Prince Alexandru Ghica, “monument of human dignity”

If a monument to human dignity were to be erected, it would undoubtedly represent Prince Alexandru Ghica as I knew him in Aiud. Tall, dry, with a face illuminated by an intense inner life, Prince Alexandru Ghica looked like an ascetic whose spirit had penetrated his tissues.

Modest without ostentation, humble without boastfulness, firm without the slightest trace of rigidity, he behaved like a true prince in all circumstances. Of course, in the prisons I have passed through, I have met other prisoners who, consciously accepting suffering as a duty of life, have managed to transcend the mundane and live on the borderline between humanity and sanctity. But none of them (at least, I have never met one) succeeded in doing so, so defiantly, so harmoniously, as he did.

Most of those who have managed this feat have sought refuge in this inaccessible zone of human misery out of a kind of innocent selfishness, isolating themselves and trying to create a certain “soul comfort” necessary for survival.

Prince Alexandru Ghica did it because it was his way. And under different circumstances he would have lived like this. He always had something to give without asking for anything in return. He never accepted favours just because he was Prince Ghica. He always participated with the others in the work required by cell life (sweeping, carrying and washing clothes, etc.) and always did so in an exemplary manner. He left his mark on the cells he passed through. He strove – and often succeeded – in ensuring that where he was, the minimum of communal harmony necessary for survival and coexistence was achieved. “He was – says Gabriel Bălănescu in his book “From the Kingdom of Death”, who spent more time with him and knew him well – a perfect comrade in suffering… Living with him was a true joy for the soul”. And indeed it was. As demanding as he was of himself, he was also understanding of others. Like no other, he knew how to spare the feelings of those around him. He never got involved in sterile discussions and never contradicted anyone. Not because he didn’t have an opinion, but so as not to hurt the small egos of those around him. In his dealings with the prison administration, he was firm but never demonstrative or belligerent. He obeyed the rules and orders he received with dignity, but in the most elegant language he refused to do so when obeying them would have done the slightest harm to his moral and spiritual capital.

I count myself among those who received from him lessons in dignified obedience. I had just arrived in Aiud and – out of a kind of youthful recklessness. I had come out of the investigation and subsequent trial with my self-esteem shattered, and I felt it was my duty to rebuild my reputation by taking a tough stance.

Among other things, the rules obliged the prisoners to greet the prison staff (from the commandant to the last guard) with the phrase “Long live” and by raising their caps. On the first occasion, when we were taken for a walk, I ostentatiously refused to do so, as I considered the gesture humiliating. The guard accompanying us noticed my borderline attitude and brutally apostrophised me: “Hey, you, third in line, don’t you know how to salute?”

To which I replied sulkily: “No hey, cause we didn’t grow up together!” The guard muttered an expletive and moved on. On my return to the cell, however, he wrote my name down in his notebook, and half an hour later I was taken to the political officer, who ordered me to spend seven days in solitary confinement. After seven days I returned to my cell, freezing cold (it was December), hungry and exhausted, because in solitary confinement you could only sleep standing up or leaning against the wall. It took me a few days to barely recover. When I had recovered a little, Prince Ghica took me aside and scolded me fatherly: “Why are you exposing yourself due to unimportant things? Don’t forget that you are here under obedience, and the fact that you have to greet them is no disgrace to you, especially as you will be greeting them after all. They will isolate you once, twice, nine times, until they tame you. And then you will greet them out of fear, and it will be more dishonourable. Save your energy and your health, because prison is long and there will be many occasions when you will have to adopt attitudes for which solitary confinement will indeed be worth it”. I don’t remember if he convinced me at the time, but as time went on I realised he was right.

In addition to all these qualities, Prince Ghica was also surprisingly lucid. Surprising, because in the conditions of prison life, cut off from reality and deprived of any kind of information, people generally lose this ability. Even the most educated and realistic among them became almost childishly subjective and credulous under these conditions. A more humane gesture from one guard, a more hesitant attitude from another, a rumour, a piece of outdated and unimportant information were all interpreted as signs of impending change. There were cases where precise dates were given: “Soviet troops have left the country! We will be free in a few weeks! The “big boys” met in Geneva. No doubt the question of political prisoners was also raised there. We will certainly be liberated. And this real weakness of the prisoners was skilfully maintained and exploited by Colonel Crăciun, especially during the period of re-education. An eloquent example of this is the creation, at the suggestion and with the help, of course, of Colonel Crăciun and his political apparatus, of the so-called “New Legionary Prison Action Command”. What was it about? In the summer of 1962, after the start of the re-education campaign, when the prison was in constant movement and the composition of the cells changed from one day to the next, one day, as if by chance, several leaders of the legionary movement found themselves in the same cell. The same ones who, during the period of preparation for re-education, had been taken around the country to show them the achievements of the communist regime. Among them were Nistor Chioreanu, lawyer, former commander of the legionary organisations in Transylvania, Victor Biriș, former secretary general of the Ministry of the Interior, Ilie Niculescu, former commander of the so-called Corps of Warriors, Victor Vojen, former Romanian minister in Rome, and several others. Among them was Prince Alexandru Ghica.

