20 years on

A short while ago, Alexander, my American nephew, was born-

Long and Happy Life!!

In 1989, little did I expect a newcomer in the family, born in the land of the free, or to have the best friend, move to Argentina, of all places…

At the time of the fall of the Berlin Wall I was a student ,  working part time for the Travel Office, a training ground for about fifty richest Romanians, included in the Top 500 Forbes, some of them well connected guys, even back in the communist days. One of them has a chapter in this book, a few others will be mentioned only in passing.

In the beginning of the winter of our discontent, 1989, I was sent in the mountains, to prepare the ground for a bunch of British teenagers, ready to take a peak at a Communist country, while skiing. in the mountains, nothing came through about the demonstrations taking place in Timisoara, we were cut off from the rest of the world, there was little information in Bucharest, none in the Carpathians. So I came back to meet my guests at the airport, unaware of the shootings which had started in timisoara, which were absent from the “news”. While we were in the airport, I on one side, and the British girls and boys on the other side, a decision came from the Great Leader to close down the borders.

Those who had already landed before the cut off were trapped in the airport, for a long, cold winter night. Radio Free Europe and other media channels were telling their story, while it was happening, but I would find out about this only later.

I was sent “across the border”, in no man’s land, to sooth worries and talk to the perplexed crowd. What to say? I had no idea about what was going on and therefore no answers. In fact, we were worried, even in this communist land, closing the borders had been unprecedented and shocking.

A colleague of mine had a moment of vicious panic: after waiting for hours without any explanation, he stood up, took his briefcase and started for the door of the airport:

“-f**^&##@***, god damn

-what’s the matter, Okwe?

-I’m outta here!!

-why?

-I know (in a whisper) I am sure!!

-??

-Why they closed the damned thing down…

-somebody told you

-no, but it must be a bomb, so run for your life…

I couldn’t, even if I believed the revelation, because the Securitate had something else in mind. A plain clothes guy, who is a prosperous MP in the capitalist regime, twenty years later, said to me:

“-You gonna go there and make those wild kids shut up and stop their shouts!!

-They want to know what’s going on. They’re supposed to be in a hotel, asleep by now.

-None of their business. They must keep quiet!!

-There’s a guy from their Embassy, talking to them …

-Never mind!! YOU talk to them; the state gave you a mouth!

-…”

Nothing more could be said and I found something new I got from “the state”. In the meantime, the teachers who came from Heathrow with the young wild saxons told me what was going on, as they had learned from their Embassy official about Timisoara. They didn’t get all the gruesome details, but they received the excellent advice to go back to London.

By this time, there was a lot of pressure on them to enter Romania and “continue” their holiday…Ceausescu sealed the border, but some travel officials wanted to get an exception for a group of “kids”. The apparatchiks thought them harmless, not affiliated with any foreign spy agencies, and decided to get them in the country, by crook or by hook.

High ranking bureaucrats from the Ministry of tourism came to the airport to convince the teachers to “cross the border” into Romania, then go back to the UK and make publicity for travel packages, even if it was clear tourism was dead and buried at that point.

A few days later the fighting started. If it wasn’t for their Embassy official, about 40 subjects of her Majesty the Queen would have been trapped in Romania for weeks, or maybe even shot.

The paperwork after the arrival, a special last minute offer and cancellation of the Last foreign Mohicans visiting the communist regime were tiresome and required stamps and approvals. While working on it, in the National Travel Office, about 200 meters from the Party Headquarters, all hell broke loose.

Ceausescu signed his death warrant, calling for a huge meeting, thinking there would be the usual propaganda slogans and nothing else.

After booing and protests, the participants broke ranks. Some of them passed under the windows of the Travel Office. In awe, I went down with Laurentis, a Travel Office colegue, to meet fate and spend some of the most difficult hours of my life.

We joined the protests at the Roman Square. We were surrounded by the anti riot squads. They moved back and forth and we followed their every move, breathless.

“Every move you make

Every breath you take

Every step you take, I’ll be watching you”

Only we didn’t feel like singing. I was grasping Laurentis’ hand, every time there was a sudden noise, shout or military advance. I was scared to death. Shots were being fired. But not close to us. Later on, we learned about the people killed a few blocks away. Nobody died near us. But we couldn’t be sure about the next few seconds. There was no telling what would happen. The worst was to be expected.

I went to house near by and ringed the bell. An old lady showed me in. She allowed me to call grandma; we had no phone back then, so I couldn’t call my mother at home. I asked grandma to keep in touch with mother, and sooth her if anything happens:

“-what do you mean? Asked grandma.

-well, it’s just that…

-what can happen?

-nothing, but...

-You’re not in some kindda trouble...

-No, but I gotta go...”

She knew we couldn’t keep talking on the phone for too long. When calling her from a public phone, which was the only option in our neighborhood, about seven people would queue outside the phone booth, waiting for their turn.

Back on the street, we decided to go to the other square…

And 20 years on I would become Abbadon, Shiva of Malta in the Muddy Sea.

continued in the next chapter....