The Emigrant

By Darie Gheorghe

I wrote this book about all my persecutions and suffering from Romania in the
time of communism. Everything began in 1983 when I decided to leave my country. I
could never forget those six years from 1983-1989 of all the suffering and persecution
I pulled through, those memories will never leave me.
This book is my witness, and I thank God that I am able to write about all my
sufferings and persecution during the communist period in my country Romania. I
was abused physically and mentally, and it even got to the point where they would try
to kill me because of my origin, which is a gypsy. Yes, I am gypsy but, I am also human
like everyone else. I have the same blood and the same god like anybody else. I am
proud to write on this piece of paper about the tragic events that occurred during the
communist period of time in Romania. The brutal crimes, murders, and persecution
that occurred transformed population in my country into slaves. Im writing this book
about my life, how much I suffered, and how I was persecuted under the communist
period. And also I wrote about the events that happened in World War II 1940-1944
under the Marshal Antonescu power; how he persecuted the gypsy and deported
them in Trasnistria camp. The persecution didnt stop there; they continued all the
way to the year of 1989 under Ceausescu Nicolaie, the President of Romania. Reader,
once you open this book, I promise you after you read just a few pages you cant stop
reading. Just try to read it, and I guaranty that you will feel and live my moments of
my sufferings and persecution. This is not a fi ction book; this is not a storybook, and
everything in this book is real. In this book you can fi nd very tragic and humorous
events. Maybe youll never read a book like this ever in your life. You discover historic
events that were never written, like how the communist would sell the Jews and the
gypsies in Europe, and also, how they deported and made them suffer in Trasnistria
Camp during the World War II, and many more. I wrote this book crying because I
suffered so much for only one reason:
I WANT MY FREEDOM!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 14, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462819669

Book preview

Copyright © 2009 by Darie Gheorghe.

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This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

PREFACE

I wrote this book about all my persecutions and suffering from Romania in the time of communism. Everything began in 1983 when I decided to leave my country. I could never forget those six years from 1983-1989 of all the suffering and persecution I pulled through, those memories will never leave me.

This book is my witness, and I thank God that I am able to write about all my sufferings and persecution during the communist period in my country Romania. I was abused physically and mentally, and it even got to the point where they would try to kill me because of my origin, which is a gypsy. Yes, I am gypsy but, I am also human like everyone else. I have the same blood and the same god like anybody else. I am proud to write on this piece of paper about the tragic events that occurred during the communist period of time in Romania. The brutal crimes, murders, and persecution that occurred transformed population in my country into slaves. I’m writing this book about my life, how much I suffered, and how I was persecuted under the communist period. And also I wrote about the events that happened in World War II 1940-1944 under the Marshal Antonescu power; how he persecuted the gypsy and deported them in Trasnistria camp. The persecution didn’t stop there; they continued all the way to the year of 1989 under Ceausescu Nicolaie, the President of Romania. Reader, once you open this book, I promise you after you read just a few pages you can’t stop reading. Just try to read it, and I guaranty that you will feel and live my moments of my sufferings and persecution. This is not a fiction book; this is not a storybook, and everything in this book is real. In this book you can find very tragic and humorous events. Maybe you’ll never read a book like this ever in your life. You discover historic events that were never written, like how the communist would sell the Jews and the gypsies in Europe, and also, how they deported and made them suffer in Trasnistria Camp during the World War II, and many more. I wrote this book crying because I suffered so much for only one reason:

I WANT MY FREEDOM!

02/05/2006.

CHAPTER I

THE EMMIGRANT

As far back as when I was a teenager, I wished to find my own family, especially because of an unhappy childhood. When I turned thirteen, my parents split up, so me and my three siblings didn’t live together anymore. Elvira and I, one of my younger sisters, left with my father; and my elder sister, Enevida, got married shortly after that. Our younger sister Ribana, at the age of one, stayed in Craiova with my mother. I suffered a lot. I remember walking down the street, traveling by tram or with my father by train, I would hear my mother screaming loudly, Dariee!

But instead I was hearing the sweet cry of my little sister. I would turn my head so many times and try to run so I can see where that scream was coming from and to see my mother, but I soon realized that it wasn’t real but a simple hallucination, and I found myself crying. After living for almost two years somewhere in the countryside, we decided to move to Bucharest. We lived permanently in an apartment located at the underground floor of an old building; although pretty filthy and with damp walls, we were still glad that we had a place to live. To his happiness but to our discontent, my father got married again.