They all knew each other, had fought together and had not seen each other for years. After the joy of being reunited, people began to exchange information, opinions, dreams and, as was only natural, to discuss the national and international political situation.

Some of them had some information from the questioning they had recently undergone in Bucharest. They knew, for example, about what was then called the “Spirit of Geneva”, they knew about the growing conflict between China and the Soviet Union, and they even knew about the hostilities that had begun between Bucharest and Moscow. All of this led them to conclude that the Communist regime in Romania, forced by the changing international political situation, would have to make some concessions. Some even argued that the country’s political development would be the opposite of that of 1945-1948 and that, under these conditions, the Communists would be forced to accept collaboration with the former Romanian political class for as long as it remained. Having come to this conclusion, they naturally asked themselves the question: “If this were to happen, what attitude would we adopt? Will we accept this collaboration? And if we accept it, under what conditions?” All the members of the cell took part in all these discussions, with the exception of Prince Ghica, who remained silent and inaccessible throughout. When asked what he thought, he replied: “Don’t get drunk on illusions. Don’t you see what a trap is being set for us? Better pray, for hard times lie ahead”. The events that followed proved the prince right. After a few days, all those who had taken part in these discussions were isolated and an extremely harsh investigation followed. The Securitate, which is a master of such set-ups, had no difficulty in turning this innocent discussion into a “dangerous conspiracy”. The only one who could not be implicated in this despicable plot was Prince Alexandru Ghica, thanks to his lucidity. And this to the furious disappointment of Colonel Crăciun, who would have liked to involve him in order to have – and against him – an extra element of blackmail[1].

Throughout the period of his re-education, Prince Ghica’s attitude was firm and unequivocal. From the outset he made his position clear, both verbally and in writing when asked, and he could not be swayed from it, however great and inhuman the pressure put on him. Among other things, Colonel Christmas took an almost diabolical pleasure in humiliating and hurting people, especially important people (personalities), in what they held most sacred. And one of his favourite clients in this regard was, of course, Prince Ghica. Every time he put on a “show” with an audience (and he did, as I mentioned on another occasion, quite often), the prince was brought out of the prison cell where he was isolated to be the target of his taunts. “Look at him,” said Colonel Crăciun on one such occasion, addressing the other prisoners, “they would curse his ancestors (he was alluding to his illustrious ancestors) if he dared to besmirch the memory of Corneliu (that was Codreanu). Come down to earth, prince, come down to earth, or you will rot here”.

Once, when Colonel Crăciun entered the room where we were gathered, as he usually did, solemn and full of importance, he addressed the prince without any further introduction: “Well, Prince, how is the isolation? Do you still feel like dancing? And then he turned to the hall: “Look at him! He looks like a serious man. I found him dancing in his cell. He says he was just doing some warm-up moves, but he wasn’t. He was wiggling around, he was kicking his butt. By all accounts he’s overfed. We put him in solitary confinement, of course”. To which Prince Ghica, rising to his feet, calmly replied, “Colonel, you know very well that I was not dancing. No man in his right mind – and I claim to still be in my right mind – would dance under such conditions. But…” And he did not go on, for that would have meant telling some truths that would have upset Crăciun.

Another time, Prince Ghica was picked up, put in a car and driven around Aiud to see and marvel at the great achievements of the regime. He visited state farms, building sites, apartment blocks, etc., and on the way he passed the River Mures, on whose banks grow magnificent weeping willows. On his return, the prince was brought before the people gathered in the hall where the re-education sessions were held and asked to tell them where he had been and what he liked best about what he had seen. “Weeping willows, Colonel, weeping willows,” Prince Ghica replied with a hint of irony in his voice. “Listen, gentlemen, what the Prince liked. The weeping willows! He saw nothing else. He had eyes only for the weeping willows,” the colonel almost shouted, and angrily left the hall, followed by his retinue.

Of course, the audacity to have eyes only for the weeping willows cost Prince Ghica more days of isolation, more unimaginable misery, but he remained true to himself to the end. (…)

Since Prince Alexandru Ghica’s personality is so complex that it cannot be defined by only a few qualities (dignity, modesty, lucidity) that I have already highlighted, I will stay with him for a while longer. In order to try, with the little that I can evoke, to approach it in all its complexity.

I have already mentioned that Prince Ghica was one of those prisoners (and there were many, the long period of imprisonment and the extremely harsh conditions to which they were subjected made this clear to many) who were aware that the struggle in which they were engaged transcended the mundane and took place in the spirit. He was also aware that the triumph of evil in the world is only temporary, even if that temporary triumph extends over a period of history. The knowledge that the forces of good will triumph gave him and others the strength to resist the attacks of evil. He believed as no other layman did in the saving power of prayer and, without being a bigot, spent much of his time, even when not alone in his cell, in meditation and prayer. He had a great understanding of people in general, and of those in distress in particular, of their doubts and fears. He never condemned any of those who accepted re-education, not even those who, by virtue of their position, would have had a moral duty to resist, considering that everyone has the right to try to save himself when he no longer has the spiritual resources to continue the struggle, as he sees fit and as his own conscience dictates.

