Destinies - Chapter III

Childhood: Schela Mare - Moreni

Motto

“Today, even if I were to return,
I could no longer understand it...
Where are you, childhood,
With your forest and all?”

- Mihai Eminescu, “O, Remain”

I was born during the war in the commune of Schela Mare, near Moreni, in Dâmbovița County. Here I lived, grew up, learned, and dreamed until I was thirteen years old. The place of my childhood was a newly established oil settlement, populated by people who worked in the oil industry: petroleum engineers, drillers, office workers, and drivers. Fate brought my father here after he had worked as a driver in Bucșani, where my older brothers remembered a house at the edge of an orchard and running through the tall grass in the yard. Later, Father transferred to the Romano-Americana Company at Stravopoleos, where he drove heavy vehicles, such as MAZ and Leyland trucks, transporting materials for the oil wells under construction. Oil deposits had been discovered, and wells were springing up like mushrooms.

My brother Corneliu was born there in 1941. He was a strong, dark-haired boy who had inherited Mother’s hair color. Whenever he went to Mr. Pîrcov’s barbershop and was asked to introduce himself, he would say, “I am Cornel Gheorghiu, a sturdy boy.” my mother sent him from home with precise instructions for his haircut: “French-style, with bangs.”

Two years after him, I was born. I was named Alexandrina after our godmother, my father’s sister, whose married name was Bucșeneanu. My brothers did not like that name, however, so they called me Adina.

At Schela Mare, in the oil settlement where houses had been built for the newcomers, we had everything: a grocery store, a butcher shop, a textile shop, and a cinema and performance hall where plays were staged and we schoolchildren held our celebrations. We had a club with a library, rooms for billiards and chess, a dance hall, a swimming pool, tennis and volleyball courts, a school, a dispensary, Bardan’s tavern, where we bought bottles of soda water, and a church. In short, we had everything. For the market, we went to Moreni, six kilometers away, usually walking the entire distance. We also had a football field where real matches were played. When the field was free, we children spent our time there, provided Uncle Vasile, the field’s caretaker, allowed us in.

My father had made friends with everyone and was greatly appreciated. My mother became the friend and confidante of Mrs. Cotco, a general’s daughter and the wife of an engineer, a warm and charming woman. She lived in a villa on the road to Pleașan and invited Dora - that was what she called my mother - for coffee or tea. Other engineers’ wives, including Mrs. Călinescu and Mrs. Constantinescu, also came. I do not mean to boast, but my mother was elegant and the most beautiful among them. They all liked her because she was modest and gentle.

Later, my mother took us to Mrs. Cotco’s home as well, but we had to behave. We preferred her large yard, where we played with a big white dog named Lăbuș. She was fond of my sister Maricica and encouraged her to sew dresses and blouses. She supplied the fabric and selected suits or dresses from fashion magazines, which my sister made with great care. This was how Maricica began and eventually became a renowned seamstress. At Mrs. Cotco’s house, together with another young woman named Tanța, my sister perfected her skills. It was both chance and good fortune.

Four families lived in one building near the stables and the Forache offices. It stood below the football field, on the right side of the road leading toward the waterworks, the stables, and Cezeanu Valley. The forests began there, stretching along both the right and left sides of our house. Oil wells stood on the hills surrounding us.

Our apartment had three rooms and a pantry. In front was a yard for chickens, goats, and a pig, with their respective pens, as well as a little garden of flowers and greenery. That was where we threw my mother’s wooden stirring paddle and chopping cleaver - her weapons in our battles, useful only for threatening us. When she later needed them to make polenta or eggplant salad, she would ask us very sweetly to return them, promising never to use them against us again.

Good Lord, how many mischievous things we did! I remember one as if it were yesterday. In winter, my brother would walk barefoot through the snow along the path from the house to the gate and challenge me:

“You’re not brave enough to do what I did!”

“Yes, I am!”

