The humiliations endured by Fr. Gheorghe Calciu in order to save Marcel Petrișor

Mircea fell ill with dysentery or intestinal tuberculosis. His blood gushed from his buttocks like an enema. One day, two, three, four, five, until “on the sixth day he fell asleep on his bed, looking even more exhausted than Oprișan had been.

Even the guards didn’t tell him to get up any more, waiting for him to “give in”. And perhaps, at the thought that with his death, the number of victims who had to disappear to leave only nine alive would be fulfilled, an intimate glimmer of very hidden hope stirred in the minds of Joseph and Calciu.

Just a glimmer, because on the other hand, their exhaustion in the cell would have made each of the others redouble their efforts at the door holes, which would have meant an even more terrible exhaustion with a quick end. But even that was out of the question. So he knocked on the door for the doctor to come. But which doctor? No doctor was allowed in Casimca. He hadn’t come for the other six who had died before, not for Mircea. And yet! Unable to stand idly by, Joseph and Calciu decided to go on hunger strike: the only weapon they had left. They did it for a day, two, three, until, on the fourth, a medical officer arrived with the political officer and asked who wanted to die.

– Not us, sir! He’s the one who’ll die if he doesn’t get medicine,” said Calciu, and Joseph, lying on his bed – as if on strike after four days – showed them Mircea with his legs stretched out.

– So what if he wants to die? grinned the officer. His business. What’s wrong with him? Do you want to die too? Here! But not before we have stuffed you. Do you understand? And both the officer and the nurse left the cell, slamming the door. But on the fifth day, the medical orderly came back to the cell with two soldiers and the officer on duty to administer the artificial feeding. They had brought a metal chair and handcuffs to tie the prisoner to it; they had also brought the “stork’s beak”, the instrument used to force the prisoner’s mouth so that a probe – a rubber tube of varying thickness – could be inserted into the stomach through which food could be fed into the intestines.

– No need for all that! Calciu told them. We won’t refuse the food and we’ll eat it as usual, from the canteen.

– You wish! We’ll force it down your throats. Grab this talkative, gopher-faced gnat and tie him to the chair, the orderly ordered, pulling the hose from the pocket of a robe dirtier than a prisoner’s shirt.

– No need for handcuffs, sir, or a stork’s beak. We’ll sit here and stuff ourselves however you like. In fact, if you don’t mind, we’ll stuff the tube into our own mouths. It would be easier for you too.

– Come on, let’s see you! Take it! And he held out the tube. Without waiting for another word, Calciu took it, sat down on the chair and shoved the tube into his stomach like an asparagus. Then he gestured to the plumber to pour his food through the funnel at the end of the tube.

Astonished, but also with some respect, the sanitarian did as he was told.

– The food was very good, said Calciu, after taking out his tube to give it to Joseph.

– Give it here, he said, doing the same thing, but with less skill. Then he wiped his mouth with the bridge of his hand. The guards and the sanitation man were at a loss for words. But they liked the fact that the two of them hadn’t given them any work to do. As for Mircea… who cared about him? Maybe only God, through his two cellmates. The next day, after the first artificial feeding and the sixth beating, the same team enters the cell, with the same instruments and the same ritual. The next day, the same, only the tube was thicker and dirtier. But the food was still taken, even though the team thought the thicker tube would be harder to accept. And the strike continued. On the seventh day, instead of the sanitarian, a plump, young and very frowny doctor appeared with the guards. She had probably been told that she was up against who knows what fanatical bandits. And when Calciu tried to put the tube into his mouth himself, she snatched it out of his hand and told him to sit down in the chair, because she would put it in properly. Calciu, what should he do? He sat down and opened his mouth wide. But as she was about to put it down his gullet, she made a mistake and was about to burst his windpipe. Fortunately, he pulled it out of his throat himself, looking at her piously as if to say: “What are you doing, you idiot?” It was easier with Joseph and there were no accidents. The man even thanked him for the food. “Too little, unfortunately,” he muttered, looking at her coquettishly. Not that he wanted her as a woman, for after so many years of hunger, beatings, torture and isolation, what could he do to her? And with what, when even his rags were barely hanging on. Still, to thank him for the food, she deserved a manly look! But the woman said, still arrogant:

– So you’re not giving up the strike? Are you still going on?

– Until our dying comrade gets the medicine he needs to improve his condition, we won’t give up, Calciu said.

– Well… she mumbles and goes out, accompanied by the whole squad. I’ll inform the superiors… The cell didn’t know what she was going to tell them, but they waited, having regained a little strength. But not Mircea, who was dying of exhaustion. The next day, the woman in white appeared at the cell door, accompanied by the political officer. And the feeding of Joseph began. The man sat down on the chair, put his tube in, his food – his portion – was poured in, and before the doctor could take it out, Calciu poured his portion through the funnel. General astonishment! No one had expected it, not even Joseph, who had swallowed it with great pleasure. The officer gestured for Calciu to sit down and for the doctor to put the tube down his throat. Calciu obeyed, the doctor did the same, but when he was about to pour, the political officer’s voice was heard:

– No more! “My dear, it’s gone! The cat ate it!” and looked conspiratorially at the doctor. Then, as if by magic, she snatched the tube from Calciu’s stomach and hit him in the face with it.

