“Priest Constantin Stoicescu, a man of great spiritual value”
We had new concerns in the prison in Brasov. The first – and most important – was to pray together in the morning and evening. I felt the need for spiritual support and consolation, which I could only find in moments of meditation and prayer. There were five priests among us, all with theological studies. I list them all: Iancu Popescu from Văcăreasca, Constantin Stoicescu from Lopătari, Terca, Iacob Tănase, Iorgu Ciomag and Cocora Gabriel. Among the most active were the priest Iancu Popescu, whom I knew from my student days, and the priest Constantin Stoicescu, a man of great spiritual value.
We prayed together for all the hard years to come. We adapted to the new situation, but we did not stop praying. We often took part in the religious talks given by the priests, or in the discussions on the subjects we wished to discuss. A few days later the people of Prato joined us. So we began to recover, to come out of the confinement in which we had been kept. We became what we had been. […]
Some felt the need to organise their time so that they were busy most of the time. Father Stoicescu, for example, was one of the first to learn to knit. In a few days he had mastered the craft and was knitting. He would unravel stockings and knit, you know what, a jumper or other, better stockings. […]
I don’t know if I have managed to describe the atmosphere of the Brașov prison as it was, but the time we spent there in the autumn and winter of 1949/1950 suited us perfectly. Something mysterious urged us to gather energy for later. […]
One day we noticed that a new guard had appeared on the ward. He was tall, with a dirty face. He stared at us with a hateful look. He had a bat in his hand, which he kept waving. When he opened the door for “programme”, that’s all we heard him say: “You’ll be back in a second.” When he couldn’t do that, he’d appear in the doorway to the yard and hit whoever and wherever he could with the bat. We did our best not to get hit. After a while, Father Stoicescu told me: “I know the guard. His name is Balțatu. He was a sergeant on duty at the gendarmerie station in Lopătari, the commune to which my village, Terca, belongs. I’ve often seen him in my house”. He wondered how he had ended up here and was still a guard. He decided to talk to him, maybe he would tame him.
So one day, the priest remains the last. When the guard approached with his bat, the priest looked him in the eye and the guard remained standing with his bat raised. When he sees the priest, he says: “And you, Father, here?” To which the priest immediately replied: “How did you end up here? Haven’t you found another way to earn a living? What are you doing here?” We then see the priest slowly enter the room, followed by the beast holding the bat.
But the savage continued to beat mercilessly. […]
After being taken out of “quarantine” and installed in room 12, we, the Buzoians, took the initiative to pray together, morning and evening. The priests Costică Stoicescu and Iancu Popescu were with us. They all welcomed the initiative with satisfaction. Beyond the daily miseries, we wanted to maintain close contact with the spiritual activities offered by prayer. On Sundays we dealt with religious-theological subjects, and the priests were very much in demand. This was the beginning of an activity that continued, with some adaptations, throughout my imprisonment. In religious matters I found moral support, which was very useful during the years I spent behind bars.
(Nicu Păun – The Mountain of Suffering, European Institute, Iași, 1997, pp. 91-93, 106-107)