By Adrian (Adi) Catanescu
A true story from the years of compulsory military service in communist Romania.
After graduating from university, every physically and mentally healthy young man in Romania was required to complete his military service. You received your induction orders, reported for a medical examination, and were then sent to whichever military unit you had been assigned.
For university graduates, military service lasted six months. We were called teriști, short for termen redus, meaning soldiers serving a reduced term.
I was assigned to a motorized infantry unit near the city of Bacău.
Infantry!
Among my fellow soldiers were teachers, accountants, lawyers, and, somewhat surprisingly, musicians. Young men who had graduated from the Conservatory and who, instead of holding musical instruments, suddenly found themselves carrying shovels, rifles, and military equipment.
Life was difficult for everyone, but for the musicians it was particularly hard.
Especially digging individual foxholes.
They complained that this kind of physical labor was destroying their touch, that extraordinary sensitivity in their hands and fingers that allowed them to bring expression and nuance to their music.
Most of the other soldiers made fun of them. Some even went out of their way to make their lives more difficult than necessary.
But I understood them.
I wasn't a musician, but I loved music, and I understood that those hands represented years of hard work, discipline, and sacrifice.
Life in the army was unbearably boring.
There was practically nothing worth reading, and whenever we were allowed to watch television, all we heard was the stale propaganda of the communist media.
From the beginning, we had been explicitly warned not to bring books, magazines, or any other publications written in foreign languages into the military unit.
But I had managed to get hold of a French edition of The Stranger, by Albert Camus.
And whenever I had the opportunity, I read it secretly.
One day, I decided to continue reading during our military tactics class.
The class was taught by a particularly stern major, a rigid conformist for whom military regulations seemed to be the very purpose of existence.
His lessons were dreadfully monotonous and predictable.
The enemy always attacked from the east. We would occupy positions on the hills surrounding Bacău and heroically repel the invaders.
Every single time.
The same hills. The same enemy. The same glorious victory.
Sitting at my desk, bored to death, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to continue reading my book.
I took it out and began reading.
For a while, everything went beautifully.
Unfortunately, among us were three Judases, men who had made a habit of spying on their fellow soldiers and reporting everything to the officers.
Apparently, one of these informers drew the major's attention to me.
He approached my desk and confiscated my book.
This was serious.
Very serious.
The book was in French, precisely the kind of publication forbidden inside the military unit.
I was facing at least a week of military detention, perhaps longer, along with written explanations to the unit's security department.
But something even more serious was at stake.
My mother had been diagnosed with cancer, and I had obtained special permission to travel home once a month to visit her.
Now I risked losing that privilege as well.
I wasn't merely upset.
I was devastated.
The major slipped the book into his military map case, which hung diagonally across his shoulder, and continued his lesson.
In front of him stood a table displaying a three-dimensional relief map of Bacău and the surrounding countryside.
With great enthusiasm, he continued explaining how we would once again defeat the enemy attacking from the east.
I wasn't listening anymore.
All I could think about was the terrible mess I had gotten myself into.
And then something unexpected happened.
A young man from my platoon, Dudu Mihon, a violinist and Conservatory graduate, leaned toward me and whispered:
"Cover me! Stand where those informers can't see me. I'll get your book out of his map case!"
Dudu knew that I understood the musicians' predicament and had never joined in making fun of them.
I positioned myself behind the major, shielding Dudu from the eyes of our three informers.
The major continued enthusiastically explaining the situation on the battlefield.
And then…
With an almost imperceptible movement, Dudu opened the map case.
His fingers, accustomed to moving with extraordinary precision over the strings of a violin, slipped inside.
As lightly as a feather, he extracted the book.
He handed it to me with a conspiratorial wink.
The entire operation had taken only a few seconds.
But the book still had to disappear before the major discovered it was missing.
And that was when another fellow soldier came to my rescue.
His name was Adrian Păduraru.
Adrian was from Bacău and seemed to know practically everyone.
He was a horticulturist, passionately devoted to plants and flowers.
A big kid at heart. A dreamer. A little naive, perhaps.
But he helped me.
With Adrian's assistance, I managed to get rid of the book.
I could finally breathe again.
But not for long.
The major had already warned me:
"We'll talk after class!"
And he kept his word.
When the lesson ended, he summoned me into an office.
I could see the satisfaction on his face, his confidence, and, above all, what seemed to be his pleasure in making someone else suffer.
He was anticipating my punishment.
And apparently enjoying every moment of it.
I apologized, with all the hypocrisy the circumstances required, for the disrespect I had shown during his lesson.
He listened for a while, looking down at me with an air of superiority.
Then he said:
"Now, let's see what we have here…"
And he reached into his map case.
He searched.
Then searched again.
Nothing.
The book was gone.
He couldn't believe it.
He placed the case on the table, rummaged through it, turned it upside down, and inspected every compartment.
Nothing!
The book had simply evaporated.
I looked at him with the most innocent expression I could manage.
"Is something wrong, Comrade Major?"
No answer.
So I continued, sounding genuinely concerned, even if my concern was entirely theatrical.
"I certainly hope you haven't lost my book! It's a rare book, and I'm very attached to it…"
The major had naturally small, mean-looking eyes.
But at that moment, if looks could kill, I wouldn't be here today to tell this story.
He stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Without a word.
I encountered him again later on the paths around the military compound.
On one occasion, I politely asked whether he had perhaps found my precious book.
The same murderous look.
We crossed paths several more times, but I never mentioned the book again.
I didn't want to push my luck.
Eventually, my six months of military service came to an end.
I was a civilian again.
And I had gained a new friend: Dudu Mihon.
Dudu had discovered how much I loved music and began inviting me to the Romanian Athenaeum, not only for concerts but also for rehearsals.
Together with several musician friends, he had formed a chamber music quintet called Marsias, named after the satyr in Greek mythology who dared to challenge Apollo to a musical contest and paid for his audacity by being flayed alive.
One day, Dudu invited me and Vali, my future wife, to the quintet's first concert.
As I listened to the magnificent music, I found myself fascinated by Dudu's hands.
The way he handled the bow.
The fingers pressing the strings against the fingerboard of his violin.
The precision.
The harmony.
The rhythm.
Behind every movement were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of hours of practice.
And yet, as I listened, I couldn't help remembering another demonstration of his extraordinary virtuosity.
Those very same hands, in a classroom at a military unit near Bacău, had silently extracted a forbidden book from a major's map case.
The hands that had saved me from military detention.
The hands that had allowed me to continue visiting my sick mother, month after month.
Virtuosity, mon cher… virtuosity…
The Owl Never Forgets.