Although I was terrified and freezing, I too would make one trip barefoot along that path. Then I would decide it was not so terrible and do it again - until my mother caught us and went looking for the wooden paddle. Of course, she could no longer find it. Instead, she had to put the woolen socks made by Nana on our feet, tuck us into bed, cover us warmly, and give us hot tea so we would not catch cold.

Next to us lived the Nițulescu family, who had two children: Creți, whose full name was Lucreția, and Spirică. My mother called their mother “the spotted cow” because she dyed her hair, and when she stopped, the white roots showed. It was obvious that the two women did not like each other at all. We children, however, played together.

Once, for some reason I no longer remember, Spirică and I began fighting. We fought so fiercely that our mothers started quarreling too.

“You should have come sooner to calm your boy and stop him from hitting her, because I don’t know what I’ll do to him!” my mother exclaimed.

“And if he hits her, what is she - some kind of princess?” Mrs. Nițulescu retorted.

“Princess or no princess, he must leave my daughter alone!”

We watched their argument and realized we had not done a very good thing. Yet the next day, carefree and without a worry, we went with Spirache into the forest to gather wild strawberries.

Behind our building, in a separate yard, was the apartment of the Șerbănescu family. Their entrance had large glass panes and was directly across from ours. A hallway led to the dining room and the bedroom. Their little girl was named Delia. Her grandfather lived with them, and Cornel called him “Mr. Tidorescu.” He had a small cart that Cornel loved to borrow.

“Mr. Tidorescu, will you please let me have the cart so I can ride in it?”

“Well, since you ask so nicely, of course I’ll give it to you.”

And “Mr. Tidorescu” made Cornel happy by letting him ride down the slightly sloping path.

Behind the Nițulescu family lived the Angelescu family, who also had two children: Rica, whose full name was Aurelia, and Doru. The Șerbănescu and Angelescu families entered their homes by stone steps. Their houses overlooked the valley, where there were more gardens and the shelter in which people hid during wartime air raids. My mother used to tell us:

“I carried you in my arms and held Cornel by the hand. The other children followed us, and we ran to the shelter with all the neighbors, office workers, and drivers from Forache.”

When we grew a little older, curiosity drew us to the shelter dug into the hillside beneath the beeches and maples. We tried to enter by forcing the door, which was secured with a chain and padlock. But we were frightened too. Our imaginations ran wild, creating all sorts of terrifying images, so for a long time we gave up trying.

In summer, we spent our days around the house playing hopscotch and hide-and-seek - “mijoarca,” as Ion Creangă would have called it - telling stories, or going downhill to a meadow and then to the Nițulescu and Angelescu gardens. We had two gardens of our own: a large one near the football field, filled with every kind of produce, and a smaller one on the right side of the road leading to the main highway connecting Moreni with Gura Ocniței.

My father was the head gardener. He prepared seedlings, brought seeds, decided where everything should be planted, dug the garden, and made the beds. Nana helped as much as she could. As we grew older, my father put us to work too. But we were spoiled and stubborn, always trying to avoid it. How could we miss our games and our wandering through the forests?

Yet when my father raised his voice, we stopped whining. We dug and raked, placed seeds into holes, covered them, and watered them. How happy we were in midsummer or autumn when we harvested the fruits of our labor! This garden was our main source of food, while Mother bought other groceries and meat from the local store and from Moreni.

When it rained and the weather was miserable, we sat on the little bench outside the kitchen window, swinging our legs and watching the relentless rain or the people walking along the path toward the field. What boring days those were! Sometimes my mother gathered us beside her and read us fairy tales about princesses and dragons. I especially adored Little Lord Fauntleroy. But reading was usually reserved for the evening; during the day, we visited the neighbors.

“Where are you little rascals going now?” My mother would ask when she saw us getting dressed.

“To Rica and Doru’s. We’re preparing a performance, and their mother, Madam Angelescu, is helping us.”

She stretched a rope from one window to another and hung a bedsheet over it. Behind it, we sang songs and recited poems we had learned in advance.