A few months after this event, our nightmare life began. I was spending nights wandering on the streets, being chased away by his wife. I was looking for shelter somewhere near a wall of a hidden house, and I was staying there until morning, crying. My father was looking for me desperately, and he was scolding me for leaving home, without knowing I was chased away. I never had the guts to tell him the truth, that in fact his wife was guilty of the situation and that I wasn’t a tramp as he was saying. After a while, Elvira got back in Craiova to my mother’s house, and I kept suffering terribly. Only after Elvira left I realized, indeed, that I was alone, and the situation started to become worse. In spite of all the troubles I had during my sorrowful childhood, I still kept on attending primary school. It was impossible to go on as I was forced to work. I started working, and the wage I received from work was compulsory to hand it to my stepmother. Only insisting a lot upon my father, I managed to receive from him twenty-five lei (Romanian money). More than once I heard his wife arguing with him and calling him names, asking him why he gave me money. The separation from our mother and moving to Bucharest permanently changed my life’s directon (because after many years I became the target of the Securitatea and the communist system). Time passed, and I was able to cope with my troubles, tears, and suffering.

At the age of twenty, I met a girl, and judging from her clothes, I realized she was poor. Each time we met, she used to find a way to be joyful, to laugh, but always a gentle sigh was trickling down her lips. Her eyes were always sad, as if they wanted to tell you her grief. Maybe her life had been even more difficult than mine had because her parents broke up when she was just ten years old. Shortly, we fell in love, and we agreed to stay together. After a few months, she gave me the good news: she was pregnant. I was so happy that I didn’t know what to do, knowing soon I would become a father.

I couldn’t believe that I, who just yesterday cried on the streets because of my unhappy childhood, now has a wife who generously offers me love, happiness, and, soon, a daughter or a son. Years passed and our family grew. We already had four children. I was happy, but also I was desolated because I couldn’t offer them in plenty what I also hadn’t had when I was little: food. The food was the priceless gift or the biggest joy one could offer to the children at that time. If you succeeded to do that every day, afterward you had to think about sweets and toys, but you couldn’t find all these in stores. Every morning I used to go in the city to search all food markets or stores to see if somewhere a row had taken shape. I sat there without knowing if that store sold meat, bones, or shoe cream. One day I was with Florin, a friend of mine, in some market in the city. He liked jokes a lot and quibbles in particular. In that market, he noticed a car with high shutters that brought goods but had the rear shutter downward. That car was loaded with sacks of potatoes, and the driver struggled to find his way among the people who desperately were looking to buy anything from the market. Within a couple of minutes, behind it a large crowd of people had arisen, who then slowly went behind the car, watching it. As the people were sad, angry, each having their troubles, walking behind the car left the impression that they were following a funeral car. Florin, out of the blue, proke into a run in that direction. I also got near immediately since I was interested in buying something. The ones who were right in the front stayed in close ranks so that no one could break the line, desperate that someone would take their place. Others climbed on the rear shutter, certain that then they had held the best place. They hung strongly by the car’s shutters so that no one could get them off. Florin mingled in the front hoping maybe, maybe he would stay there.

Who died, sir? he asked with curiosity the ones who climbed on the car’s shutters.

Who, who would die? answered some people in a hurry. Are you crazy? Can’t you see, in the car there are just potatoes.

And you, said one of them, you must go in the back as you haven’t stayed in line like the rest of us.

He realized he didn’t have any chance to enter the row nevertheless he tried to hang to the car’s shutter.

What are you doing, sir? the people started to shout.

I don’t want to do anything. I just want expressly to see that dead person since so many people gathered after him.

We almost got a good drubbing, but we got away with just a few curses.

One used to face such issues every day in the desperate rush to find something to eat.

