A very special man

Valeriu Gafencu came with us to Târgu Ocna—a man of extraordinary character who had reached the highest level of Christian life. He was from Bessarabia, the son of a National Council member who had demanded Bessarabia’s reunion with the motherland. In 1940, shortly after the Russian invasion, his father was deported and never heard from again. Valeriu, together with his mother and three sisters, fled to the countryside with only what they could carry.

At the time, Valeriu was in his second year at the Faculty of Law in Iași. In 1941, he was sentenced to twenty-five years’ hard labour for illegal political activity. From the moment he entered university, he had distinguished himself, earning the respect of colleagues and teachers alike. At his trial, Professor Angelescu of civil law appeared voluntarily before the court martial to defend him:

“It is a pity that such an element should take the path of prison, because society would lose a lot if he were removed from its midst. He is one of the best students I have had in my career.”

Yet, he remained in prison until the day he died.

Valeriu was a striking figure: blue eyes, wavy black hair, a cerebral forehead, and a presence that drew admiration. Among young women, he had many admirers, though he remained entirely devoted to higher ideals. He once recounted that while awaiting trial in military prison, a young woman, a pupil, was at the speaker’s box. Too emotional to speak, she handed him the gold crucifix she wore. Valeriu accepted it with gratitude and kept it throughout his eleven years in prison, evading hundreds of searches. When he died, the crucifix was placed in his mouth, a sign to identify him for future Christian consecration.

His extraordinary personality and conduct influenced everyone around him. I first saw him in Pitești prison, though I was not in the same cell. I heard of his deeds in Aiud prison and the Galda de Jos work colony in 1946–1947, on the property of Albini, who owned a large vineyard. Albini, intolerant of intellectual prisoners, forbade them from touching the grapes without his permission. None obeyed—except Valeriu, who, viewing disobedience as a sin, abstained entirely. When not working in the vineyard, he assisted local villagers and then, with their permission, finally ate the grapes.

In Târgu Ocna, as the number of sick prisoners grew, two of us were assigned to room 4, where the seriously ill, bedridden inmates resided. Valeriu’s presence and words uplifted them, offering comfort and encouragement. I recall his remarkable self-discipline: when he needed to urinate at night, he would wait patiently until the guard, summoned by others, rose from the couch.

In the summer of 1951, Valeriu, already suffering from pulmonary tuberculosis and heart failure, developed acute appendicitis. The sanatorium lacked surgical equipment, so Dr. Danielescu sought permission to transfer him to the city hospital. There, Dr. Ursu performed the operation under spinal anaesthetic. Valeriu, however, felt every incision. Only when the surgeon tested by lifting his leg did he realize the anaesthetic had not taken effect. The incident left a deep impression on everyone, and a nurse secretly gave him a handkerchief. Shortly afterward, he was returned to the sanatorium in a two-wheeled cart, enduring the ordeal silently.

Also in 1951, one of our comrades, Stratan Leonida (Relu), a Basarab and son of a priest, received streptomycin from his family. Unlike others, he was not coerced by the political officer Șleam Augustin into becoming an informer. He decided to give the life-saving medicine to Valeriu, who, in an extraordinary act of selflessness, redirected it to Pastor Richard Wurmbrand. Despite arguments that Valeriu himself could have survived, he insisted on saving the pastor—a baptized Jew and former communist—over closer or more familiar patients. Wurmbrand later failed to mention Valeriu’s sublime gesture in his writings.

Around the same time, Valeriu suffered an episode of atrial fibrillation. Using only the available cardiotonic, Strophantin with glucose, we administered it while closely monitoring him. For thirty minutes, there was no improvement. Cyanotic and composed, he sat with eyes closed, hand on the cross, awaiting death “as the bridegroom waits for his wedding night,” as described in the Gospel. When I returned after attending another patient, I expected him to have died. To my amazement, his pulse had returned to normal. He opened his eyes, smiled, and, when I offered him sugar water, remarked, “You gave him gall and you give me honey?” It was, for all of us, nothing short of a miracle.

Even the prison administration, normally unyielding, was impressed by him. Those who had been “re-educated” dared not meet his gaze, while he remained present and active in the lives of others until his final day. He prayed constantly, for everyone—including his enemies.

On 18 February 1952, Valeriu died peacefully, fully conscious and without fear, bidding farewell to those around him before passing into eternity. His short life, deprived of worldly joys, was marked by the carrying of the cross and the crown of thorns, yet faith granted him spiritual joy even in the harshest conditions. Throughout the sanatorium, a profound sadness lingered.

(Aristide Lefa, Happy Are Those Who Weep, Eminescu Publishing House, Bucharest, 1998, pp. 79–85)