Mihai Lungeanu, “a young, handsome man whose eyes expressed special gentleness and a chosen kindness”.

In the autumn of 1955, during one of the prison administration’s prisoner regroupings, a young, handsome man came to the cell where I was staying, with eyes of great gentleness and a chosen kindness. The tall young man approached me and, extending his hand, told me that he was Mihai Lungeanu from Iași – a medical student in his fifth year when he was first arrested in August 1947. It was his second conviction. We immediately became friends, the kind of friendship that is blessed with the gift of never ending, even beyond the grave.

Mihai Lungeanu underwent re-education in Pitești, from which he miraculously escaped, and this was the decisive moment that changed his life. He told me that he prayed for days and nights and promised the Saviour that if He took him out of that hell, he would put his whole life at His feet, in the sense that he would become a priest or enter a monastery to become a monk. His prayer was answered and he left Pitești for good, as he was suffering from pulmonary tuberculosis.

After his release, when he returned home, he told his father, who was a priest at the “Buna Vestire” church in Iaș\i, that he would give up medicine and enter a monastery or study theology. After a few moments of meditation, surprised by his decision, he told him that he understood him as a priest, but not as a father. But Mihai’s decision was final. […]

While I was in the cell with Mihai Lungeanu, he paced slowly and constantly, trying to remember certain passages from a few folded pages that he clenched in his fists. By some miracle, he had managed to remember a chapter of the New Testament. For days, weeks, even months, Michael managed to memorise the New Testament. I looked at him in astonishment and compared him to Sorel in Stendhal’s novel Red and Black. I had read the book long ago and was convinced in my heart that it was an exaggeration, but this time I was looking at a new Sorel, Mihai Lungeanu, the young man who learnt theology in the communist dungeon using the Morse alphabet.

In the second ward, for the chronically ill, I was with Mihai again.

I don’t know why, but I don’t think it was a coincidence that I met Mihai again on 13 January 1963, during another of our ordeals. Those of us isolated in the cell who had categorically refused re-education were transferred to the Zarca. In the courtyard, the guard escorting us shouted:

– Listen, boy, come to me and take five!

Then I felt an elbow to my right, as if someone were nudging me. When I turned my head, Mihai was standing next to me:

– Grigore, although we hadn’t been together lately, I was sure we would be in the same position in the Zarca.

When we got to the door, the guard told us to go in two at a time because we couldn’t get in five at once. Hand in hand with Mihai we entered the Zarca and with us, to our right and to our left, it seemed as if someone was guiding our steps.

And although we were not in the same cell, destiny brought us together again when the burden was so great that it took on the appearance of despair.

Sick and exhausted from illness and the many severe isolations I had endured – I had served 65 days of punishment during this period alone – I lay on a bed awaiting my end, more conscious than ever. Michael, who watched over me as best he could to avoid being noticed by the guard, asked me after several detours:

– Grigore, what would be your last wish?

– I replied, Mihai. I would like to be taken out and thrown on the grass in the yard, to die with my eyes open to heaven…

More than 30 years have passed since then, and God wanted us both to get out of prison. When Mihai was free, he returned to Iași and I went far away, into exile.

*

A majestic mausoleum was built in the place called Râpa Robilor in Aiud, consecrated on the Ascension of the Holy Cross, and every year, on 14 September, a memorial service is held for those buried there. In addition to a large choir of priests, the consecration was attended by the surviving former political prisoners and their families.

To attend the event, I crossed the Atlantic and was back in Aiud, but not inside the prison walls but outside to take part in the commemoration. I was approached by a man and a woman who could only be his wife.

– Here, Grigore, we meet again in Aiud, but this time free, outside the walls. Do you remember?

– Michael!

We found ourselves in each other’s arms, crying, perhaps from joy, perhaps from the bitterness we had both suffered, and from the emotions that overwhelmed us we could only hear “Brother!”, “Brother!”…

I came to believe that a wish, however great, has a specific time for its fulfilment, and Father Michael confirmed this. With a rare perseverance and in the face of many obstacles, Mihai was ordained a deacon and remained in the service of the Church for a long time. It was only at the age of 74 that his dream came true: by the will and mercy of God, he became a priest, not an ordinary priest, but a priest who lived a vibrant religious life, full of grace and infinite love for people. 

Bless, Father Michael!

(Grigore Caraza, Aiud însângerat, edited by Adrian Alui Gheorghe, 5th edition, Tipo Moldova Publishing House, Iași, 2013, pp. 273-276)