The last ten to twelve years before 1989, when the communists had the power, represented a total economic crisis. The absolute lack of food or the hunger, in the real meaning of the word had driven people from the entire country to despair. If you also had that little time to pay a visit to somebody, no one would show you the apartment or the house where he lived, but he showed you the fridge if there were a few meat packs. The infractions developed visibly. The ones who gave up to such deeds, no matter their social class, used to vaunt in sight of everybody that they were cunning since their fridge was always filled up with food. Also, in that time the common people, who didn’t know to resort to such deeds or better said they were honest, in their mind gave rise that thought of freedom under the communist rule. No one had the courage to talk since they were all protecting themselves from falling on the Securitatea’s hands. We were all suffering without having the most remote chance to do anything.

One of those days, after I had lost almost the whole night queuing in front of a food store without managing to get something to eat, I got back home upset because I couldn’t stand feeding my children only with bread, and even that was portioned. When I got back home, my children were crying desperate of hunger. I didn’t know what to do. I took my wife and all the children, and we all left to find something to eat no matter where. We went around to several restaurants, but we didn’t have the luck to find something. It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon, and the children were crying of hunger.

Darie, let’s try to go to the market, maybe we can still find something, a potato something or maybe a cabbage to make something to eat for the children to temper their hunger.

Searching through several markets, we’ve also got to Rahova market. After snooping among all the market stalls without finding anything, we’ve stopped in front of the market’s restaurant (a sort of old-time fast-food. It smelt like food, but still we didn’t have the courage to enter because we were sure that we would get the same answer: We don’t have anything. Eventually we entered, and we couldn’t believe it; the shop window of the restaurant, which was keeping the meals warm as full of little trays with beans and sausages. The children started to jump for joy. We had found abundant food. I immediately ordered all the little trays with beans that were in the shop window, which was about twelve; we had the chance to replete ourselves. After all the trays were set on our table, a hard smell spread all over the restaurant. I prohibited the children to touch the food so I could check it. I immediately checked the sausages, and to my surprise, I found out that all the sausages were in a decomposing state. I took a sausage, and I tried to break it; it was sticky, and on the bottom side, which was put in the beans, it was greenish. After I split it into two, the horrible smell of tainted sausages gave us all the feeling of vomiting. Although the food was tainted, the children still wanted to eat.

I took the little trays, and I put them back on the counter so that the seller would give back my money. The seller, more than surprised, asked me, What are you doing with these trays? Why did you bring them back?

Lady, these sausages are rotten, and please take them back.

What rotten food dear, says her, can’t you see that the little one are yelling, they want to eat

Lady, I cannot leave them eating something of these because I would make them ill. If you take a look on the side, which is put in the beans, it is green.

"And you don’t like it? You gypsies eat all the garbage . . . everything that you find. This is restaurant food. Come on get out, you callous, or I will let the police know.

The other seller had gone out of the restaurant, and while I was arguing with that lady, she entered with the market’s police officer. I thought that the police officer would make justice for me, considering that he represented the law.

What happened in here? he asked.

Comrade, she said, I called you to get rid of this gypsy man since he was about to jump on me.

Why, what happened? he asked more just like that—for nothing.

Comrade Sergeant Major, this man bought little trays with sausages, and after he put them on the table stuck his fingers into it, and he says that the sausages are rotten.

And what does he want now?

Without ado, he wants me to give him back the money. What can I tell you he was about to let into me and reeve the money.

Is this so, you gypsy man, you want to rob her and steal her money from the counter?

"Lady, how can you lie like that? I asked you nicely to give me back my money. The sausages that you call to be fresh are green, in putrefaction state. You check them, Comrade Sergeant Major. I asked her as polite as I could, after I gave her back all the little trays with food, to give me back my money.

I don’t know where she came up with the idea that I wanted to steal her money. I don’t want to steal her money, Comrade Sergeant Major. I only wanted to give her back all the little trays with food since all the sausages are rotten. In this case, I believe that she stole my money out of my pocket. I didn’t want to rob her as she is saying. I only wanted her to give me back my money and nothing more. No one ate of her food. That is all I wanted—to give me back my money.

The police officer in the meanwhile was listening to me very interested at the same time leaving the impression that he understood the unjustness of that seller.

What do you think, you nigger, he answered to me, that after you put your filthy fingers into the plate with food, you want to give it back? Come, try to make some steps outside or otherwise I will hit you with this stick on the back that you can’t count.

Comrade Sergeant Major, you are obliged by law to take measures since she sells rotten food and let know the ones who are in charge to come to this place. I don’t think that it is normal to accuse me for wanting to get my money back.