The women of Schela Mare addressed one another as “madam,” which might sound slightly condescending today. For us, however, it expressed esteem and respect, which continued long after we children had grown up. Even now, someone who still has parents in Schela Mare may address them in that way.

After the rain, we went into the forest with Madam Angelescu to gather mushrooms. It was a delight to find them beneath the wet leaves or to see beautiful specimens appear along our path. She taught us to distinguish the edible mushrooms from the poisonous ones and showed us how to prepare them, sautéed or roasted on the stove plate. How delicious they were!

At Schela Mare, the kitchen stove and the stoves in the bedrooms were heated with gas. I remember my mother lighting the kitchen fire and then walking with a flame along a pipe passing through both rooms, lighting each stove in turn.

Because my mother was always jealous, I once asked my brothr Nina:

“Nina, didn’t our parents love each other? Why were they always arguing?”

“How could they not love each other? Did you see that little curtain between the kitchen and the first room - what we called the second house? Did you notice it was slightly burned at the top? One night my father came home late, lifted my mother in his arms, and carried her, together with the flame she had prepared for lighting the stove, into the second room. That is how the curtain was burned. Do you understand?”

“Now I do. That is a relief. But they argued all the time, so I thought they had never loved each other.”

“And five children - six, actually - how do you think they came into the world?” my sister asked. “Wasn’t it through love?”

“You are right about that. But life, and the struggle with it, hardens you, and you forget love’s beautiful moments.”

“Today,” my father would announce, “we are going to the forest at Pleașa to gather cornelian cherries.”

We took our mess tins and baskets and collected the dark red fruit, which was delicious. Father and Nana made the finest țuică from it, while my mother made jam for the winter.

On another day my father would say, “Today we are gathering dry leaves for the goats, so we’ll have something to feed them in winter.”

This time we took sacks, and the other children joined us. What fun it was! Using sticks, we gathered the leaves into a pile below a small rise. Then we backed away, ran as fast as we could, and threw ourselves into the mound.

Eventually my father, Madam Angelescu, or Madam Nițulescu - whichever adult accompanied us - would say, “Enough! Now fill the sacks with leaves!” Playtime was over; it was time to work.

We had two goats. Steluța was white and hornless, while Brebenica was white with black patches and had horns, which she knew how to use. Whenever her kids were inside the house, she pushed open the door. We kept the little goats in the warmth until they became strong enough to return to their mothers. Suddenly we would find Brebenica inside, to my mother’s despair and our delight.

Goat’s milk and cheese were good and became staple foods for us at Schela Mare. When the goats were feeding their kids, however, Mother bought cow’s milk from Tata Ioana, who walked all the way from Gura Ocniței.

“Ica! Ica!” we called to out mother. “Come quickly and see who has come inside!”

We found Brebenica in the second room, looking at herself in the wardrobe mirror. We were afraid she would butt the glass and break both the mirror and her head. My mother coaxed her gently from the room and gave her a slap on the bottom so she would not do it again. On another occasion, the goats climbed onto boards propped against the second room’s window. It was summer and the windows were open. We loved Brebenica dearly; she was such a rascal!

Winter had its charms as well. We stood at the window watching the beautiful snowfall, then went outside with our sleds. We slid down the little hill in the yard or the slope leading to the field, though those seemed rather short. When we grew older and were already in school, we joined a crowd of children on the road to Moreni, a much longer and steeper run. Going downhill was wonderful. We gathered speed while people moved aside to let us pass - fortunately, there were few cars. At the bridge below, we climbed the hill again, and on every descent we shouted for joy at the speed.

We were rosy-cheeked and warm from climbing, but the greatest pleasure was the descent. After three or four runs, we returned home exhausted, hungry, rosy, and shining with happiness. Ica and Nana took charge of us. First they changed all our clothes, rubbed our frozen feet with alcohol, put on thick woolen socks made by Nana, gave us hot linden tea, and tucked us into bed. What wonderful games we had! Who could have stopped us?