Of course, being human, Prince Ghica will have his doubts, weaknesses and desires. Like the rest of us, he will have had his moments of despair. But he never allowed them to overwhelm him. He never gave his opponent the satisfaction of seeing him waver in his resolve. Only once, however, was he surprised by some of his fellow sufferers with tears in their eyes. It was when Colonel Crăciun read him a letter from home, from his wife, in front of the prisoners gathered in the “club” for the occasion. The security forces, who were obviously keeping a close eye on the re-education process, sometimes resorted to this despicable practice.

They would ask the family (parents, wife, children) to write a letter to the person in question, asking him to be obedient and obey the prison rules so that he could enjoy the regime’s mercy like others. Prince Ghica also received such a letter. Colonel Crăciun made a point of reading it to him personally, in order, he believed, to increase its effect on him and the other prisoners.

“Prince,” he said, having climbed the few steps of the platform on which he usually sat to dominate the hall, “look, you have news from home. Come here, let me read it to you.” . And when the prince reached the podium, Crăciun began to read him the letter, the style of which was easily recognisable. The content of all these letters was suggested or even dictated by security. The wife told him that she and the children were in good health, that they were living in Galați, where she had a job and earned enough money to support herself and the boy, who was in his final year of medical studies, that the girls were settled in Bucharest and both had good jobs, and so on. He did not fail to add that conditions outside had changed for the better, that much had been built in the country and that the regime was taking good care of the families of the prisoners; he concluded by asking him to behave well in prison, to be obedient and submissive and to admit his mistakes so that he too could benefit from the pardon decrees that had been issued and on the basis of which many had already been released.

The Prince listened to the reading of the letter without saying a word. Not a twitch in his dry, bony face, not a trace of emotion. He looked like a stone pillar. At the end, when Colonel Christmas asked him to sit down after his speech, he just said a curt thank you and walked to the back of the room, where he had come from. On his way, the prisoners he passed noticed that his eyes were filled with tears.

In the autumn of 1962, while the re-education campaign was still going on, I met Prince Ghica again at one of the aforementioned “shows” that Colonel Crăciun organised on certain occasions (release of batches of prisoners considered to be re-educated, presentation of the self-demonisation of certain personalities, etc.) in order to sensitise and stimulate the mass of prisoners in general, and the recalcitrant ones in particular. We hadn’t seen each other, or spoken to each other, for more than two years, since he had been taken out of the cell where we had been living together and, as I later found out, taken to the Ministry of the Interior and on a tour of the country to be induced to accept re-education.

This time the fair we were forced to attend lasted until late at night, so we were given a break around 10 p.m., during which we were allowed to walk around in a brightly lit courtyard so that we could be supervised. As soon as we stepped outside, I looked for him with my eyes and ran to him. We embraced and, after asking each other how we were, he put me around his shoulders like a father and we walked in silence for a long time. I could feel that something was bothering him, that he wanted to tell me something but didn’t know how to begin. Finally he began in a low voice that still sounded like a reproach: “I heard you’re not good, you do stupid things”.

At first I thought it was a misunderstanding, or that someone who wanted to compromise me had whispered something about me. Because even then, even there, the slanderous rumour machine was working, skilfully manipulated by the political apparatus of the prison to sow mistrust between people. Confused, I looked at him questioningly. “Yes,” he replied, “I have heard that you refuse to accept re-education. Why? Don’t you realise it’s the only way out of here? ” . I asked him with a hint of revolt in my voice: “How, Mr Ghica, do you, you who so stubbornly refuse this monstrosity called re-education, urge me to accept it?” . He stopped and put his hand on my shoulder: “My son, you are young, you must leave here and rebuild your life. You have that right, which is also a duty. You have given enough. Now you have a duty to live and to fulfil yourself to the extent that you can still fulfil yourself. Let us old people, those of us who feel able, pay the bill, for we have greater obligations than you. We owe it to our past, we owe it to defend the memory of our martyrs”. .

– I asked him, “Should I take this advice as a release?”

– “No,” he replied, “I have no right to bind or release. I am only giving you advice. But you will do as your conscience dictates. If you decide to resist, do so with Christian humility, without self-denial. And one more thing: try to understand those who have chosen or will choose the other way. Do not judge them too harshly. We are all human and we all have limits.

Meanwhile, the break was over and the guards urged us to come in and take our seats in the hall. We parted with hugs, each of us going to fulfil our destiny. It was the last time we spoke. We had never seen each other at such ‘shows’, but we could not speak to each other. We just exchanged glances. Meaningful.

(Demostene Andronescu – Re-education in Aiud. Inner landscape. Memories and Verses from Prison, Christiana Publishing House, Bucharest, 2009, pp. 146-154)

[1] It should not be understood that Prince Ghica made any compromise that could be used to blackmail him if he did not collaborate with the communist regime. For a man of exemplary integrity, blackmail was sentimental. The Securitate “advised” the families of “obstinate” prisoners to send them letters and photographs asking their children or elderly parents at home to “do everything possible”, i.e. to make all the necessary concessions, so that they could come home. Thus, according to Marcel Petrișor’s testimony, Prince Ghica was confronted with such blackmail by Colonel Crăciun with a letter from his son.