Go to hell, gypsy rank, with your comments and all, or you believe that I was called by the other seller just like that for nothing? If you comment again, I’m going to arrest you. As I see you want to instigate everyone against the government.

To be honest, in that moment I felt that I can’t control myself, and I felt the desire to hit him, but Stella noticed my reaction and tried to pull me out by my hand.

Honey, let’s go home because we have children.

I listened to her, and I tried to get out, but the policeman jumped at me, and he strongly grabbed me by my coat sleeve pulled me toward him."

I’m not through with you, he said. Before you get out, show me your identification card and your employment card.

Because he was grabbing me strongly by my sleeve, I tried to put my hand into the back pocket to take off my wallet, but I couldn’t manage. Probably he got scared, and with the other hand, he hit me with a rubbery stick on the hand. I wailed from instinct; the children got scared, and they started to yell as loud as they could. I checked out my papers, and after he pushed us all out the door like some animals, he locked the door with the key.

By the way through the tram station, the children were looking at me with pity, and they were crying. I felt humble in front of them and of my wife, a nobody, a someone who didn’t had the strength to do anything and not even have the courage to say something in front of the major sergeant. In that moment I felt that a black veil was blackening my eyes, and the rage made me lose control. I started running. I stopped at about ten meters distant from them, and I started yelling with all my strength as I could, You Communists, you Ceausescu, you strike us down! I repeated dozen times the same words and other more without controlling what was coming out of my mouth. Around me, a large round of people was forming; and some of them were even encouraging me, repeating after me, or cursing everyone in his own way. From the crowd, a man dressed elegant enough made himself a room; he strongly grabbed me for my coat sleeve and said, You are coming with me.

I crossed together with him the round of people; the crowd split into two, and we stepped out accompanied by that gentleman. In that moment, I didn’t even realized what’s happening to me or what I had done. I walked a few steps with him, and from the back, I heard my wife’s voice and children’s cries. Hardly then I recovered my senses, and I realized that I’m at the hand of a secret service police officer and not alongside a friend (At that time, Securitatea was the personal bodyguard of the president. Their persecution against the civilian was exactly, or more beastly, than the SS of Hitler’s army).

Sir, where are you taking me? I asked him.

You gypsy, don’t comment and keep on walking or else you get into trouble.

Right away I realized what is going to happen to me if I will get on the hand of the Securitate, and I’d tried to escape. He felt what I wanted to do, so he grabbed me by the arm with his both hands. When I saw that was not a joke and that I was really arrested, I struggled with all my strength, leaving him my coat hock, and I escaped. I ran away as I could without looking behind. He asked a few people if anyone knew me, but he didn’t get any answer.

Once I got home, I was waiting worried for Stella to come back. I was upset and even scared about the scene from the market. I wanted revenge only to give satisfaction to my children that I wasn’t just anyone. These thoughts were only thoughts because nothing like that could happen. I was too little, too weak. After a short while, my wife also got home. She was worried because she didn’t know what had happened to me. The children, as soon as they got home, started to search for the areas where I had been hit and to kiss me to heal my pain. I felt like my heart was breaking. I wanted to do anything but to experience those moments.

I felt terrorized of that communist system that you couldn’t even rest in peace at night. When I was the happiest, I woke up with the police at my door checking my documents to see if I was working. I had conflicts with the police almost every day. If it wasn’t by day, definitely I was expecting surprises from them during the night. I didn’t have any problems with the law. I wasn’t a criminal, but if I left somewhere, I was suspected only because I had my skin a little darker. The police knew for sure that I was a gypsy, and the gypsies had to stay in jail, at least at decree 153. (During the whole communist period, Romanian government has made use of that decree filling up the prisons with people that had no place to work. Later they started to arrest massively those they can catch on the street; they were even taking us from our homes.)

