Behind the Curtain

By Carolyn Mandache

A NOVEL ABOUT THE POWER OF LOVE

Florin was born in Iasi, Romania. As a young boy, he lived through rationing and the harsh conditions of the Ceaucescu regime, but always with the love of family and friends to balance out the hardships and mask the struggles.

As he gets older, he tries to untangle his own beliefs from

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hearts and Stars Publishing
• Release date: May 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9780957698932

Carolyn Mandache

Carolyn Mandache is an author and business owner living in Scotland. She has a BA in English Literature from the University of Strathclyde, and can speak Romanian at conversational level. The author enjoys travelling with her husband and children, with a particular soft spot for Spain... where she met Florin on holiday .

Book preview

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank my parents, Wilson and Tina, and my sister Kirsten, for their words of encouragement and giving me the courage to publish a book so personal to me.

Florin, my husband and muse for this book; allowing me to use artistic license in exploring his upbringing and culture, as well as correcting my not-always-perfect Romanian

My in-laws for the inspiration to look at family dynamics and multi-cuturalism

Stories and recollections from family and friends which helped me to write more authentically

Intro

I remember saying it to her, hearing the painful words blurt out my mouth, confessing my feelings. Sometimes I wish I’d been born somewhere else. Probably that’s hard for many people to comprehend; national pride and a happy childhood are things you may well have experienced...if you’re lucky. I can honestly say I did experience the happy childhood part, although to many in the West, that will be virtually impossible to believe...the word Romania instantly conjuring images of poverty, Communism, orphans, Roma. My homeland had become the laughing stock of the world, or so it seemed to me, a young man trying to figure out my future, and it affected me hugely. Patriotism is hard to muster when your part of the world is under constant criticism. I could see the concern on her face, naturally empathetic, I suppose she understood the weight those words held; the difficulties of accepting that my roots had become a personal source of embarrassment and shame...

Twenty years later I no longer allow myself to feel that way. The media has profited extremely well from their biased, negative portrayal of my former home, my fellow Romanians, but I refuse to let it affect me. The people important to me, my family and friends, understand the bigger picture, that there are many positives in Romania, well-hidden from outside eyes. There are beautiful places, a fascinating history, a land rich in culture. My boys will never feel shame at being half-Romanian, Carol and I will ensure it. It saddens me that at one point we discussed giving them a Scottish surname, to protect them from the potential racism caused by Mandache. Scotland has on the whole been a welcoming new home for me, and I am confident that most people have the intelligence to realize that their are two sides to every story. With that in mind, I invite you to share mine....

Prologue

Shock was my initial reaction, closely followed by a confusion of jumbled emotions vying for power. The screen was proof of something unthinkable, surreal, dream like...but was it a good dream or a nightmare? I couldn’t tell.

I was 11 years old, neither a man, nor a child. It was so hard to process what we were witnessing. The radio had tried to persuade us, but only our eyes could translate the truth to our skeptical minds. How could this be happening? Families all over Romania crowded around TV sets watching a real life horror story unfold... on Christmas day.

My voice, when finally able to speak, sounded strange and forced, cracking like it had been silent for a lifetime. I guess I was finding a new voice, one breaking through the silence, in a future I could never have predicted.

They’re really gone? I asked, my eyes forcing themselves away from the hypnotic violence playing out before us. Mama, unable to speak, nodded in confirmation. Claudia was straining to hear the reporter describe in graphic detail the gore which was already clearly visible on screen.

It was deeply ironic that state TV, so strictly controlled by our great leader, now graphically portrayed his unsightly demise alongside his wife and partner in crime. The film played on a loop, the gunshots loud and somehow even more alarming with every viewing. The lifeless bodies slumping to the ground.

