Jilava’s “Hospital”
A room like all the others, a cell whose walls were covered with water, it was called a “hospital”. Bunk beds, a barrel for the bedpan, a barrel for the water and a couple of skeletons spitting out their lungs.
One day, Turcu Viorel, an economist, was brought in, accused of forming a government in which he would hold the portfolio of national economy. He was followed by Popescu Gheorghe, a lawyer, who was convicted of spying for the Americans and sent to death camps in Russia. In April 1956, a prosecutor from the capital, a certain Popescu, appeared. The regime was no different. It was normal. In the communist regime, everyone is “equal”.
On 11 June, the eighth anniversary of the nationalisation of industry, a prosecutor, accompanied by two officers, appeared among the sick and addressed them:
– “Gentlemen, I would like to know your complaints about the way you are treated as prisoners and as sick people. Apart from that, I am interested in strictly legal matters, or whether you have anything to dispute. I would also like to inform you that everyone has the right to write complaints, appeals or petitions for pardon to any state or party body. You can write directly to the USSR, the Central Committee or the Supreme Soviet.
If necessary, you may submit written observations to pending trials. I assure you that your correspondence will not be censored in any way. Special rooms have been set aside for this purpose, where you can write for a maximum of three days. All you have to do is ask the Head of Section to take you to the rooms I have mentioned and you will be able to write. I am not in a hurry, so I can listen to your complaints. What is possible will be done on the spot. What is not possible now, I will write down and let you know within 15 days.”
The people were in a good mood. They had never dreamed of hearing such a thing. And in this atmosphere of mistrust, the ice was broken:
– Mr. Prosecutor, my name is Bentz Gheorghe, I’ve been wandering around prisons and forced labour camps for almost four years, I won’t tell you what I’ve endured during this time, but I’m surprised that no one has told me what I’m being arrested for. When I asked, I was cursed and called a bandit. But I never stole and nobody asked me anything.
– Sir, I’ve marked my name and in 15 days you’ll know.
– Anyone else?
The former public prosecutor rose from his bed and met the gaze of his former subordinate, who winced.
After a moment’s hesitation, the latter turned to his former boss:
– You?
– Mr. Prosecutor, I protest against the non-application of the regulations on the operation of prisons, signed and approved by the higher state and party bodies. These regulations do not make prison workers servants, but neither do they make them executioners. They are not torturers, at least not according to the regulation. That is what the Securitate does, as each of us has seen and as I think you know.
In this overcrowded place, where an epidemic can break out at any time, basic hygiene conditions are ignored. There is no water to drink and washing is out of the question. We smell like thieves. Every two weeks we’re supposed to go to the toilet in a terrible hurry. Basically the water is left to run for 3-4 minutes, hot and cold. We’re left all foamed up in soap because we’re forced out. We don’t have toothbrushes, we can’t wash our rags called underwear. We’re not taken for walks. We have lung and heart patients among us, but there is no care. This is called a hospital. We have no correspondence with the family to at least get what we need from them. According to the rules, we should have a parcel and a speaker session with them. But none of us have received them. Some of us haven’t even had a trial for years.
Instead, we have shrouds and beatings, a regime of differential evil compared to common law convicts, even though none of us have committed any crime.
If the prison staff oppose the application of the regulation, it means that they oppose the signatory bodies and therefore the state. The Securitate and militia officers accompanying the prosecutor looked at Mr. Popescu but said nothing.
The prosecutor, who had come to inspect us, addressed us calmly, ignoring his former boss:
– Gentlemen, from tomorrow morning you will be taken out for an hour a day, and once a week you will be taken to the toilet, where the water will run for 20 minutes without stopping. The prison staff and even the commandant will address you as ‘sir’. Any other problems will be reported to you within 15 days. If anyone else has anything to report that they do not wish to repeat, please do not hesitate to do so.
As no one else had anything to say, the prosecutor and the guards left with a “good day”.
In the underworld prison, in the vaults of Jilava, something great happened, something unexpected, and the bloodied skeletons began to discuss, to ask themselves: what could have happened to turn the wolves into little lambs?
Could he have felt pity for all the corpses and the blood that flowed? Did they give up their hatred of death, which made them famous as executioners, for a drop of humanity? Of their own free will they did not. What reason could they have had to change their behaviour?
[In fact, the scourge of the nation had not changed at all, but had only been frightened by the anti-Communist revolution in neighbouring Hungary. So the good will of the persecutors was only apparent, to ensure that if something similar happened in Romania, they would win the sympathy of those they had persecuted. But the prisoners had no way of knowing about the events in Hungary at that time, as they had no right to information. n.n.]
(Cicerone Ionițoiu – Graves without crosses. Contributions to the Chronicle of the Romanian Resistance against the Dictatorship. Volume III)