“Aurel Pandurescu was beaten in a way that was beyond belief”

Aurel Pandurescu, a theology student who was also arrested during Antonescu’s reign, was beaten in an unimaginable way. His whole body, his hands, his legs, his face and everything you could see was covered with marks. He began to be trampled. He couldn’t stand it any longer and shit himself. On the pretext of making the room dirty, he was forced to eat his own excrements.

Then he was made to sit on one leg with his hands up for 24 hours. A re-educated man was assigned to supervise him, not to change his legs and to stand with his hands up. When he could no longer maintain the required position, he was beaten over the leg whistle to stand with his arms as required. It’s hard to imagine, but he managed to stay in this position until about 11am the next day, when he collapsed unconscious on the cement. From there he was lifted by his arms and placed on the bed opposite me. At that moment I had the impression that I was looking at a body that had been abandoned not only by its soul but also by all that was divine in it. It looked like a heap of matter taken over by the power of evil. Whenever I think of it, I see something that bears no resemblance to what God has created in this world. […]

The atmosphere was so heavy that even the re-educated could not utter a word. They all carried out their orders in perfect silence. It was as if we were living in a world where horror and the power of darkness reigned. […]

The abnormal began to become normal. A few days before the beating of Ion Pintilie, I witnessed another scene: I am still ashamed of the total indifference I felt when I saw it. It was the moment when Aurel Pandurescu, in a moment of desperation, in order to escape the humiliation and torture he was being subjected to, threw his head into the hot pot of soup that had just been placed in the room, hoping that after the burns he would escape this hell forever. The degree of dehumanisation I had reached through my total indifference is also confirmed by the fact that I remembered this scene only later, after repeated attempts, together with other colleagues, to define the time we spent together in the cellar of Room 3: the moment when he threw his head into the pot, how he was pulled out, and I can still see him being carried to his place by two others, held by his armpits as he walked, bent over, with the remains of his soup dripping from his head, bent over on his knees. He sat in his place on the bed near the door, and I, sitting on the opposite bed, watched him in utter carelessness.

(Neculai Popa – Descent into Hell)