My father, Mircea Vulcănescu

Mrs. Măriuca Vulcănescu, who celebrated her 82nd birthday on 1 July 2015, still has the spirit of a young woman. Her zest for life comes from a lifetime of experience, witnessing the world of another era when freedom meant fighting for truth, justice and, above all, for Christ. A world where confessing was just a natural thing for the aristocratic class. Mrs. Măriuca also looks like her father, the confessor Mircea Vulcănescu. He left when she was young to confess his Creed, leaving the Good Lord to take care of his daughters. And he was right. In fact, this man’s biggest challenge throughout his life was to always be honest with others, to treat everyone with kindness and respect – and above all, to be true to himself, loving this world, his family and his own life, but not at the expense of his beliefs. That’s why the Lord took him before he’d finished his earthly work, so he could carry on praying for the righteous nation he was born into from up there.

– Mrs. Măriuca, let’s go back in time. How would your father, Mircea Vulcănescu, see himself through the eyes of a child from that era?

– I’m already 81, but I still feel like a kid at heart. I remember my family with fondness; we lived in remarkable harmony! My dad was always warm and attentive, even though he had a lot on his plate. He made sure to guide us in our play and taught us how to play nicely, do sports, and shared his knowledge with us.

– Was it important for the father to be close to his children?

– Absolutely! And most importantly, my dad was never harsh with us. I remember I used to cry at night because my father had a lot of noisy guests and only a glass door separated us from them. I was very small, so I would wake up and start crying. My dad would come and put his hand on me and give me a little pat.

When I heard my dad calling me, I knew he was trying to calm me down. I would stop crying and pout, but I knew he was there to help. But he didn’t beat us, he beat himself.

He taught us the most by example, because he was a model of fairness and honesty. He also had a great sense of humour. When we were mischievous, he didn’t scold us, but he laughed at us a little bit, which was a bit of a shame! He was also very kind to others. I remember he even gave his clothes to a poor man who was passing in the street, his coat. He was a very popular guy. He was generous and warm, and he understood everyone, regardless of their social status. His team loved him too. He was very understanding and had a lot of warmth. Even when he scolded me, he was still comforting, so that I could understand and regret.

A father is a great way to understand what God is like. He’s like a miniature version of the Creator. And as Dad was quite big, you can imagine how much bigger the Creator was to us! Dad was like a representation of God to us. He was the firmament, the sky, the source of life and spiritual nourishment.

He was arrested in 1946, when I was 13. Life was already pretty tough back then – the war had started, and my dad was always trying to keep our spirits up. He was very self-sacrificing. For instance, when the war broke out, he volunteered to go to the front in northern Transylvania. After that, he was called back and made Secretary of State. He was held in high regard as a man of great honour and was seen as a valuable asset.

– Can you tell me what it was like when he was arrested?

– We were out of Bucharest at the time, but we found out that they came at night… My father had been packing his suitcase for a while, as he thought he might be taken away. One key moment was when they went down to the car because my father had forgotten something in the house and turned around for a moment. My mum said, “But couldn’t you have gone out the back way?” But no, my father apologised, went out, took his work back – the secret service had probably fired her by then! And he went back to them.

I was with his sister at the time, in Câmpulung, and when my mother told us that my father was no longer at home, I rushed back. It was my first time travelling alone by train. After that, I saw him at the Arsenal, where he was in pre-trial detention with all the former government members. We were allowed to see him every day, and we used to go there with food. He told us some really interesting things about the history of the country. He kept us up to date with everything, and he made sure we were prepared, both culturally and in our souls. He was preparing us for the future that he probably foresaw.

And then the process began, and we got to see it all unfold. During the trial, there were breaks, and he showed us how much he had lost weight. He couldn’t touch the food at Arsenal, apart from what we took him. Some of them were really hungry, and he’d give them his food. He’d lost a lot of weight. After that, he was sent to Văcărești and then finally to Aiud.

I haven’t seen him since then. My sister was the only one who saw him in Aiud because she went to ask for his permission to marry. Anyway, he didn’t want my mother to come. He said it was a terrible place and that he didn’t want her to go there. I didn’t get to go until after he’d passed away and I looked for his grave. I went with a suitcase to collect his earthly remains. A grave was opened, and I think it was my father’s, but I didn’t take him then. I said not to disturb him. Later on, the hill was levelled and all the land, with everything on it, was crossed over the railroad line.

After that, I went to Aiud as a pilgrimage. I also went recently, when the officials were very welcoming. They had only good things to say about my father.

