In isolation with Father Stăniloae

We soon found out that the old man I mentioned was Father Stăniloaie (!), the great theologian who spoke to us every evening. He was weak, his voice was hard to hear, so when he spoke there was complete silence. There were 8 priests with us, including a Greek Catholic bishop, who listened to his words with respect and devotion.

Could it have been hunger or cold? Suffering or a lack of faith? Could it have been revenge or hatred? All melted away at the gentle, Holy Spirit-filled voice of the bodily weakling in whom only the soul was great. The brightest representative of Orthodoxy also carried his cross to the glory of Christ. He was like a Byzantine saint lost among so many damned, also a defender of the ancient Church and the nation crucified by atheists.

In these circumstances, his words were a balm, an unexpected gift for the multitude of martyrs who filled the crossless cemetery on the outskirts of Aiud, where the townspeople dumped their rubbish.

The love that poured out of his talks kept us hungry, kept us warm. I (and not only I) could have let him wash the frozen cement on the floor or carry the dustpan! At 36, I was still strong, and I would not have allowed myself any other attitude than that which my Christian upbringing and Legionary morality dictated.

I tried to give him the coat to place it under him, and he refused me with a firm wave of his hand.

– No! My dear! You have a great punishment! Don’t get cocky! Preserve yourself as best as you can! I don’t know how long we’ll be here; I… God willing! In a few days we’ll go back to the cellar, it’s not as cold as here, we’ll be better protected.

I insisted, but I couldn’t persuade him. We protect each other at night. Sometimes I tucked him in, sometimes I felt him trying to protect me. That’s what they all did. Caring for each other was the hallmark of Christian love. The spirit of sacrifice wasn’t just talk in the most cursed dungeon we were in. We stayed there for about 10 days in the isolation between the zarca and the cell, while the general purge lasted.

How I wanted to fall into the cell with Father Stăniloaie! It was not to be. Perhaps the administration’s accounts were different or, who knows, it was a coincidence.

When we returned to the cell, Father Stăniloaie ended up three cells away. This did not mean that we had lost contact with the wisdom of His Holiness. In Morse code, with competence and love, he communicated to us the meaning of the Gospel of the coming Sunday, a piece of advice, a maxim, an encouragement. No more talk of risk, for him and for us. This fountain of wisdom from which we had been drinking was about to be cut off. The light in the darkness that surrounded us had been extinguished. The food for our souls that he had given us was gone. The priest, the martyr Dumitru Stăniloaie, was no longer among us, nor did he appear at the re-education in 1962.

Those of us who received long sentences were later sent to work in the Salcia colony in Balta Brăilei.

(Ilie Tudor – De sub tăvălug, 3rd edition, MJM Publishing House, Constanța, 2010, pp. 71,79-80)