No one expected the violent ending to our ruler’s dictatorship. Fast and unforgiving, the trial of Romania’s power couple resulted in their bloody execution by firing squad. The shock of seeing Ceausescu’s bullet ridden body laid next to that of his wife’s is something I’ll never forget; the mild- mannered TV we were so used to, showing such a gruesome scene was proof not only that Ceausescu was undeniably dead, but so was the Romania I’d grown up in. For it to happen on Christmas Day was so unexpected, not even on such a significant day in the Orthodox calendar was our leader shown any compassion. I now realized that despite my parents best efforts to disguise it, life was undeniably hard in Romania, and growing worse, but I was staring at the dead body of the man who no one could escape, exalted to God like status, his image as familiar as our own family members. It would take a while to sink in.

Radio broadcasters celebrated the death of the anti-Christ. It emerged that there had been 300 volunteers to partake in the firing squad that killed him. I found it remarkable to discover the real feelings towards our late leader; hidden beneath the surface of so many, dormant and subdued until the opportunity to set them free came about. I think back to that day often, to the violence blasting from screens in the middle of Christmas day, the entranced parents with abandoned concern for their young children watching alongside them. I compared it to a horror story, but Ceausescu’s mesmerizing power over his people was more like an unorthodox and disturbing fairy tale...with the perfect ending of good overcoming evil. Many theories prevail about who was ultimately responsible for the deaths of the Ceausescus, it’s doubtful the truth will ever be revealed, but Dec. 25th 1989 will forever signify the moment of change for the Romania I knew.

Chapter One

Changes

"I don’t like him, why couldn’t he have been a girl? my sister Claudia sulked, arms crossed stubbornly as she sat on the edge of the hospital bed, glaring over her shoulder at our mother. At 5 years old, she’d become too accustomed to being the centre of attention, was not happy at having to share the limelight with a newborn. Carefully setting me down in the crib by her bedside, my mother patted the space beside her invitingly. Claudia don’t be silly, you’ll love being a big sister, it won’t matter that he’s a boy. Reluctantly she edged herself closer to the warm embrace she craved, hoping her mother didn’t notice the subtle kick she gave the legs of my temporary bed. Heavy footsteps could be heard coming along the corridor. Tati!" my sister cried, breaking free from my mother and jumping into our father’s arms, before he had the chance to lift me up instead. An onlooker may have assumed from my sister’s talented acting skills and the appearance of a strong, handsome soldier, that he had just returned from months away, but no, he’d actually only briefly left to fetch mama a cup of ceia. My father kissed Claudia on the cheek before putting her down gently, fully realising her motivation for such a strong show of affection.

Where’s my handsome son? father asked, as mama vehemently shushed him into silence. The cause of her annoyance was not, as you may presume, because I had fallen asleep. No, my mother, like many Romanians, is deeply superstitious and feared the repercussions of the evil eye; a look from a jealous person which could cause harm to a baby or child if compliments are given directly to them. My father did not share her beliefs about such things, winking at Claudia, he teased our mother by continuing the flattery of their beloved son. My mother tried to cover my ears and Claudia giggled mischievously. Mama was not amused with their antics, fidgeting with the red ribbon tied around my wrist; an anti-curse for the evil eye, and she wanted to ensure it was tied securely to protect me. The visiting time ended, Claudia and my father left us in peace, promising to behave better next time. They walked away hand in hand, Claudia happy to have her tati all to herself. I was quite a sickly boy in early childhood, but am certain this was not the result of unfavourable eye contact or too many compliments...my mother begs to differ.

My mother was a nursery teacher, and my father became based at the army unit in Iasi, Romania’s second largest city where I spent my childhood and early adulthood . Iasi was at one point Romania’s capital, before that glory passed to Bucharest. We moved to Nicolina, an area in the centre of Iasi, into one of the grey, identical Communist style apartment blocks which were to be found everywhere. Undeniably ugly on the outside, but our home was traditional, welcoming and attractive on the inside. Mama was skilled in embroidery; Romanian designs ornated table cloths and doilies and brightened the furniture, as did the delicate Roceram porcelain ladies she had collected over the years, always kept out of reach to Claudia and I. There were colourful rugs everywhere, particularly on tiled floors, where it would be unthinkable to allow bare feet to touch their icy surfaces. The intricate patterns were hypnotic to my young eyes, I often started at the shapes, the intertwining and sometimes tried to draw them; always failing miserably.