– That’s your food for today! she retorted, looking at the policeman to see if what she had done was right or wrong. He nodded in agreement. Left alone again after the group of feeders had left, the two strikers approached Mircea and Calciu asked him:

– Can you still do it? But he got no answer.

– He’ll be out in a few days,” said Joseph. We’d better get him ready… Will you wash him so he doesn’t go to the other world so dirty?

– He won’t,” said Calciu resolutely. But I’ll wash him with my drinking water if we don’t have any. And he washed his bum with both of our drinking water.

– And what else do you wash with? asked Joseph. You’ve got a lot of dirty blood on them.

– With my conscience,” replied Calciu, looking at his dirty hands. But Mircea, thinking they were arguing about who knows what, opened his eyes and looked at Calciu. That was all he could do: move his eyes.

– Listen! Don’t die on me now, it’s no use! Calciu shouted at him. And Mircea closed his eyes again, saw his hands stained with all that had spilled out of him… the next day… a miracle! Calciu was taken out of his cell and into the guard room at the end of the corridor. There was a doctor and a guard waiting for him. Calciu shuddered. He recognised the doctor as an old college classmate (he himself had studied medicine for four years in Bucharest). “Paraschiv!” he remembered. But for fear of the guard, he tried not to give himself away. The doctor also recognised him and asked the guard to go up to the prison office and bring him the stethoscope, which he had apparently forgotten there. An excellent excuse to be alone. And Paraschiv asked him excitedly what was going on.

– Someone is dying in my cell and needs antibiotics. Do you have any? Can I have some?

– Of course, replied the doctor, taking two red tetracycline pills from his coat pocket. Sorry, I only have these,” he apologised, looking away so as not to be seen by the guard. In Jilava, antibiotics could only be administered by the political officer and only on the advice of those ‘higher up’ than him. So Paraschiv had broken orders.

Calciu quickly grabbed them and hid them in his mouth, between his teeth and his lower lip. Paraschiv looked at him in amazement at how skilfully he had done it, and how ingenious the hiding place was. He wanted to ask another question, but the guard appeared with his stethoscope. He didn’t give up, though, and went on as if he’d missed something:

– How are your lymph nodes? They’re swollen.

– Good, replied the guard instead of Calciu. He too will soon smell the pumpkin at the root. The doctor understood and smiled bitterly. But Calciu couldn’t keep his mouth shut:

– We’ll see who smells it first, sir! and he left the room. He was afraid that the pills he had been given for Mircea would melt in his mouth.

– Ready, Doctor? asked the guard, taking Calciu by the arm.

– Ready! replied the doctor.

– Then march on, bandit! To the cage! And they both went out into the corridor, followed by the doctor’s worried look. They arrived in front of the cell, where the guard ordered the “bandit” to undress and be searched. And Calciu hurried to do so.

– To the skin! Down on all fours! And Calciu obeyed. The guard slapped his bottom.

– Get up! And shut up! No resistance from Calciu. He opened his mouth and the guard searched it with the same finger he had used to search his ass, as the rules required. But he didn’t think to look between his teeth and his lip.

– The guard said to him, disappointed that he had found nothing, and Calciu waited long enough to enter the cell, satisfied that he had not come with his “empty mouth” and that he had been able to fool the guard.

IOSIF’S AMAZEMENT at the sight of Calciu returning to his cell was boundless. And he asked him, more with his eyes, what had happened and where he had been taken. Calciu did not answer immediately, for fear that the guard at the door was listening. Then, with his back to the bean slot, he took the two pills he had been given out of his mouth. Neither of them had melted, but there wasn’t much left as they had lost their original colour. In his bed, Mircea lay still, fighting in his mind against the death that had not yet proved him.

– These are for you! Don’t die!” said Calciu, shaking him with the palm of his hand where the pills were. Mircea barely opened one eye, and there was a faint smile on his face, either out of joy that the other had done something for him, or because he was at peace with his fate. Joseph, on the other hand, was curious to know what the pills were, and Calciu was thinking about how to administer them so that they would take effect in the patient’s intestines as quickly as possible.

– What are you going to do with him now? Look, he’s almost gone after Oprișan…” said Joseph.

– Shut up and help me,” Calciu interrupted.

– Very well. What should I do?

– You grab his armpits, take off his underwear and help me turn him upside down. I’m going to melt an antibiotic pill in Costache’s canteen and pour it down his anus.

– And how are you going to open him?

– With the end of a toothbrush; and stop asking so many questions!

– OK! Let’s see you at work, I’m a bit grossed out.