The cold seemed to be on our side. In truth, it was good, clean health for us.

“Starting today, you are not to leave the house again,” our mother decreed.

But when the Steaua hill was full of children on sleds, how could we stay away? We waited until our mother looked elsewhere, dashed out the door, grabbed the sled, and ran to Steaua. I think every child did the same.

At Christmas and Easter, we dressed beautifully, in new clothes if our parents could afford them, and went together with them to the church built before I was born. I had been baptized there by my godmother, Dica Bucșeneanu, my father’s sister. The church was packed, and we children went upstairs where the choir sang. We sang the Lamentations of Christ with everyone else, and tears came to my eyes. The unity of people in song and faith seemed so uplifting.

Then one day the school told us that we were no longer permitted to attend the Holy Church. How could this spiritual joy be taken from us so suddenly?

I remember that I was in about the sixth grade, in 1955, when this prohibition stirred such rebellion in us that we decided to act. Six children from our class gathered and agreed to meet in a hidden place to read the Bible.

“Who has a Bible at home?” Cristian asked.

“I do,” I offered bravely.

“Bring it, and tomorrow after school we’ll go into the forest. I know a secluded place where we can read it.”

Some hesitated, afraid of the consequences or worried that their parents would not allow them to go.

“But we are going to read the Bible without our parents’ permission,” Elena said. “Of course they won’t let us.”

“Very well. Then it is settled. Whoever wants to come will come!” Cristian concluded firmly, like the true leader of a clandestine group.

I rummaged through the house and eventually found the Bible at the bottom of a raffia basket, wrapped in newspapers. Overjoyed, I slipped it into my schoolbag without my family seeing me. The hours passed painfully slowly that day. At last, when school ended, we went into the forest and sat on a large fallen branch. The reader climbed into a tree with low branches, and we took turns reading aloud.

After two days, however, the group began to disperse. In front of the school stood a large pipe, where three of us hid and continued reading. But we were far too exposed, and eventually we gave up as well. On the fourth day, only I and the Bible remained.

The most beautiful days seemed to be those of spring. Wearing canvas shoes, we left the house, found two sticks, and walked through the forest above the shelter toward Cezeanu Valley. It was a fairly long route. In places, the snow had not yet melted, and a layer of ice covered it. We glided over it as though on skis, pushing ourselves with the two sticks. We made a circuit around Schela Mare and the place where our house stood. Our socks and shoes became soaked. We took them off, carried them in our hands, and arrived home barefoot, tired, and hungry.

When our mother saw us, she began scolding us:

“Good heavens! Where have you come from looking like this, barefoot and frozen? Are you trying to drive me mad again? I could beat you until you break!” she cried in despair.

She truly intended to give us a thrashing, but Nana intervened.

“Leave them alone, Dorina! Have you lost your mind? Oh, let Grandma eat them up!” she said, placing herself in front of us like a shield.

Quickly came the woolen socks and hot tea, our feet rubbed with alcohol, and then straight to bed. Afterward, we ate quietly and contritely - until the following day, when we began all over again with some new mischief.

Spring also meant gathering flowers. The surrounding forests generously offered us beautiful snowdrops, their white bells barely emerging from the snow. We searched for them everywhere. We had to bring home at least ten the first time; otherwise, according to the old saying, the hen would hatch only as many chicks as the number of snowdrops we brought home!

Along with the snowdrops came pussy willows, young willow leaves, and other signs of spring. our mother was delighted when we brought her the first flowers and plants from the forest. We were happy because the mothers brightened their homes with the flowers we gathered, placing them in vases or glasses.

In summer, after the snow had melted, we gathered violets, forget-me-nots, and pasqueflowers of different colors - bluish, white, and yellow. We carried the pasqueflowers to church, passing beneath the table covered with flowers.