Using this law, the Romanian government was saving the wages of the people who now had to work for free. Most of these victims were gypsies. Generally, during the whole communist period, the gypsies were hunted by the police as wild animals. Sometimes when there was a raid in certain territories, police jails were filled up; but still, with the kindness of a stepmother, they were choosing them according to the phone calls they were making to the enterprise where the respective employer declared that he was working. If those from the enterprise were making a wrong characterization, it was for sure that the respective person was to leave for many months to jail. Sometimes, if the night raid wasn’t so successful, those who still got caught were leaving to jail with their hand into their pockets even though they had a job and a better reputation. Caught into that swim, harassed by the police, along the years it burst into my mind the idea of freedom. In the following pages, I will try hard to redeem myself as I could, and I will be able to tell you all the sufferings that I endured a long time. I am sure that in each one’s heart, reading these pages will burst a feeling. If not a pitiful and compassionate one, at least the understanding one.

THE BEGINNING

OF THE TROUBLES

The clerk announced the leaving of the express train from the north station in Bucharest to Timisoara with departure time at eleven forty-five at night. I occupied a seat in one of the wagons. Like never, that train was almost empty. Here and there a person was passing through the lane of the wagon to find a seat to his heart’s content. I entered in the wagon, and I sat on one of the free seats. I was pretty scared because the road I decided to take on was filled with uncertainties. The next day around eight o’clock in the morning, I had to get to Lugoj, so I had all the time to think about that journey on which I embarked on.

The train was rushing like a crazy horse shaking me when it changed the switch. Hardly then I was waking up from my thoughts remembering that he hurried to take me there where I wanted as if the rhythm of the wheels was telling me: Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go. But the mechanic of the train didn’t listen to what the wheels were telling him, and he hurried to take me faster. As much as I got closer to Lugoj, my heart was beating faster on my chest.

I admit that I was scared because I was starting on an unusual road. I was scared of the unknown, and I was scared because, in fact, I didn’t know where I was going. I had a goal, but the road was difficult, and the risk was too big. I wanted to cross the Romanian border illegally, and I wanted no matter what to get to America. I was entirely aware on what road I was starting on, and I knew what risks I could face—to be shot on the border, to be caught and put in the prison, or to have the great chance to cross the border get in to the land of the promise. The silence from that wagon scared me. In fact you could hear only the rattling of the wheels of the train. I was almost alone in that compartment, and in the other compartments, there were only a few people who, from time to time, were going out on the lane to smoke. I was happy every time I heard the crunching of the adjacent compartment’s doors. I knew that I wasn’t alone. That night I wanted so many times to get out, to mingle in the conversations of the travellers, to be able somehow to reveal my thoughts. In that moment, I wanted from the bottom of my heart to talk to anyone, to tell him about the separation of my family, and especially to encourage me on the road on which I decided to take. It was difficult to make a decision this way and to reveal my thoughts to somebody from the train because the risk was peculiarly big. I had all the chances to get arrested at the next station. It was my problem, it was my risk, and it was the pain of my family’s separation.

I had decided to keep all these hidden into a certain place—in my heart. I was struggling with myself in that little corner of the compartment, wishing to get rid of all the thoughts. I felt like my head was exploding. I was trying to pray, to tell the good Lord, but I couldn’t. I had hardly decided to start on this way since I had left behind my family in insecurity. I had left my little children, and I wouldn’t know what could happen to them.

I knew that I could be considered a coward. I had left without anyone knowing. What would my father say; what would Stella, my wife, say when she would see I was gone? But now it was too late to think of this; there wasn’t any way back. I was already on the train, and in Lugoj I was expected by those with whom I left behind. I wanted by any chance to get away from this country, to get rid of the communists’ system and terror. I wanted to find my freedom in a free country, and there was no other way but risk my life and cross the border illegally. I felt hunted from everywhere. I was afraid to show up on the street because in every moment, I had the chance to get busted and get sent to jail. Although I was working, although I was minding my own business. I don’t even know how many times they burst into my place during the night. I hardly got rid of them showing as many evidences as possible that I was an honest man and especially that I was integrated in the working field. I tried several times to indulge myself with the life that we all had to bear, but I was dreaming of something else; I was dreaming of freedom, and I was sure that no other country in the world but America could offer it to me.

The country was tormented with the payment of the external debts; and we, Romanian citizens, were obliged to bear the hunger, cold, poverty, and especially fear, terror, and dismay. All these gathered.

