with a couple close relatives, a wheat threshing machine and other farming implements to be used not only by us, but also by other villagers, for a small charge.

In 1946, after many years of hope and deception, the first girl was born, bringing much joy. My half sister Lenuța came to this world a little bit too noisy and demanding permanent attention. That made our life more demanding, in the sense that one of us big brothers had to take care of her when Stepmom was at work in the field, or doing important chores. As a family, we owned 4.2 hectars of cultivable land (some ten acres), plus two separate gardens (in addition to the one where the house was located) and a lot of land suitable for hemp, flax, vegetables and legumes named cânepiște.

In addition to working his land and taking care of the family, Dad was active with the Baptist church. He was well-acquainted with the Scripture and later in life became an ordained Baptist pastor, serving not only in Laz, but in other communes and villages as well: Almas, Bonțești, Crocna, Dieci, Joia Mare, Moneasa, Neagra, Rădești, Roșia, Slatina. He was well-known and respected as a true and obedient Christian, a peacemaking man who collaborated very well with the other religious leaders, including the Orthodox