Nichifor Crainic teasing Petre Țuțea

One of those who could still afford to make fun of Petre Țutea in Aiud, in the various cells where they lived, was Nichifor Crainic. And he had something to do with it: the bailiffs had him, and they had known each other for a long time.

A professor of mysticism at the theological faculties of Chișinău and Bucharest, Nichifor Crainic had been arrested in 1947 by Antonescu, the Minister of Culture and Propaganda, and sentenced as a war criminal to hard labour for life.

He had been Minister of Propaganda and against whom!

After seventeen years in prison, his experience of life exceeded that of Țutea. But he never made a fuss about it, even though he knew all the prison wardens he had passed through, all the “great war criminals” to which he belonged, all those who had fallen to the dust before Maromet at Jilava, and many of those who had played heroes for more or less a time.

But he did not boast of what he had done in front of the ladle, nor of what others had done under the sticks with which they had been beaten in many places, nor did he accuse himself of weakness or the weakness of the falls from which they had or had not risen.

Many of the facts, events and difficulties of his life as an outlaw had instead become legends that had made the rounds of the prisons. They were spoken by the prisoners, muttered from the scribblings on the cell walls and then passed on as far as they could in Morse code.

And although Țutea laughed at him when he told him what he had created or written, Crainic didn’t mind. On the contrary, he amplified the stories to make as many listeners as possible happy or sad, including his nephew Petric, whom he often provoked with his words. And the arguments between them lasted for days.

A lot of things were forgotten on the outside, but a lot of things were also forgotten on the inside.

– Where did you get the biggest hunger? asked Țutea once, pausing in the middle of a dissertation on food and the belly of St. Thomas Aquinas.

– In Jilava, in 1948, under Maromet, and then here, in Aiud, in ’51, ’52, ’53… what else do I know?

– Hm! exclaimed Țutea maliciously, glad in his heart that he had not asked God, like Crainic, to repeat the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves, to leave him the “basket of crumbs”.

– Growl, Petrică! But I would have liked to see you dreaming of the “heaven of porridge”, as I know you. I’ve seen Vulcănescu, and me… what can I say!

– Don’t say another word, Nichifor, you’ve said enough in front of the ladle. Do you remember? You’re quoted by so many…

– I don’t care about some fools who went to all that trouble: remember, I said, “He’s not God”! But I’ve said it and I’ll say it every time: “No, He is God!”, putting the comma between the negation and the verb to be. But what are the fools to make of this if they have not paid attention to the intonation? I’m sorry, but this is the Romanian people, not “God’s triumphal march on earth”, as you like to praise.

– Yes, Nichifore, it’s true that not everyone knows where to put the commas and how to hear them, but when they have “put” and shed their blood where they should – and thank God many have – what more can you ask of them?

– Petrică, Petrică! You’re incurable! It’s a pity you haven’t experienced what I have, otherwise you would judge things and ask questions differently…

– What questions should I ask when you’ve asked them for me? Although for me it’s not the search or the questions that obsess me, but the answers.

– But you have them, Mr Petra, warned Simion Ghinea (the so-called “secretary” that Colonel Crăciun had given him to write his memoirs, which his nephew Petric never wrote).

– How can I have it, Simioane? scolds Țutea.

– Sir Petrică! Have you forgotten? says Professor Crainic, wondering: “Where are those who are no longer here?”

– Yes, he says and asks, but who can answer him except metaphorically? The woodpecker says that they are hidden in the Light of the Unknowable One, that the wind, like their wings, knocks them down in flight, and the owl waits to see when the great darkness will fall. And then?

– And then what do you want? Crainic interjected. Certain answers, immanent transcendence? You, who claim from all sides that you have never, in any corner of your solitude, had an angel or spirit to inspire you? You who have only played with words? But you can’t get it out of me! You see, that’s why I avoided inviting you to propaganda in the Ministry…

– You did well! Otherwise, I don’t know… Like you, I’ve been in prison since 1947.

– And? Look, you’re still here! What did you tell Crăciun or Jacob about pride, non-conformity, courage, attitude and I don’t know what else? Hm?

Instead of answering Crainic or continuing the discussion, Petrică Țutea gave his secretary a discreet elbow: “It’s a pity that this professor isn’t a priest. If he had been one in Bărăgan, where he claims to come from, he would have been as big as an entire academy, harmonising with the bells of the village church during Liturgy.

– And you! Ghinea wondered. How do you know he hasn’t done it or won’t do it from now on? – Well, don’t I know? He’s a good guy anyway, with all the prison time he’s done and everything that’s known about him,” Petric concluded. And Crainic smiled bitterly behind them.

(Marcel Petrișor – Past Lives of Lords, Slaves and Comrades, Vremea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, pp. 154-157)