My parents, like so many of their generation, descended from peasants in country areas; Dorohoi and Braila to be exact. Ceausescu, our infamous Prime Minister, wanted to shift the focus in Romania from agriculture to industrialisation, and most of the younger generations were encouraged, to put it mildly, to move to the cities. Factories sprang up in great numbers, and before its steep decline, Romania’s economy was pretty good in that Golden Age. My parents were pleased with their new apartment, which was on the top floor, the eighth, and one of the biggest available. Unfortunately for Claudia and I, even in our generous flat, there was no way to block out the arguments between them, which became more and more frequent.

At 4 years old, I was excited about my new home, as well as going to the same Gradi where mama now worked. Hai! Mai repede! mama urged, worried she’d be late for her first day as we walked the distance from the tram station to her new workplace. September in Romania is usually still very warm, 1982 was no exception. Running to catch up with my mother, I wore my Hawks uniform with pride, I suppose it was comparable to a boy scouts uniform...shorts, shirt and tie, a cap. I can remember feeling very grown up and important. We approached the gate of Gradinita no. 52 (there were no child friendly names for educational establishments back then, only numbers). The other teachers ruffled my hair and made a fuss of me as I was introduced, and I soon felt at home amongst mama’s colleagues.

Entering my classroom I saw a familiar face, not a friend or a neighbour, but the proud headshot of our Great Leader, gazing approvingly downwards at his faithful young trainees. Now I no longer have the same admiration for the man responsible for bringing my country to ruin, but back then, to the innocent children of Romania, he was a hero.

Let me try to explain what it was like to be a Hawk. I refuse to describe it as brainwashing, although I suppose that really is what it was. To be a Hawk meant having a great love for Romania, a strong desire to learn and to work, respect and love for your parents and teachers, to be honest and courageous, well behaved and tidy. The values they taught us to aim towards were admirable, our young hearts swelling with pride whenever we received praise for our efforts. Team work was very common in our class through group activities, and the teachers made it a lot of fun. Learning from a young age how to help each other out, it was very typical for Hawks to become close friends. I was a competitive child, and I thrived in the environment created through the program. Thankfully, my mother was never my teacher, it would have been unnatural to address her as Comrade Teacher. It seems so strange now to think of all those innocent voices in unison saying those words, like a bad comedy sketch.

Recess, or playtime as you may call it was always over too soon. Hopscotch, or Sotron, being very popular both at home and at gradi. Tara, tara vrem ostasi! we called loudly every day, in my personal favourite game. Two teams facing each other, both determined to win, one linking hands to build a wall, testing their pain thresholds to the limits as they squeezed hands as tightly as they could. The other being the soldiers to join the recruits if they failed to break through when their name was called. Il vrem pe Florin they chanted, and I ran full speed, a human bulldozer who always scattered the bricks of the competition. Sport never turned out to be my strong point growing up, but at least I always had the memories of my glory days playing that game. Laur soon became my best friend, we were inseparable, and always full of mischief. My days at Gradi were happy, I enjoyed being a Hawk, and don’t feel I suffered through the program, even if its intentions were more than a little morally questionable.

