An unpredictable incident during prayer with Anghel Papacioc

In those days, movement within the prison was not restricted for us. One could move freely from one floor to another, from one cell to another; one could leave or enter a cell or a ward without being asked where one was going or who had given permission. The only guard within the cell was the goose—the prisoner assigned as a watcher—and in each ward there was only a single guard. At the main gate, one man alone stood watch in the guard corps.

Gâlea, the head guard, slept inside the prison for a week at a time, dozing both day and night, without anyone replacing him. We had but one duty: to be back in our cells in the evening, at lock-up.

To carry out our own programme of study, meditation, and prayer, we made our own schedules for meetings. Instead of the guards locking us in, we placed our own inner bars. When you found the door locked, you knew that the candle of the heart was lit and burning for Christ. You would return on the day and hour written upon the door.

A Macedonian named Ciolacu—called Ciolaculu in dialect—later became one of the leaders of the resistance group in the forests of Babadag. He was then the head of a harvesting team. In the mornings, to avoid disorder, Gâlea would call the teams on the ground floor, sending them out to the fields one by one. Ciolacu carried a large pot which he would take to the fields, sometimes to collect the ripe fruit—especially grapes—so they would not be crushed in the silo, or to let the others use for boiling potatoes, beans, or mămăligă.

One evening, he brought us some grapes and late-season peaches and asked us to keep the pot until morning, when he would use it to boil potatoes for Anghel [the future Father Arsenie Papacioc—n.n.].
In the morning, we failed to wake on time, as our conversations and the prayers of the midnight vigil had lasted long into the night. The 5 o’clock wake-up call caught us still in the morning prayer, reciting the Six Psalms of the Divine Office.

Anghel Papacioc—may he forgive me for revealing this—when in prayer, neither heard nor saw anything around him. Father Vasile Serghie was the same. They were completely absorbed in prayer.

More sinful, more worldly, I could scarcely follow the words of prayer; my senses still registered everything around me. When the militiaman unbolted the door, I suddenly remembered the pot. Ciolacu’s team was about to be called, and the man did not have it ready. I wanted to get up, but I stayed on my knees, thinking we would finish praying before Ciolacu’s name was called. Anghel softly whispered the penultimate psalm with his eyes closed.

Then Gâlea’s rough voice echoed through the corridor:

“Ciolacu’s team—get ready for work!”

Outside, hurried footsteps approached and a knock came at our door. Then Gâlea called again. The sound of the team’s quick steps filled the corridor. Someone gently pushed the door to our cell, but it did not open.

“Ciolacu, get your team moving!” shouted Gâlea, hoarse and impatient.

I wanted to rise. The inner latch—made from a wooden spoon—gave way, and Ciolacu appeared in the doorway, his face slightly flushed. Seeing us in prayer, and having deep reverence for Anghel, whom he regarded as a saint, he knelt beside me and joined the psalm Anghel was reciting. I could sense his impatience, his eagerness to finish the prayer, yet also his shame for interrupting us.

Anghel had just finished with “Amen” when Gâlea called again, this time with greater urgency:

“Ciolacu! Down to the team!”

Ciolacu grabbed the pot, tucked it under his arm, and, as if rescued from danger, darted out the door, repeating with relief: “Amen! Amen!”

Anghel rose too, a little confused. Seeing me biting my lip, trying to restrain my urge to smile, he asked:

“Is something wrong? I thought I heard a noise.”

“We had forgotten to return the pot to Ciolacu,” I said. “He came to fetch it. When he found us praying, he knelt down too—and only after you finished did he leave.”

“Woe to us,” Anghel sighed. “Let us repent for our carelessness, and for disturbing his soul.”

We then recited the Fiftieth Psalm and made fifty prostrations—for ourselves and for him.

(Virgil Maxim – Hymn for the Cross Carried)