Ceausescu, the president of state, had reason immense amounts from selling the Jews and gypsies. In order to make sure that no one was escaping from him, he had transformed the whole country into an internal jail. No one was allowed to get out of Romania, except for those who had proved to be faithful toward the system. Back then, a Jew, considered to be of certain capacity, was sold in Israel for few hundred thousands up to a million dollars, and the exchange was made right in Otopeni Airport (located in Bucharest, Romania). The representative was receiving the suitcase with that amount, and he was giving in the parcel, meaning the Jew. A gypsy was sold cheaper, but the tax was stable—two hundred and fifty grams of gold, which, back then, meant a very important amount, meaning around two hundred and fifty thousand lei. In the next chapters, I’ll give an explanation of how gypsies were sold.

On the other hand, the secret service (Securitatea) and the police would do anything to help their President they would obey by arresting people in mass numbers, righteous and unrighteous, and putting them in prison for decree 153. If they had some way, they would have been capable of putting everyone to jail just to work without a salary, and this way to save the government of the external debts. The police target was the gypsies; they were all filling up all the jails on the grounds of decree 153. But there was nothing to be done; we were living in a communist country coordinated by the totalitarian system of the Securitarea, and it was ruled by the president of the country himself. I was thinking of all these things, but once in a while I was awakened, scared by the loud hiss of the tank engine, which was interrupting the calmness of the night.

I clearly remember a few years ago, I was with my wife in Piata Unirii (marketplace). We were queuing for meat. In front of us, there were about one hundred and fifty people, and it had been around six hours since we had been waiting for the shop to open. The line started to move, and it took us another three hours to get in front. A guy, who was in front of us with about ten persons noticed that they were not selling meat but some pommels of bones with no meat on them.

What are you people selling us in here? he said, Are you really mocking us? For God’s sake what are we going to put on the table for the children? Until when are we going to suffer because we have had enough?

He didn’t even finish his words when two men put their hands under his arms and dragged him out. Move, you gypsy, they said, that you will get into trouble immediately. When he reached me, I recognized him; he was a friend of mine from the neighborhood. After about two weeks, I met with his wife, Maria. She was thin and very upset.

Maria, what are you doing? I asked her, What have you done that you look like that?

What would I do, Darie? she answered. I don’t know what happened with my husband. He hadn’t come home for about two weeks. It is as if he had disappeared.

But what happened? I asked her.

Two weeks ago I left him in line for meat at Piata Unirii, she said, and I left home with the children. Ever since he didn’t come back home.

Maybe he has a mistress that’s why men leave home from time to time.

I don’t think so, Darie. He has never done such thing, and at least he would give me a call. I had better stayed with him too, she said, bursting into tears. Maybe nothing had happened.

Now two weeks ago, I was at the same market in the same line. From what I remember, he was in front of me by with a few people. I can hear him complaining to the salesperson, What are you doing? Where is the meat? This is only bones! Around that time two secret service policemen forcefully took him away from the line, but I don’t think they arrested him for that reason.

What? Did you see him? she asked me, crying. I replied to her, Yeah, I was there when the Securitatea took him away. But did you look for him at the police station? Nobody knows maybe these assholes arrested him.

I looked for him everywhere from police stations to all the hospitals in Bucharest, and I found no sign of him anywhere.

Sorry, Maria, he should be somewhere. Keep looking for him maybe he’s arrested.

When I remembered this story, I got frightened because on the way I had started to feel I had all the chances to deal with the secret service (Securitatea). I wonder that if I get caught would they do the same to me. Nonsense, I said to myself, I haven’t even reached Lugoj yet, and I got scared already. All of a sudden the tank engine hissed much stronger than usual. I looked in the window: it was daytime. I didn’t even realize how fast time had passed; the hours had elapsed rapidly, and the train started to slow down. We were getting near Lugoj. I jumped out at the window to examine very carefully the station, to be sure that the police wasn’t patrolling. I got down, and I passed carefully among the people who were getting off from the same train, not to be observed by the permanent patrol from the station.

I got there well to those who were waiting for me. Before I got in the courtyard, I crossed to the other side of the road not to be seen by the neighbors when I get in. It was very risky for anyone who wasn’t from the locality to be seen there because easily he could be denounced to the police only for the sake to do harm. Finally I managed to get in. I was welcomed properly by those who were waiting for me. After I finished eating, we started making the preparation for the running from the next day. I studied the map even more. We were ready for the itinerary, and finally, after we were finished with the preparation for the departure, I went into a small room to get some rest.

