This was written by one of my sisters several weeks ago and I loved it enough to post it here, having asked her for permission first, of course. It is a piece of our family’s history as seen by her at the time, a piece of which I knew and still know too little.
Although it was me who posted this article, I felt compelled to indicate Marta as its author.
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It was December 17th, the bright winter morning when we first had the inkling that something was going on. Mum came to find us in our room and stood in the door, telling us she had a summons for the Militia headquarters. She looked strange, as she was tucking her Bible in her handbag. Not afraid, not pale, just slightly spaced out and smiling a peaceful smile that I shall never forget. She still amazes me with her incredible inner strength that enables her to stay calm in the midst of life’s fiercest storm. I can’t remember why or how we knew. At nine, I was still frighteningly oblivious to the danger we were in as Christians in a communist country. Our parents had never taught us to be quiet about our faith. Mum and I were probably the worst culprits, talking to anyone who would listen. We still do. That morning, she left, knowing she might not return. She did ask us to pray. Yet, there were no goodbyes. No more than the usual, “I’m off,” that we would normally get when she went shopping for an hour and we knew that she meant, “Be good while I’m out!” Well, in less than an hour she did come back. The Militia were now concerned with more pressing matters. The “meeting” would be rescheduled. There was trouble in the West of the country. In Timisoara the students were marching in the streets and they were coming to Bucharest.
I don’t know why Dad thought it was safe to travel. We went to our aunt and uncle’s farm in the countryside. They had a pig. At Christmas, Romanians eat pork, not turkey. We had been promised a share of the poor thing, so we were going to pick it up. I hadn’t bargained on actually seeing it being slaughtered. My first and last time! So we went, just Dad, my brother and I. The others were too small to travel. I recall very little about the time there. But what I do remember is permeated with the creepy awareness that danger was close. Dad joined us in the tiny country kitchen, after listening to some news on the radio – Radio Free Europe or some other censored station that told the truth. He looked deathly pale, as he stood there. My aunt was trying to persuade Dad not to travel back; or, at least, to leave us there. Inside, I started to panic. I didn’t want to be left behind. We were always together at Christmas. Thankfully, Dad would not listen. I guess he, too, wanted the whole family to be together, no matter what. We travelled back at night time. There were checks on trains and people were not allowed to come into the capital. But they let Dad… because he had the children with him.
21st of December. We burst into our flat, back from our trip. There were hugs everywhere. It was almost midnight and my parents were sharing the latest news with each other, when we heard something strange. It was getting louder. It was a roar, like that of an ocean squeezing right down our road. We rushed onto the balcony. Hundreds of people were marching, chanting, singing and shouting, making their way to the centre of the capital. They looked furious and happy at the same time. It was an awesome spectacle! We were too young to be worried. We were excited.
In the days that followed, this continued, all over the city. Television was taken over by revolutionaries – artists and intellectuals that the communists had always been afraid of and had tried to silence for so long. We were mesmerised by speeches we didn’t understand and what looked like fireworks floating above the multitudes, that we used to watch on our neighbours’ television upstairs, whilst keeping our ears open to the city noises. Our friends’ view of the city centre came in handy that unusual December. The atmosphere was electric. However, the smell of danger and smoke was everywhere.
The silhouettes of people running on the flat roofs of neighbouring blocks of flats, were his terrorists we were told. We were crazy, we were told, for taking our baby brother out in his buggy, even in broad daylight. We shouldn’t stop and talk to our friends in the street, we were told; any group bigger than three were plotting against him, and the terrorists were merciless! They would come into homes; they would kill innocent people… and children.
Many more things we were told and it was hard to know what to believe. The grown-ups were taking everything seriously. The men organised night watches at the entrance to our block. There they had more time to frighten each other with more rumours. And we, the children, were hearing them too, next day, second, third hand. We started to get scared.
Then, it happened. Dad told us that he would have to do a night-watch at the University quarters, where he lectured. It couldn’t be true! We could see disbelief in his eyes. The University square was one of the hot spots of the action. Yes, students were being lined up against the wall and shot there. And my dad would be standing there all night! Knowing that, I suddenly felt so vulnerable in the middle of all that hell. A whole night! The scariest night of my life. All traces of excitement were gone. I had a whole night to think and be afraid, to hold my breath and listen.
There was that staccato sound! It came and then it stopped, and then it came again, invading my thoughts like waves, keeping me awake with their unwelcome chill. What is it? Is it someone tapping on the door? The terrorists would burst in any minute. No, I thought, it sounds like people running up and down the stairs! Too close for comfort. Did I just hear the lift doors opening? Is it our level or a different one? How can anyone sleep? How can Mum sleep? I think I can hear her stirring. Yes, it’s the springs on the sofa where she’s sleeping. They really ought to get a new one. I relaxed a little. But then it started again. And it didn’t sound like the sofa anymore. I was praying, hard. My mind kept going round the different possibilities. And then the answer came. That maddening sound were the distant rifles, somewhere in the neighbourhood. But not here. It was the sound we had been hearing for days and had got used to. In the quietness of the night, they had sprung back into my awareness, a lot clearer because of my fears. Just guns. That realisation brought an indescribable relief and I fell asleep whilst my thanks travelled beyond the smoky December sky.
I was awoken by another staccato sound. The familiar, gentle tapping that always sent us running to the door. Dad was back! Alive! He told us how all he had been able to do was hide all night. “Like a rat,” he said. “They were running right past me, and had guns. All I could do was hide.” They were the terrorists.
That Christmas we didn’t go to church. It was too risky. What I remember about that day is that a warning came and went, that drinking water was poisoned. Then our attention shifted to a different kind of news. The capital started celebrating. Thanks to the now uncensored media we heard that the army finally had him. Him. The army was on the people’s side. The next day he was no more. Freedom took his place.
That holiday was a long one. It wasn’t deemed safe to go back to school yet. The terrorists were still about, enraged by the dictator’s death. New rumours started spreading. A different fear, but it didn’t last. The truth was, we were free. And one way we knew it was that Mum was never called back to be interrogated by the Militia. That horrible institution that kidnapped people and destroyed families, instead of protecting them, was replaced by Police.
It took a long time for life to get back to a new normal. There were reminders everywhere that there had been sacrifices. People wanted to go back over those days. They needed to talk. About their December.
This… was my December. 1989.