Claudia, however, was less enthralled with the Pioneri movement which she had now entered having reached the age of 9. Her uniform was a white shirt, with a red Communist scarf, and a dark skirt with a golden belt. For some reason I never quite fathomed, girls normally wore two oversized white flower hair accessories at either side of their head. They looked like the modern florally type sponges people use to wash themselves. Claudia, uita-te la mine, nu-i asa ca sunt frumos I would tease her daily, as I posed prettily holding up the hair flowers to my head. That became a regular routine my poor mother had to suffer every day before school and gradi...Claudia chasing me round and round the sofa demanding her hair accessories back as I giggled manically every time I evaded her. It always ended the same way, mama reaching boiling point Ura si la gara! would explode from her mouth, which translates as hurry, to the train station! Every Romanian child knew to stop misbehaving when those well-known words were spoken.

The Pioneri leaders were chosen through being the best children academically at school, however all children were required to take part in Pioneri activities. Far from the fun of being a Hawk, the Pioneri were expected to take a deeper understanding of Socialism. The program followed Russian ideology, and Pioneri children were taught that the USSR was the country in which the happiest children in the world live. It seems hard to believe now, even for me, and I lived through it. Children were always much more vocal about their grievances, we knew nothing of the securitate secret police, could still enjoy freedom of speech, and Claudia was certainly not one to hold back...

Mama, ma simt rau she whined, attempting to fool mama into letting her skip school one day.

Ce s-a intamplat, draga mea?, she asked with mock concern, barely lifting her eyes from folding the clean laundry .Mama was wise to the fact that the dreaded Pioneri meeting would take place at her school that day. Claudia hadn’t stopped moaning about it for the last two weeks.

Am febra foarte mare! she insisted, flapping her hand feebly to cool the phantom temperature she claimed to have. Mother sighed and walked patiently towards her daughter, briefly touching her forehead which felt perfectly normal. Nu ai deloc febra, quick and straight to the point. Claudia was handed her uniform and knew she was selling cucumbers to the gardener as the saying went. I had yet to experience a Pioneri meeting; I had assumed it would be exciting, motivating, an experience to leave them feeling like the young heroes I viewed the Pioneri to be. Claudia knew otherwise. I watched her shuffle out the door, shoulders drooping, and I wondered what could be so bad about it, unaware that a few years later I would be in full agreement with her.

Life became harder and harder as the months went by for the adults in Romania, I understand this now, but like most kids back then, our parents sheltered us the best they could from the problems. Ceausescu continued with his extreme efforts to repay Western debts, unaffected by the suffering caused to his own people. Stress, worry, and the constant struggle to make ends meet must surely have contributed to my parents’ divorce which followed a year later.

The day he left is still horribly vivid in my mind. Saturday, the day we always spent together as father and son, the day I looked forward to all week. Awake at 6 as always, I wondered why I couldn’t hear the bear’s roar that was my father’s snoring. Careful not to wake Claudia as I left our room, I tiptoed to my parents’ room, peeking in to see my mother sleeping alone. The living room was still dark, winter well on its’ way, but I could make out his figure sitting on the couch, head in his hands. Tati? I said, anxiety creeping into my voice as I sensed something was wrong. Startled, he looked up, switching on the floor lamp as he beckoned me over. I sat on his knee, this big, brave, soldier father of mine, and watched the tears roll down his cheeks as he struggled to find the right words. There were no right words...nothing he could have said would have prevented my heart from breaking that day. Don’t leave! I begged over and over, becoming more and more distressed, waking mama and Claudia with my hysterics. Mama, red eyed and the most tired I had ever seen her, took a confused Claudia into her arms, as the bad news broke a second heart. My father realized he could not console us, he looked at my mother for answers, but there were none, she told him gently to go, and as he closed the door quietly behind him, suitcase in hand, it seemed like the most deafening noise to me, a distraught, helpless little boy.

Claudia and I became much closer, bonding to help each other through the pain. The house was far quieter without his jovial character at dinner every night, and I admit, without the arguments after we went to bed. Divorce was rare in Romania, a religious country despite Ceausescu’s best efforts to convert us all to atheists. Mama was Orthodox and took her beliefs strongly. Trying to make amends for her failed marriage, she attended church as often as possible, dragging her two reluctant children with her. Church in