It was warm that morning of June in the year 1983. I was tired, and I was getting ready to go to sleep after a night of a tempestuous journey. I lay on the armchair to smoke a cigarette and to enjoy the tranquillity of that chilly room. I got free from all my thoughts that affected my mind all throughout my trip. Now there was nothing left for me to do, just to sprawl a little on the leather armchair and take a nap. I didn’t even get the chance to smoke half of the cigarette or enjoy the coolness of the armchair because the tumult from the courtyard distracted my attention.

The police, I heard somebody saying. What happened, I asked myself, why did the police come?

Where is he? I heard a voice roaring. Where is he, where did you hide him because I feel him. I feel him close.

In that moment I believed that I was losing my mind.

I couldn’t believe that I was discovered so fast, or maybe somebody turned me in. I still didn’t understand how they discovered me so easily. Rather I believe that the destiny was starting to play her game.

That house was made up of two bodies. The body from the front had three rooms; and the body from the back, where I was hidden, was made up of two rooms, so there were two separated houses. The small house from the back belonged, by papers, to another family, and the police in this case didn’t have the permission to search it. The Securitatea officer entered into the courtyard yelling like a tiger, cursing with words impossible to pronounce. From his brutish yell, we can easily understand the despair not to lose his capture.

Where is he, where is he? his voice could be heard yelling and swearing at the same time.

The family with whom I stayed with were denying with all their heart even under the most terrible threats. He searched all around the house—in the attic, even on the roof—but I was nowhere to be found. He was yelling and swearing as loud as he could. He was here. His voice could be heard . . . now . . . fifteen minutes ago. He couldn’t have vanished! Tell me where is he; otherwise I will bust you all and you will tell me everything that you know!

All of a sudden he stopped in front of the door where I was hidden.

Who lives in here? he asked on a more gentle tone at the same time trying to open the door.

But he didn’t get an answer this time. I was sitting peacefully next to the little table in front of me smoking, knowing I didn’t have a chance to escape, so I was waiting for any second to get busted and all my plans to be destroyed. The Securitate lieutenant asked for the second time on a less irritated tone.

Who lives here? he repeated to which a child’s voice answered, That is not our house, no one lives in there.

Then the lieutenant kicked with all his strength the door, but it wouldn’t give way. He asked his two subordinates to break the door with their feet, but they didn’t manage in opening it either.

I just stood there calmly smoking and without realizing that I already lit a second cigarette although the other one was still fuming in the ashtray. I was trying to remain calm, but I was overagitated. The Securitate officer threw another swear to another police officer and kicked the door with his foot with all his power. This time the door ceded, and it banged strongly on the wall. In the threshold it showed up the Securitate lieutenant Borcea or Big Blond as he was known. Along with him, the two police officers who were accompanying him appeared. When they saw that I was staying peacefully at my table smoking as if nothing had happened, they remained stoned.

Are you crazy man? the lieutenant said to me. You were inside and you let us break the door when you could just open it? Who put you in here? he asked me.

My father, I answered.

Oh, so you’re a wise guy, he exclaimed. You’re going to get it for this, pretty badly, as soon as we get to the police station.

They handcuffed me, and they put me in a wagon; and after that, they remained searching the house. After they’ve finished, we started going toward the police station.

Once I got there, we entered the office of Big Blond in order to investigate me. I saw him as if it were now, how calmly he took off his coat, and he was talking to me as if we were friends.

Isn’t it so, Darie, he called my name to my surprise, that it’s very hot outside?

Yes, indeed, Mister Lieutenant, I answered.

A little rain would have been like manna, he said.

It is true, it is drought, I answered.

Although I wasn’t interested in that moment if there’s a drought or not, if it rained or not, the conversation was welcomed.

You do realize, he said, that on a drought like that being a fugitive and have no place to drink some water and especially knowing that you have to walk dozens of kilometers would be very difficult

I pretended I didn’t understand that it was about me, and I answered, Sir Lieutenant, only a crazy man would do what you are saying or something like that . . . rarely happens in movies.

So, he said, irritated, you’re smart, you know how to answer promptly when it is needed.

By the way, he asked in a less irritated voice, where exactly did you want to run away or, let’s say, leave?

