The Bible was the prisoners’ best food for soul
More and more came to Aiud prison, one after the other — some sentenced, some only in the camp — but all subjected to the same prison regime. Former senators, former deputies of various governments, bourgeois of somewhat better condition, soldiers, and others came.
The policy of the Communist Party was that all senators and deputies who had served between 1918 and 1944 would be arrested if they had not joined the party by the end of November 1945.
They came with a few clothes, but also with prayer books, religious texts, and above all — the Bible.
This holy book, the book of books, the inspired and divine word, has always been the best nourishment for Christian prisoners of all times and places. Its help to them has been immense. Some were restored through it — they found themselves, they were renewed. It gave peace of mind to many. It saved some from madness. For others, it made them good and wise. For all, it was a great and abiding help.
Dostoyevsky, who spent five years in prison, was not allowed to have any other book. But he was left with the Bible — the Holy Scripture. The effect of the Holy Scriptures on him can be seen in the great works he wrote afterwards. I think he is the greatest novelist in the world, next to Tolstoy and Balzac.
But from the end of 1945, the Bible became a target for the prison administration. It was still allowed into the dungeon, but no longer permitted to be read. The Bible arrived in Aiud in several languages: Romanian, French, English, Italian, German, Hungarian, and even the entire Old Testament in Hebrew.
From 1946, after Mares, the deputy director, had established himself in Aiud, the hunt for religious books — and especially the Bible — began. We old inmates urged everyone to read them carefully and, if possible, to hide them after reading. They were usually hidden in the straw mattress. If you were caught reading, the book would be confiscated, and then the cell would be searched. The confiscated books were burned with the same wood that heated the cells.
A sergeant, once the driver of General Pantazi, the former Minister of War, was put in charge of the heating. One day, I went to him in the cellar.
— “What books have you got here in the burner?” I asked.
He showed them to me. They were all kinds. I found some Bibles, the New Testament, and some prayer books. I put them aside, hidden, and said to him:
— “I’ll come and get them. You pick out all these books and put them away. When they come, let me know, and I’ll come and get them. Do not burn them in any way, lest God burn you for burning His Book — the one He sent to men for their instruction.”
He looked at me earnestly and nodded.
— “I agree with you, Father,” he said. “I’ll gladly do as you say.”
I took the books one by one and discreetly gave them to those I could reach, for I did not even know some of them. That was always how I worked. I hid them in the cupboards of the Orthodox church in Aiud, from where I brought them to the pews. There, each person who wanted one was invited to choose what he wished, hide it in his cell, and then put it back.
We acted like the first Christians, who hid the holy books and did not hand them over to the pagan oppressors.