The brine from Gherla
The tortures stretched relentlessly, day and night, for nearly a full week. One evening, Popescu Aristotel, the head tormentor, gave a cruel order to his re-educators: neither I nor Fulicea would receive any food until his return. Then he disappeared somewhere.
He came back about half an hour later, holding a small bowl of salt. With a deliberate, almost ceremonial precision, he scooped a handful into my bowl and another into Fulicea’s. Then, with the spoon, he began to grind the salt, stirring it to dissolve as much as he could. When he deemed it ready, he offered it to us to eat.
I took the bowl with a boldness born of desperation, convinced that the salt would strike my kidneys or liver, that it would be the instrument of my death—and a dark escape from a torment that seemed without end.
But only about half of the salt dissolved. I scraped the remaining granules with my spoon, as one would gather sugar from the bottom of a coffee cup. Popescu Aristotel, in his calculated cruelty, handed me a cup of water afterward—but the water was as briny as the soup itself. My calculations had failed: I had not died. And then came a thirst so terrible, so consuming, that I writhed on the floor all night in indescribable agony.
Morning came, but it brought no relief. When the awakening call sounded, it seemed to me the trumpet of God’s angel announcing a second resurrection of the dead. From the moment I opened my eyes to the instant the door swung open, it felt as though another life had slipped away, exhausted by suffering.
We were ordered to form a row of two, seated under the watchful eye of Popescu Aristotel. I was placed at the back, pinned between two re-educated men who gripped my arms to prevent any attempt at escape or report.
The moment the door opened, desperation lent me unnatural strength. I kicked in every direction, leaped between my captors, and screamed:
“Water! Water! Give me water, Sergeant! Water! They gave me a bowl of salt! Please, water! A bowl of water! That’s all I ask!”
Sergeant Roman glanced at Popescu Aristotel and asked with icy scrutiny,
“Last night you went to the kitchen to get salt. True or false?”
“Yes. That’s correct,” Popescu confirmed.
“Everybody face the wall!” the sergeant barked.
Confusion surged for a moment—the door was open! Then the first guard stepped in, directing Fulicea to fetch water from the toilet tank with a canteen.
Fulicea, tall and resolute, obeyed immediately. He brought the water, and I drank with every ounce of strength left in me. Then he drank as well, his thirst as great as mine.
Without a word, the first guard closed the door behind him, taking the accompanying band of guards with him. Yet in the steadfast gaze of Sergeant Roman, I glimpsed determination—a subtle, constrained effort to act on my behalf, as far as he could.
After the guards departed, my ordeal was far from over. Stripped once again, I was beaten by Popescu Aristotel and his gang until I was pushed to the brink of death.