“I tried to look on the bright side.”

– Did you find out about your father’s death while you were in prison?

– Yes, but I don’t think I knew at the time because I was in the camp. I had a dream that he was wagging his finger at me, like you do to a child to make it behave. It was as if he was saying, “Be careful.” I was eighteen at the time.

– Can you tell me where you were imprisoned?

– I was held at the Ghencea camp, and from there I was sent to work in Popești-Leordeni. I worked with a lot of different people there – for example, there were people who had been displaced, peasants who had been taken from their homes and sent somewhere else, and then arrested for not staying where they’d been ordered to stay. They taught me how to work, how to dig, and those women helped me feel like I belonged, like I was a peasant, and to learn how to do good work with the land. 

Like Theresa von Stubenberg, who hails from a noble Banat family, told me: “Just a heads-up: you have to slide your hand down the hoe’s tail, otherwise you’ll get calluses!” And it did. She said, “Just as you hold the neck of a violin, you should keep your hand on the tail of the hoe.” She taught me that, and it was a lot. I’d also come to enjoy being in a place like this, surrounded by people who are happy to share their knowledge and teach you a few things yourself.

After that, we were moved to Dumbrăveni, a famous prison, on the grounds that we shouldn’t have been put to work since we hadn’t even been convicted (because we hadn’t even been tried). We were relatives of former dignitaries, so they thought we were dangerous people! A lot of us were in one room, chatting, writing poems, and praying. Some nuns were with us too, who had set up prayer sessions where everyone would get quiet and focus on praying together.

No matter what I was doing, I always tried to look on the bright side because if something good comes your way, you don’t ask why. Let’s see how we can make it as good as it can be!

– What gave you the strength to stand firm?

– The fact that Dad was imprisoned, and there was no way he could resist and we couldn’t resist! That is to say, we had to strengthen our souls in the idea that we would come together again, that we would escape and be together again – with an extra experience.

I saw prison as a kind of honour. I figured that if I stuck it out, I might get closer to my dad. And when he got out and I did too, maybe I’d understand him better. I was the youngest in the family, so I was more spoiled, more careless. Detention gave me a certain ‘ripening’ of the soul and the mind. But I had to keep that in mind.

– All you had left was your father’s image.

– Yes, and more than that, it was as if he was still there with you, in spirit.

“Don’t avenge us!”

– Your father left a kind of will. “Don’t avenge us!” Have you ever felt the need to get back at those who did him wrong?

– No, we felt really sorry for them. He showed us how he felt, and I think he probably felt the same way himself. It’s a shame they were forced to do the things they did. I’d even go as far as to say that I found humanity in the guards who were made to treat us badly.

– You tried to look on the bright side.

– Yes, absolutely. Yes, I have. I think that’s something I probably inherited from my father. Some people feel hatred without meaning to, but they cultivate it as a defence mechanism. We didn’t have that problem; we had pity for people who were put up to bad things and didn’t realise it. That’s why I found my father’s words really resonated with me. I think revenge is a bit pointless. It’s not worth getting revenge because you’re doing worse than they did. I believe that’s not the most effective approach. If you can, try to sort out the people who punished you, explain your side of things and get them on your side.

– I’d like to know your thoughts on your father saving that young man’s life at the cost of his own.

– It was in line with his usual approach. It was just part of who he was. Even then, he was feeding his fellow prisoners. That’s why he lost so much weight in prison.

– What are your thoughts on young people today?

– I do feel a little sorry for them. It’s become the norm for people to be indifferent and impersonal. I mean, when you live in a block of flats, you meet someone and you don’t say hello, it’s like we’re not human anymore! It’s a kind of alienation. There are some basic things that are missing these days, probably because of a lack of education, but mainly because there aren’t enough role models.

– Were relations between people different back then?

– I’m not sure. You don’t see those smiles as much these days. People have gone through a lot and it’s made them bitter, but I think there’s also something else going on. By that point, we’d already enjoyed a period of peace and harmony since Romanian Country  became a kingdom. Then the war broke out – that was awful, but we’d already had a few good years, so we were able to keep the light and spread it.

– What did you learn from your father?

– I think I’ve taken on board what he taught me. I try to behave in a certain way, not to overdo things, to try to understand and help as much as I can… And the last thing I’d say is to pray for our enemies too.

(Material by Raluca Tănăseanu – Familia Ortodoxă magazine, no. 10 (69), October 2014)