I don’t know what you are trying to insinuate, Sir Lieutenant. I didn’t come here to run away God knows where. Do not accuse me for something that I didn’t do. I don’t see the logic at all. The distance from here up to the border. We are in Lugoj and not somewhere in a boundary area. It is as if someone from here, from Lugoj, came to Bucharest and is being accused for having wanted to cross the border to Giurgiu. First of all you didn’t find me running over the border, but as far as I remember, you found me in the house.

So you are making fun of me, you gypsy man. This means that you haven’t heard of me. Who do you think I am? Why do you think I’ve come after you and I arrested you . . . just like that to beat the air?

I tried to say something else, but I didn’t have time because he turned to me and whipped a paw like of a bear into my throat, and he gripped me with all his strength until I lost my consciousness. Several minutes later I woke up, and I was tied up with the handcuff to the pipe, and he was writing something into a file.

Hmmm! So you don’t know me.

He stood up of the chair, took his rubber stick, and asked, You wanted to cross the border of Romania or not?

No, I answered, extremely decided not to admit.

But what did that matter to him? Whether I would answer yes or no, the same thing would happen. I knew that I was going to get beaten to black and blue. During the communist period, no matter what you’ve had done, first they would beat you well, and then they would ask you what you were doing there.

You have to talk . . . here you are in my office. Nobody entered here to me and got away with it. I’ve been waiting for a long time for a capture like this, like you, and God brought it to me.

He started hitting me wildly without caring where he was hitting me. He stopped asking me what I really intended to do, but he was hitting me with all his strength. I was trying to keep away, but I couldn’t because I was tied with the handcuffs by the pipe. I was howling as I could but for nothing; he wouldn’t stop. I could feel the blood dripping from my face. I could feel my skin turn black and blue. I bruised everywhere. It got worse because I started to sweat. I had no more power, and in me I grew weak and fell to the floor. As soon as I fell down, he stopped hitting me with the stick but continued hitting me with his legs. As I was knocked near the pipe under the blast of buffets, in those moments I didn’t want anything else but some water to moisten my lips, and after that anything could happen. But it wasn’t like this; my fate was planning for me something more than I expected. In that moment an officer came through the door, and Borcea stopped from his activity. The officer, seeing me how I looked, asked him, Borcea, what the hell are you doing, are you trying to kill him?

It’s no big deal, Comrade Captain, a dead gypsy means a less gypsy.

This one, what did he do? asked the captain.

He wanted to cross the border, and the nigger doesn’t want to admit.

I took advantage of the moment when that captain had entered, and I asked for some water to Borcea.

Give him some water because he can hardly speak because of thirst, he said, then he took a file in his hand got out of the door.

Borcea turned to me, cursing me and hitting me with his legs anywhere he could.

Do you want water! he yelled at me.

Yes, I answered him calmly.

Although I was covered in blood, although I was bruised, I was trying to answer him in a polite way.

You want water? he repeated again. If you want water, write where you wanted to run. He came to me, took off the key from the pocket, and unlocked the handcuffs. I couldn’t believe that the beast had transformed himself into a human being.

If I give you water, probably you would also like a cigarette, he said.

Yes, Mr. Lieutenant, I would like also a cigarette, I answer.

I knew that everything he had offered me was nothing else but a joke, or probably he wanted to change his tactic of inquest. I was standing up, leaning on the wall. I was very thirsty. Still I was waiting to see what was happening; was he going to give me water, or was he going to switch the first alternative to another? But he was postponing it; probably he wanted to test my psychic ability. I stood alert with my eyes straight to everything he was doing, ready just in case.

I’ll be damned he wants water and he also wants a cigarette, that traitor to one’s country, he said to himself.

Mr. Investigator, I’m not a traitor as you said, and I didn’t intend to cross the country’s border. In fact, I don’t even know what I did to be arrested.

How so, you gypsy, you don’t know what you did?

"Honestly, no, I just didn’t open the door when you burst in upon me in the room. And I also want to say something, Mr. Lieutenant, my name is Darie as you know. And I would be glad if you would call me by my name, not gypsy because for such an elevated person like you, with an important grade, it would be more proper to express yourself in a polite way at the level of your position and according to the grade you have.

I’ll be damned, he speaks so polite, he said with an