“Nea Petrică Țuțea the Romanian”
To most ordinary prisoners in Aiud during the period of re-education or critical self-analysis, he was simply known as Nea Petrică—the Romanian. The nickname arose one day when a less-educated inmate, likely from the countryside, asked him, “What is your profession, Mr. Țuțea?” He replied, without hesitation: “Romanian! A Romanian by profession!” That simple answer transformed into a lasting reputation: Petre Țuțea, the Romanian.
On another occasion, while walking in the prison yard with Father Professor Dumitru Stăniloaie, the priest asked how he would define himself before an audience of intellectuals. With characteristic humor, Nea Petrică replied:
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“In front of intellectuals? Some fools looking for the untalented. For them… ‘Country bumpkins.’”
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“And where is your community?” Stăniloaie pressed.
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“Where should I have my parish, Father? Wherever I can—improvised cathedrals, or even a pulpit, if it is offered to me.”
This explanation only added to his growing fame as “the Romanian and country priest.”
Prisoners witnessed his Socratic approach firsthand. Often, he would stop a poor worker or maid in the yard:
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“Do you know, my Niță, what the truth is?”
The bewildered person, bucket or tool in hand, would stand for ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes, absorbing a lesson in truth for the first time in life. Nea Petrică’s words unsettled some, inspired others, and left a lasting impression.
Many inmates smiled or whispered among themselves, unsure how to respond. Colonel Crăciun, the prison director, once asked peasants who had heard Țuțea speak:
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“What do you understand from what Țuțea says?”
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“Nothing, Colonel; he’s a nuisance when he talks!” came the unanimous reply.
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“And that’s why you gag him?”
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“That’s why, yes.”
The administration, tasked with “re-educating” prisoners, organized separate clubs for intellectuals and peasants. Yet those who had listened to Țuțea avoided the peasants’ club; he had “confessed them wherever he could.” With intellectuals, he spoke in complex yet clear terms, often leaving the colonel unwilling to observe the discussions.
Even when addressing the supposed errors of Legionary policy, Nea Petrică praised the Legion in a way that stunned Colonel Christmas, who admitted:
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“Mr. Țuțea, until I met you, I would have loved to kill you. But now I couldn’t!”
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“The risks of deep knowledge, Colonel,” Țuțea replied with a smile. “What are you going to do when we’re both Romanians?”
He was permitted freedom in the prison yard and even a secretary, Mr. Ghinea, to record his thoughts—though Țuțea never wrote a line.
When challenged by prison authorities, he replied with calm wit and principled reasoning. Colonel Iacob once asked why he resisted conformity despite his knowledge:
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“Those who bathe in the river of events do so either out of pride or adaptability,” Țuțea explained. “Adaptability is conformity—typical of bedbugs. I resist because I am not a mere adaptable animal. In a great political struggle, a man oscillates between heroism and cowardice and may end up where I did: in solitary confinement, paying the price of aspiring to heroism. But heroes vanish into history. The only way out of anonymity is holiness, and a saint melts into the Absolute.”
When asked why the Legionaries sought holiness, he concluded:
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“If you give us your hand, Colonel.”
His fame grew. When accused of being a genius, Țuțea shrugged:
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“Big deal and geniuses! There are no geniuses before God. Geniuses are first cousins to idiots, treated alike by providence.”
Even in discussions with prison officials, he maintained clarity and moral courage:
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“Not us to you, but the other way round: you to us,” he told an adjutant. “You define yourself through us, not us through you. A concept acquires its true dimension only in relation to its adversary. You are only as big as your opponent is bigger than you.”
And though he suffered thirteen years for “a people of idiots,” he never lost his devotion to the Romanian nation. He frequently invoked historical figures like Stephen the Great and Vlad the Impaler, noting their role in establishing absolute morality in Romanian life.
Peasants and intellectuals alike listened, enraptured or humbled by his words. When Aiud prisoners were finally lined up under Decree no. 411/1964 for general release, Țuțea delivered a farewell speech that transcended mere self-analysis:
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“We, those enslaved here, do not honor the Romanian people with our suffering—they honor us with suffering for them. This is the triumph of God on earth.”
He spoke of Romania’s endurance through history: surviving Turks, Slavs, pagans, and intermarriage with other peoples, yet preserving its essence. His language, suffused with spiritual and historical awareness, revealed a man who had internalized both the nation’s trials and its divine calling. He emphasized the Church’s role and the Legionaries’ moral example as central to Romania’s continuity and invincibility.
Colonel Christmas and his deputy observed quietly, acknowledging the depth and courage of Țuțea’s address. Fellow priests whispered in admiration:
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“Great, this Țuțea!”
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“Yes, brother! Such courage. The patriarch should make a statue of him.”
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“Perhaps not a statue, but a big icon!”
Petre Țuțea remained the same: unwavering, clear, and morally unshakable—a man whose speech and life embodied the enduring spirit of his people.
(Marcel Petrișor, Past Lives of Lords, Slaves and Companions, Vremea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, pp. 149–153, 164–166)