Destinies - Forward and Chapter I
Foreword and Chapter I: Hard Times
Motto
Why do I write? Simple: so that I will not forget! “For forgetting, too, is written into the laws of humankind.”
Foreword
For a long time, I have been thinking about writing a book about my father. We children are ungrateful, forgetful, and do not value our parents as we should until they are gone, until we no longer have them, until they depart into eternity “on a road with no return.” Then, when we ourselves grow old, we are seized by longing for our parents—especially when our own children treat us with the same indifference and neglect. Only now do I understand how sad and lonely my parents were during the final years of their lives.
Busy with the struggle to make a living, with our own worries and troubles, we neglected them. We had children of our own to raise, and nothing else around us seemed to matter anymore.
I loved my mother unconditionally, for she gave me life, loved me, protected me, and helped me whenever I needed her. These things cannot be disputed. But Father? Father, whom I saw less often because he was a driver; Father, of whom I was afraid because Mother threatened us with him: “Just wait until your father comes home, and then you’ll see what happens to you!”
Once, I was perched on the brick stove in the bedroom, beside the bed. The bed had a metal headboard whose tips were painted bronze. I heard my mother call, “Your father is home!” I do not know how I jumped from the stove toward the bed—as I usually did without difficulty—but my little dress caught on the sharp point of the headboard, and I was left hanging there. My mother came and rescued me after all, so my father would not discover the mischief I got into in his absence or how much I tormented poor mother.
I believe my father understood his destiny and accepted it, with both its goods and its hardships. He worked and struggled to give us the best conditions he could in those times, so that we might become something in life, be honest and dignified as he was, and give the best of ourselves. Perhaps we did not often give him moments of joy or satisfaction, but he always believed in us and, in the end, he truly was proud of his children.
To me, this is what it means for a person to fulfill his destiny: to work and to have accomplished children who are good, honest, modest, and settled in homes of their own. He never praised us, nor did he boast, but I know he was proud of us—of our achievements and those of our children. Although he was a poor, hardworking man throughout his life, he possessed a wealth of spirit reflected in his five children, each capable and skilled in his or her profession.
The first two learned trades, because people believed then that “a trade is a golden bracelet”: Florian, a technician responsible for technical innovations, and Elena—Maricica—a gifted and accomplished seamstress. The next three attended universities: Ionel, an electronics engineer; Corneliu, who graduated from the Faculty of History and became a teacher; and Alexandrina, who graduated from the Faculty of Philology and became a teacher of Romanian language and literature.
Our father respected the people around him and was respected in return. He raised his children with reverence and fear of God—to be respectful, courageous, and just. In our family, honesty and truth came first. We followed his path without wavering, and I can say that, because of this upbringing, we did not suffer at the hands of society.
We avoided, as much as we could, people who were vicious, cruel, envious, or given to gossip. But such is life: sometimes you put your foot wrong when you are not paying attention, and you must learn from your own mistakes. You do not learn from the mistakes of others. As the old saying goes, you must strike your head against the upper lintel before you notice the lower threshold.
Perhaps we also had to atone for sins of our own or those of our ancestors, for, in the words of Father Arsenie Boca: “In the cross, God placed a mystery—the mystery of each person’s salvation. Woe to the one who has no cross to bear, for he has nothing to save.” And so we all bore our crosses, larger or smaller, lighter or heavier, according to what fate had given us.
When he reached the age of ninety, our father no longer wanted to be a burden to our mother. Because he could no longer walk, he refused to eat so that he might depart forever, his mission on this earth fulfilled. What a man!
Although I know it is not good to look back at the past, It follows you nonetheless, like a book of tales. Some memories are beautiful, bathed in light; They raise your spirit and soothe your heart. Others are darkened by pride and suffering, And you wonder: how could such things ever have been possible?
Chapter I — Hard Times
Aurel and Tudorița
Motto
“Those whose parents are alive, not merely in their thoughts
Still hear, even in sleep, the eyes of the world weeping.
Whether we were, whether we were not, whether we behaved well,
Today, as we grow old, we long for our parents.”
Adrian Păunescu, “The Recurring Burden”
It was a beautiful day at the end of May, warm and bright with sunshine. You might have said that everything was well and that it was wonderful to be alive. But accursed misfortune strikes just when life seems dearest.
Petru, our beloved grandson, was in eighth grade and had just escaped the rigors of my tutoring in Romanian language and literature—literary genres and forms. He went for a bicycle ride, passed through a small pothole that threw him off balance, and the handlebars struck him violently in the abdomen. He endured severe pain in silence, saying nothing because he feared being scolded.
The next day, I was stunned to learn that he had been admitted to the Budimex Children’s Hospital, in the Intensive Care Unit, diagnosed with severe abdominal trauma and a fissure in his pancreas. His parents, Diana and Răzvan, kept watch at his bedside day and night. We, his grandparents, stayed with him during the day so that his parents could have some relief.
