Martyred “in unspeakable torments”… for singing a traditional song

Dan Mihailescu, 30 years old, in prison for 5 years, engineer, sick with bacillary meningitis – relapse. He had fallen ill in the summer of that year[1] in Gherla, where he had received appropriate treatment. His fever and pain had subsided and he was on the road to recovery. Before his treatment was completed, however, he was transferred to Aiud, where he was placed in an ordinary cell under a cell regime, despite the fact that he was said to be suffering from bacillary meningitis. As expected, the disease relapsed and he was taken to hospital on a stretcher, in his last throes.

For Dan Mihăilescu, the prison doctors and Dr. Șerban, who gave them his full support, dripped life over death day after day. They used a 200-gram syringe to extract cerebrospinal fluid, which was then supplemented with physiological serum and streptomycin for days on end. For more than a month, the battle was uncertain, then the disease began to recede. He no longer had a high fever, he ate, talked and joked. He was a man who had come “from the other side”. Dr Marcoci continued to look after him. He only allowed him to get out of bed with support, for his needs, for which he was a common collection of all in the room, in a corner, just like in his cell. All these brothers in suffering were in prison, sentenced to between 10 and 25 years, because, in one way or another, they had not accepted the “light from the East”, had pointed the finger at the traitors within, had opposed Communism.

Winter had fallen everywhere, including Aiud. In the evening, an armful of wood was brought to them, with which the most vicious among them managed to heat the stove. After the doctors had made their last rounds in the evening, the militiaman made his. He counted them out and turned the key in the door for the night.

It was the moment when their tongues would loosen into stories, each more tempting than the last. There was no shortage of funny ones. Songs were murmured. They also mumbled, because singing in prison was dangerous work, according to the rules. There were jokes. Dan was one of the liveliest. His recipe was inexhaustible. He liked to be rolled, to have the opportunity to roll.

Radu[2] and Dan were separated by two beds. When the two of them got into it, it was fun and good times for everyone else. Sometimes they just exchanged furtive glances and “organised” some of the audience. There were times when the chaos of arrows and the fun was such that even the most tormented of them, old George, was in a state of chaos. […]

New Year’s Eve came, 31 December 1955. After the customary silence after closing time (around 8 p.m.), when the not overly vigilant Sergeant Căuceanu, accustomed to retiring for his night’s sleep, went to bed, Radu positioned himself at the door of the barracks with his “Plugușorul”. With “the ploughboy”, he said to himself, both to the poet and to his roommates. He took them all by surprise.

After the first few verses, recited with the pressure of one hand, jerkily as in his shepherd’s village, they all shuddered and rose to their feet in touching silence. After the first “hooray, hooray”, Ion Beteagu came to Radu’s side to help him “hooray, hooray”. That’s what they used to call Ion Becheanu, the one who was “open” and “closed” at the stomach. Radu beckoned him to sit next to him on the side of Mr Costea’s bed. At the second “hăi, hăi”, two other boys were placed, Ghiță Mogoș, with pleurisy up to the neck, and the resurrected Dan Mihăilescu. The latter moved around holding on to his blankets because he still had problems with his balance. […]

Radu beckoned them to sit down on the same edge of the bed and hooted softly as he told his story of Bădica Traian, interspersed here and there with whispered images that made the “hosts” laugh, as is customary among the Romanians. After the last and long cry of “hăi, hăi”, ending with “stop ploughing, me”, “aho, ahoo”, the host next door thanked them by shouting as long as they could hear him, because in reality they could hardly speak:v “I owe you, with a beautiful and reddish tusk like the face of Jesus Christ”.

They retired to their “homes”. They began to reminisce about such a day, from a time long ago when they were also in the world… and… bang, bang, key in the door. The door slammed against the wall and in its frame appeared, bruised, angry, with his jaws clenched, small and important, Mr Felcher Vlasceanu. Behind him, tall, heavy, massive, with a downward lip of annoyance, a little frightened, the holder of the keys, Sergeant Caluceanu. While Căuceanu remained in the doorway, Mr Felcer, with the training and profession of a medical officer, stomped straight to Radu’s bed, as determined as in battle. He had his paper and pencil ready: what’s your name, what’s your name and… to him, to Becheanu and to the other two, in the order in which they had sat on the edge of the bed next to the door that separated them from the next room.

He made a note, puffed and left. Caluceanu gave them another guilty, puzzled look, locked the door and then, in the silence that had gripped them, only the two pairs of boots could be heard moving down the corridor. […]

On 3 January 1956, at about 2 p.m., the militiaman on duty opened the door and shouted: “Flintașu Radu, get dressed and follow me”. He got dressed and followed him. They crossed the ground floor, went upstairs and stopped at the door marked “Chief Doctor”. The militiaman knocked on the door, waved him in and closed the door behind him. […]

– You will go to your cell immediately, along with the other three. You have grown fat in the hospital and now you disturb the peace of the sick.

– Doctor, how fat we’ve become, there’s a scale here. He can tell. I’m still dystrophic, I’m missing 14 kilos. The four of us are all seriously ill and undergoing treatment. As for the patients’ peace of mind, yes, it’s disturbed, in the whole hospital now, as a result of his behaviour, your sub-lieutenant Mr Vlasceanu. My roommates, by singing them the “plugușorul” on New Year’s Eve, I created a moment of good mood for them, I awakened beautiful memories, I did not spoil their peace. Please remember that we are so ill that to interrupt our treatment and throw us into a frozen cell in the middle of winter is to condemn us to death.

Dan Mihăilescu, who has just recovered from relapsing-remitting bacillary meningitis, is not allowed to walk on his own feet, nor can he, as he still has problems with his balance. Mogoș still has fluid in his lungs, pus! […]

– You should have thought of all this before you built the hospital.

– Doctor, I didn’t bother anyone. Ask the sick. Mr Vlasceanu, according to his clothes, is a medical officer, not a guard, not a militiaman. He’s the only one who was bothered by our song.

– You’re a fool! Get out of here!

He left in terror at the thought that all three of them would be condemned to death. […]

Dan Mihăilescu was taken to the infirmary on the third floor and was considered to be slightly ill. In reality, his punishment was harsher because he needed someone to help him, and he was alone in a large room where the cold was even worse than in the cell. […]

A few weeks after being wheeled out of the hospital on a stretcher into the ice cell on the third floor, nicknamed the “infirmary”, which was in fact a mortuary, Dan Mihăilescu, aged 30, died in unspeakable pain after six years’ imprisonment. He was soon followed by Ion Becheanu.

(Mihai Pușcașu – Testimonies from the hell of the communist prisons, Agaton Publishing House, Făgăraș, 2010, pp. 85-93 apud From the documents of the resistance, A.F.D.P.R., no. 3 of 1990, pp. 6-13)

[1] The author places the action in the summer of 1955.

Radu Flintașu is the author of the confession, Mihai Pușcașu. He wrote his memoirs under a pseudonym, placing himself in the narrative in the third person.