On the first day of Easter, dressed in our finest clothes, we gathered at the church and then returned home to crack red-dyed eggs together. We competed to see whose egg was strongest. Sometimes the winner truly had a sturdier egg, while another cheated by using a painted wooden one. But cheating displeased us, and we refused to crack eggs with that child again.

We loved wandering through the nearby forests for the pure joy of seeing them. Most often, however, we had a practical purpose. We gathered wild strawberries, blackberries, hawthorn berries, and rosehips. For the strawberries and blackberries, we carried cups and brought home as many as we could. For mother Ica and Nana, we gathered hawthorn berries, which they called “little apples,” and rosehips. our mother dried them, and during the winter we drank delicious, healthy teas.

We knew a more distant place in the forest where wild apples grew. Their skin was pinkish yellow. Good Lord, what a wonderful taste those wild apples had! Only the boys climbed the tree; we girls waited below while they dropped the apples into our laps or pockets.

Our mother planted fruit trees in our yard: sour cherry trees, cherry trees, and two plum trees. In the plum tree near the gate, our father made me a swing that I loved dearly. I would swing very high and look up at the sky - or, more importantly, admire whatever clothes I was wearing.

My sister Maricica had sewn me a beautiful little dress with pleats at the top and a bias-cut skirt, which I adored. The fabric was white with tiny, scattered pink leaves. What a life that dress lived! It came to know every tree I climbed: first the trees in our yard, and then those in the forest and near the vegetable gardens.

One day, I was in a tree beside the road near Uncle Vișan’s garden when the branch beneath me suddenly broke. Steluța and Brebenica were with me, and I had been breaking leafy branches for them. Fortunately, I fell onto the goats. The air rushed from me with a “huh!” and for a moment I thought I would die there. Frightened, I stayed still for a few moments until I recovered. I was alone, but I gathered my courage and stood up. Near my elbow was the stump of a small cut tree. If I had fallen onto it, I would have died there. But God protected me. When I told everyone at home what had happened, they were horrified. From then on, I never went alone; I was always with my brother Cornel or the neighboring children.

We also went with Madam Angelescu, Creți, Spirică, Rica, and Doru to gather linden blossoms. The trees were farther away, so an adult had to accompany us. They were very tall, and only the boys climbed them. They broke off branches filled with flowers, while we gathered the blossoms and placed them in small cloth bags. At home, our mother dried the linden flowers and stored them in paper bags. They kept very well, and in winter we drank linden tea, which was good for our health.

Summer or winter, I had made a little nest for myself on top of the wardrobe. There I had a loudspeaker - our radio had been taken away - and listened to radio plays performed by the celebrated voices of Romanian theater: Alexandru Giugaru, Fory Etterle, Radu Beligan, Constantin Codrescu, Grigore Vasiliu Birlic, Dina Cocea, Lucia Sturdza Bulandra, and others.

At the home of Madam Lizica Șerbănescu, Delia’s mother, we found unusual dolls and toys, as well as portraits of women drawn by Lizica’s brother, who was an officer. I liked them so much that I tried to imitate several of them.

From Madam Angelescu and Nana, I learned needlework: embroidery, sewing, and knitting. I even crocheted a white curtain for the window of the second room, and I was very proud of my work.

My soul is filled with cherished memories of my childhood at Schela Mare.

When my sons were grown and one of them bought a Dacia car, our first journey was to Schela Mare. Sadly, the visit left a bitter taste. Nothing remained the way I remembered it. The football field had become an empty lot where geese and sheep grazed. The cinema, where we had watched films and performed in school celebrations, had become an ordinary building. Schela Mare was no longer populated, beautiful, and alive. Emptiness and oblivion had settled over it.

Rica had her own family. She had married a professor and had two children, a daughter and a son. Madam Angelescu was living elsewhere. I visited her, and we rejoiced to see one another, but she could no longer see.

The second time I returned, it was even worse: the house of my childhood had been demolished, and the place was devastated. I felt an overwhelming sadness and disappointment.

There would be so much more to tell, but who would still sit and listen?