Petru was connected to various machines through which he received food and medication. Throughout his hospitalization, he was exceptionally well behaved. He cooperated and did everything asked of him. I even continued working with him on Romanian exercises, for it was the season of the national examinations.
His mother fought for and obtained permission for him to take his high-school admission examinations in the hospital. All the doctors and nurses in Intensive Care wished him success and kept their fingers crossed. He felt their encouragement and gained confidence, while all of us waited in the hospital corridor and prayed for his health and success.
He took his Romanian language and literature examination and his mathematics examination in the room where he was hospitalized. Teams of teachers brought him the exam papers and watched him closely until they departed with his completed work.
He remained in the hospital for two months so that the fissure in his pancreas could shrink and heal. They did not operate, which proved to be a good thing. While I stayed with him after the examinations, I told him stories—stories he himself prompted:
“One ember and one coal—come on, Grandma, tell me more about Mama Ica—whose family name was Tudorița, or Dorina for short—and Old Tataia, whose family name was Aurel.”
“All right, my darling, I’ll tell you, but you must also sleep, because sleep will help you heal best.”
We finished with fairy tales—Prince Charmings, dragons, Ilene Cosânzene, fairies, and evil spirits—and moved on to true stories from the lives of my father and my uncle, from the lives of my great-grandparents: whatever I could still remember.
“And? And, Grandma? And then?”
“My father was born in Isaccea, a fishing village, into a family with many children.”
There were about twelve children in the family of Costea Cojocaru and Paraschiva. About seven survived, but I knew only three of them: my godmother Alexandrina; the eldest sister, Panaghia, who lived in Bucharest; and the youngest sister, Dorina, who was married to a doctor and had a daughter named Liliana.
My brother-in-law Vanea, the husband of my sister Maricica, was a very witty and cheerful man. He called Aunt Panaghia “Coana Ghiofca,” because that was how he had understood her name, and that is what the family called her from then on.
“Yes, it does sound friendlier that way,” Petru said.
Then I fell completely silent. The nurses had come to take his temperature and change his food and medication. They recorded everything in the observation charts. The boy was under constant supervision. He had gained confidence and obediently did whatever he was told. We were allowed to bring him only water.
The temperature in his room remained constant, while outside the sun was beginning to warm the day like summer. Eventually, the doctor allowed us to take him into the courtyard. His classmates began coming to visit, which made me tremendously happy for him. After a while, the doctors gave us hope that everything was improving.
His hospitalization lasted two full months, followed by another month of treatment at home. Little by little, he began eating the foods permitted by his diet, and then he started going for weekly checkups.
I continued with the family stories.
“What were my great-grandparents from Brăila like? How did they meet?”
“They were young and beautiful, Petru. She was sixteen and had just attended a ball where she was chosen as the most beautiful girl.”
“Like a beauty queen?”
“Exactly! She was a tall, slender, delicate brunette with penetrating black eyes. Everyone looked at her with affection and admiration. The gentleman who organized the ball placed the beauty queen’s crown on her head and danced with her. She was so emotional that tears came to her eyes. She returned home delighted, almost floating, as girls do when they receive a prize for their beauty. She could barely sleep for joy.”
“And, Grandma? And then?”
“The next day, after this triumph, the Ivanov family came to visit Dorina’s parents, accompanied by a handsome young man. Following the proper introductions, Ica learned that he worked as a driver for the Ivanov family—the wealthiest family in the region—that he had completed his military service, was twenty-five years old, and had come to ask for her hand in marriage.
“Those present said that, the moment the young man saw Ica, he was enchanted by her keen, captivating black eyes. The young man—my future father—nearly fainted when he saw Dorina so close to him. He could not take his eyes off her and later said that he had whispered into his beard: ‘This girl must become my wife. I hope she does not refuse me.’
“In those days, however, the fate of young people was decided by their parents and godparents. Mother was shy, still euphoric from the previous evening’s success, and hesitant, for she was very young and had no great desire to marry. Yet she liked the young man too.
“Old Father, my grandfather Mușat, was determined that she should marry him. He too liked the young man, who was presentable, serious, had a trade, and was somewhat older than Dorina—therefore ‘mature in mind,’ as they used to say. Grandfather twisted the ends of his forked mustache, said ‘hm, hm’ twice, and spoke solemnly:
“‘Well, young man, if you like our daughter and want to marry her, we give her to you gladly, and may it be in a fortunate hour! We shall set the wedding date, and those who introduced you will probably be your godparents.’
“‘Yes, that is right,’ the young man said. ‘And I want everything to happen as soon as possible.’
