Mircea Vulcănescu’s last moments

I spent a few days in the nurse’s reserve in Aiud prison, where I met some great people. General Iosif Iacobici, an optimistic guy through and through, shared some great news with his good friend and fellow sufferer, General Gheorghe Dobre, a former minister, in a moment of high spirits:

– My friend, I have some fantastic news from outside. We’re having sarmale at home for Christmas.

It was the kind of high that often got the elders in the dungeon feeling good when something unexpected or encouraging made its way in. Like many others, the general had dreamed a lot after Eisenhower was elected President of the United States. Two months later, on Christmas Day, the old general passed away. But Mircea Vulcănescu, feeling down, was waiting for what was to come. Sitting next to Professor Dr. Petre Topa and me on a bench in the infirmary courtyard, he told me:

– I’ve realised that my purpose in life is over. I started working on an opera, but I couldn’t get it finished. I was teaching in a department that I left just as I should have been there. I said goodbye to the students I loved at some of the most difficult moments in history. I thought I was doing my duty as a citizen to this country that had been through so much, to this nation that had been through so much. I was wrong. I’ve been nothing but vain. I made a point of coming here to those who are suffering, who are dreaming of freedom and bled for it. I’m not in a position to offer my students anything at this point. I’m a broken man, struggling to survive. My efforts in the cultural sphere have not borne fruit. The people in charge today don’t care about culture. Pseudo-culture has spread like wildfire. I don’t know whose sins this welcoming nation is bearing. 

I’m really feeling the effects of my illness. I’m at my limit. As you can see, I’m not at my best. A sort of caricature of a man. I guess Charon is waiting for me to cross the Styx. The crows are ready to come with me. Just watch them as they keep on cawing. It’s the silence that gets to me. I really feel for my cellmates, going through all that suffering. I know I’m saying goodbye to them. I ask them to forgive me for leaving them.

– Dear Mircea, the teacher and his attending physician said to him in a warm, comforting voice. Don’t lose hope. The fever and weakness will pass. It’s important for all of us who care about you to make sure you’re getting the extra nourishment you need. Even if we’re faced with a well-organised genocide for our suppression, we’ll find a way out of this impasse. We shouldn’t let them get the satisfaction of leaving for other lands. Don’t lose hope. We’ll do everything we can to help you. But the best food is willpower and self-confidence.

– Thank you, Professor, for your concern. You’ve done everything you could, but it’s all for nothing now. You’re trying to give me a bit of hope, but you don’t seem to think there’s much chance of success. I have to pass the baton on, I really mean it. I’ve run out of options. I’m completely exhausted. I’m at a moral crossroads. There’s nothing that can save me. I spoke to Her last night. She’s waiting for me at the gate. If you and Mr. Constantinescu get the chance to make it out of this mess and start anew, look for my family and tell them to forgive me for making their lives so hard. I hope you can find it in your heart to bless them all and bring them some comfort. Maybe the girls will be OK. I know how much they’ve had to endure. I know they’ll face many more challenges in life. I’m sure they’ll be able to get through it, even if they face some challenges along the way. Let them know that I’ve just done my bit as a citizen of this country that’s lost its way.

– They are the sufferings of the whole nation, dear Mircea, replied Dr. Topa. This isn’t the first time we’ve had to deal with this. The tribute is too much for us to handle. Despite all the difficulties, the nation has survived. Don’t worry, God will help us.

I was really affected by the way this man of high culture was filled with the feeling of death. I had to say goodbye to him and Professor Topa with a heavy heart. I was looking at a man who knew he was dying. He was completely without hope. His festering, cadaverous cheeks were glistening with feverish sweat. The professor told me in confidence that the end was going to happen in two or three days.

He told me, “My dear, we’re all doomed here. The only difference is that we leave one by one, not all at once.” We’re like unhappy guinea pigs, subjected to some pretty wretched experiments. This is where some pretty awful things happen. We, the imprisoned doctors, are trying to slow down this ruthless process of extermination, which has been well studied, by using the limited resources we have at our disposal. Mircea is a great example of this. He’ll be leaving us soon. Given his background as a former minister, he didn’t stand a chance. It’s the same fate that awaits me and all of us. He was tortured, isolated and starved in Jilava. He was a big guy, so he had to be overfed. He ended up catching pneumonia, which was a real setback for him. He was held in solitary confinement in a dark room in the tower. As far as I know, he has no roof over his head. It rains, it snows, the wind blows, the sun burns. He was sharing the cell with a poor student who was also suffering in the 40-degree heat. They sat on the cold, damp concrete. To keep the young man, who was in a state of delirium, warm, Mircea wrapped his arms around him and held him on top of his own body. It’s unbelievable. (…)

Two days later, Mircea Vulcănescu passed away peacefully, at ease in the knowledge that he was no longer in pain. When I heard the news, Dr. Petre Topa, who was clearly upset, said: 

– “Is this the way to get us all out of hell?”

Seven years later, Dr. Topa was transferred from Pitești prison to the hospital at Văcărești. It was right at the end of his ten-year sentence. He passed away in prison.

(Ion Constantinescu Mărăcineanu – Revista Memoria no. 43)