“I do not think my mother had any say at all, but she was visibly overcome with emotion. The young man—my future father—was proud that he would have such a beautiful wife. He too was emotional and no longer knew what to do or say. Fortunately, his godfather Ivanov gave him a nudge, pushed him toward the girl, and said: ‘Kiss the hand of your future wife!’
“The young man obeyed mechanically. He kissed Dorina’s hand and felt a thrill, like an electric current, pass through his body. My mother nearly fainted from emotion.
“‘Well, Aurică, may it be in a fortunate hour! May we see you at the wedding, and may you establish a beautiful family with many children, for children are the joy of a home!’ Mr. Ivanov said.
“And that, my dear little Petru, is how your great-grandparents Aurel and Tudorița married. I have a photograph at home from their wedding: Mother in a short white dress, with a long veil and a diadem on her forehead; My father proud, upright, and almost full of himself. That photograph is very dear to me.
“The two beautiful young people, Tudorița and Aurel, gaze at us from that photograph with hope and joy. I cannot believe they are no longer here. They watch over us from heaven—that is what I like to believe. I miss them so much.”
“And, Grandma? And then? Why did you stop?”
“I became emotional remembering those who were dear to me. Only after they leave us do we appreciate and miss them. What would I not give to see them again, embrace them, ask their forgiveness, and tell them how much I love them? But I live in the hope that, when I rise to heaven, I will meet them.”
“What are you saying, Grandma?”
“Yes, my dear Petru, that time will come too, when we depart and you remain to fulfill your destiny—the mission for which you were born.”
“You are talking about sad things. Please continue the story.”
“The true story. A year after the young couple married, the children began to arrive—six in all. Florian was the first. He was a redhead with curly hair. When he was little and could not say mămica—‘Mommy’—he called her Ica, and Ica remained her name. From then on everyone called her that. When she became a grandmother, she was called Mama Ica; Father was called Old Tataia, because that was what he wanted.”
“But what did I call them?”
“You did not call them anything, because they were gone before you were born. You were born in 2004; they went to heaven in 1993—my father—and in 1995—My mother. They departed ‘on a road with no return.’”
The next child was a little girl, Lenuța, strikingly beautiful and dark-haired like Mother. Old Tataia loved her deeply because he thought she resembled his side of the family. When he held her in his arms, she would twist the ends of his mustache. Sadly, she died at the age of one and a half. She became ill, and penicillin did not yet exist, so they could not save her.
Two years later, Maria-Elena was born. She was baptized by Nana, whose real name was Maria and who was Grandmother’s sister.
“Oh, I know! Nana is the aunt who raised you and uncle Cornel and later raised the children named Adrian and Ovidiu,” Petru said casually, with the confidence of someone who knew everything. “And she was the one who told you stories about your family.”
“Yes, I see that you remembered. I am glad.”
The following year, a boy was born. We named him Ionel and called him Ion; his wife later called him Nelu. He loved learning and became an electronics engineer, highly skilled in his profession. He traveled to America, England, Egypt, and other countries to conclude commercial contracts for Electronum, a foreign-trade company in Bucharest. He exported televisions and electronic equipment manufactured by the Electronica enterprises in Bucharest and Iași.
As an aside, I told Petru that my husband Dan worked during the same period for Mașinexportimport, another foreign-trade company, and traveled abroad frequently. When Nicolae Ceaușescu had the ill-inspired idea of appointing his wife Elena to Cabinet Number Two, she ordered that anyone with even the smallest blemish in his official file be denied permission to travel outside the country. Dan then acquired such a problem. I would explain later what it was.
“And now, who comes next?”
“My brother Corneliu, baptized—as I was—by Father’s sister, Alexandrina Bucșeneanu.”
But why Corneliu, rather than Haralambie, their godfather’s name? Because in those days the people of Schela Mare—the place where my brother and I were born—still remembered the abominable, sadistic murder of the leader of the Legionaries, Corneliu Zelea Codreanu, assassinated in 1938 by the royal camarilla of King Carol II.
“And the last one—the sixth, the youngest—was you, Grandma?”
“Yes. My godmother insisted on giving me her own first name, Alexandrina, but my older siblings did not like it and decided to call me Rodica or Adina. Since Adina was closer to my baptismal name, I remained Adina to everyone—a name I actually like.”
“But why did Old Tataia want your brother to be named Corneliu, like Zelea Codreanu? The Legionaries have a very bad image in history: they wore green or black shirts, carried pistols at their waists, and killed Jews.”
“That is indeed the case: they were given a bad image, and the result is that Romania, without any legal or factual basis, was accused of the Holocaust—that is, of killing many Jews during that time—and, as a consequence of this misinformation, we still pay enormous sums of money in compensation today. I believe the truth is different. I have read many books on this subject and have concluded that the accusations are false. The Iași pogrom against the Jews was carried out by the Germans, who had occupied the country, not by Romanians. Ion Antonescu, a great Romanian patriot who was accused of this deed, on the contrary saved many Jews by finding them jobs. Mihail Sebastian acknowledges this in his Journal. Today, many Jews return to Romania with great affection. The killing of Jews at the slaughterhouse was staged using falsified photographs. We are now learning, more than seventy years later, that even the great Romanian historian Nicolae Iorga was not killed by Legionaries, but by a KGB spy who had infiltrated their ranks. You see, dear Petru, what history and political maneuvering can mean! What history did we study—the true one, or one filled with distortions like these?”
“I truly knew nothing about the things you are telling me. It feels as though another world is being described to me.”
“You see, that is why it is good to read—to read as much as possible and not limit yourself to school textbooks and recommended bibliographies. I learned these things by reading books and testimonies: For the Legionaries by Corneliu Zelea Codreanu, a book given to me by a woman about two years ago at Cotmeana Monastery, where the Romanians who fell in the battles on the Don were being commemorated; then Corneliu Zelea Codreanu: History and Biography by Cristian Sandache; and Tatiana Niculescu’s The Mystique of Prayer and the Revolver: The Life of Corneliu Zelea Codreanu. From these books, I learned what I consider the truth about the Legionary Movement and its charismatic leader, who later became a true myth.
“Then I understood why my father joined the movement: it was nationalist and Romanian Orthodox, and it promoted a cult of work among young people. Its only mistake was antisemitism. The movement believed that Jews had taken many of our rights, that they were intent on making money from everything—especially commerce—that they considered themselves masters of the world, and that they had killed Christ.
“That is why I recommend that you read as much as possible, so that you can choose and understand the truth for yourself from the flood of testimonies. I am not defending this movement, but Old Tataia suffered and was imprisoned under two political regimes. He was a political prisoner twice: under the sadly remembered regime of King Carol II and under the equally sadly remembered communist regime after 1948.
“I also want to tell you that I have been three times to Tâncăbești, the place where Zelea Codreanu and other Legionaries were treacherously killed. They were murdered in a vile manner, on the direct orders of King Carol II. First they were strangled, then shot in the back so that it could be claimed they had fled their escort; afterward, they were thrown into a common grave at Văcărești Prison in Bucharest and arsenic was poured over them.
“Mama Ica endured great hardship during my father’s imprisonments, but she received support from the Legionaries, who left money and bread coupons in the grooves of the fence and hired lawyers to bring him home to his children. During the reign of King Carol II, Old Tataia received a fair trial and was released after one month. Under the communist regime, however, he endured the horrors of prison for a year and was then released without ever being tried. The Securitate continued to watch and follow him for forty years.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I did not know any of this, Grandma.”
“I shall tell you everything gradually and in detail, so that you will never feel ashamed of your great-grandfather.”
After the examination, Petru was calmer and more relaxed. We regarded him as our hero for what he had accomplished, and we were proud of him. I wrote him a poem:
To our Most Holy Mother of God,
With humility and trust, I pray,
That our dear grandson Bogdan-Petru
May safely cross misfortune’s threshold.
May he soon leave his hospital bed,
That I may see him run and swim again,
Good and gentle, hardworking and wise,
With love of life and learning in his heart.
O merciful and holy Mother,
Make him grow strong, mighty, and upright as a rock!
In this hospital, Petru, you were blessed
With hardworking, dedicated, skillful caregivers;
And always beside you, day and night,
Were Mama Diana and Răzvan, your father.
June 15, 2019
Our little one passed his examinations and is now a student at Saint Joseph College, his first choice and the school he most wanted to attend. The opening ceremony for the new school year was held at Saint Joseph Cathedral, where we, his grandparents, were invited as well.
We appreciated the atmosphere of peace, reverence, quiet, and respect that filled the imposing cathedral. Parents and grandparents alike were proud of our high-school student, who looked very handsome. We took photographs of him. He wore his first new suit as a young man, with a snow-white shirt and matching tie. He was tall and slender, with a modern haircut, though his expression was still slightly worried. Would he be able to rise to the challenges that awaited him in life?
He still followed a special diet because the fissure in his pancreas had not completely healed, and he was excused from physical exertion. We were happy to see him cheerful, eager to learn, and delighted with his classmates and teachers.
Every year, beginning with kindergarten, we attended his opening-day ceremonies and end-of-year celebrations. We shared his joys, worried when he was ill, and suffered with him. We took him on seaside holidays in Greece and Bulgaria. That year—the year of his hospitalization—we had to cancel his place, and, truthfully, I did not enjoy our vacation in Albena, Bulgaria, at all without him.
Once school began, we saw each other again on Mondays and Tuesdays, when we worked together on his Romanian assignments. I was glad that he had a good teacher who knew how to help her students love the Romanian language and, above all, love reading. He enjoys it, and I am pleased with how he is developing as a high-school student.