Grossed out or not, Calcius did what he set out to do. And when the job was done, Joseph asked him what would happen next and how the medicine would work.

– Well, like this: since the disease was in the last part of the large intestine, the pill inserted into the anus would not have to travel the entire intestinal tract – as it would if given by mouth – and would work much more quickly. At least I hope so. And if the effect is delayed, I’ll stick the second one up his ass tonight. It’s impossible not to make a change, he’s young… Let’s see… And it did. Less than an hour after the operation, Mircea opened his eyes, inert as a doll, and hope shone in them. He could not speak, but his face showed the unspoken hope that he would be among those “saved” by the baby swallows. And to strengthen this hope, Calciu approached his ear and said:

– I hope you won’t make a fool of me after God has done half the miracle! You know, it’s not good to die at night!

– Not even at night! Joseph added, with a hint of scepticism in his voice. Before going out, Calciu repeated the move and inserted the second pill into his anus. To be sure, he had saved his friend, who – strangely enough – until he fell into bed, he had secretly wished for a complete dismantling, if he could. And when he lay down on the bed – for he had gone out – he fell asleep with a thud. Joseph kept watch, staring at Mircea’s bed: “Will he escape, after all I’ve done for him?” wondered the Macedonian, whose doubts had not completely disappeared. “We’ll see tomorrow,” he thought, and tried to sleep, dreaming “colourfully”, as the other two said. Especially since the guards didn’t say anything either, expecting them to give in as soon as possible. Their obsession, ever since they had brought them to Casimca. Mircea wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t wide awake either. He was dreaming, his eyes fixed upwards, towards the vaulted ceiling of the cell, or towards the imaginary sky to which he had not yet decided. And where, deep inside, the living spirit was praying. He prayed, asking the Lord Jesus Christ for nothing but mercy. Mercy for everything. And with all his heart. And in the middle of the night, what he asked for was given to him in a strange way. In the form of a candle lit by a white hand, a hand like that of his grandfather, the priest of the church in Ciungani. A hand that reached out to him, just a little from the altar, with a big Easter candle, to light the flimsy candle in his hand. And it blazed like a torch, with a great flame that frightened him. And suddenly he awoke with a desire for something, but not for food. There was nothing around him. No, there wasn’t! There was someone with him, someone he couldn’t see but he could feel. It was not the guard sleeping at the end of the gang, nor his two friends, Ghiță and Iosif, snoring next to him. It was someone else: the unknown and the unseen to whom he’d been given at his baptism. And how close he was to him that night! “Wake up! Arise!” One heard, after the beating of Jilava’s metal drum, the voice of the guard on duty, who wanted to make his revolutionary vigilance felt. The voice and vigilance of the “merciless cripple”, as the hostages had called him. The men in cell 4, Joseph’s, Calciu’s and Mircea’s, heard it and jumped up as if on fire. Especially Calciu, to see if Mircea was still alive. And he saw him lying still and motionless, as if he hadn’t woken up.

 

– Now I have nothing more to tell you! Calciu shrugged and looked him in the eyes. The day before he had told him that it was not good to die in the morning, then in the evening, and not so much at night… When Mircea opened both eyes to his cry, he responded with a slight shake of his head in denial, a sign that he had nothing more to say to him, that the danger had passed.

– Is he still alive? Is he still moving? Joseph asked, half rising from the bed above.

– Calciu replied, happy that the “operation” had been successful and that he would no longer have to continue his hunger strike.

– Thank God! exclaimed Joseph, getting out of bed. And now… to food, brothers! he added, rubbing his palms together. Psst, breakfast! To coffee with a hundred and fifty grams of bread, twice a week!

– Yes, breakfast!” said Calciu, putting his hand on all three slices of bread. Only these are for Mircea until he gets the hang of it! – All of them? asked Joseph, surprised and hungry. – All of them,” replied Calciu. Including yours, if you agree. – If you say so, Ghiță… Good! Mine too. But until when? After eight weeks, Mircea got better and ate only bread: his, Ghiță Calciu’s and Joseph V’s.

RELEASED FROM THE GRIPS OF DEATH

After the treatment administered by Calciu, Mircea asked questions, not so much to the neighbours – to whom the whole story of Paraschiv’s pills had been communicated through the wall – but to the guards and supervisors upstairs, who were waiting for the “delivery” of the Casimca. Similarly, in cells 4 and 3 – the only ones still communicating with each other, as those in 1 had been isolated by the death of those in 2 – there was still the fear that one of them would have to disappear, leaving only nine alive. Only nine swallow chicks had died, leaving nine of the sixteen in Casimca to escape alive! Six were gone and one more was needed. But which one? And by whose fate? It was a question that everyone was secretly asking, except Mircea, who had miraculously escaped, and Calciu, who, by another miracle, although his lymph nodes were swollen like plums, did not even ask himself, convinced that he still had much to do in the world. On the other hand, Joseph V. began to get scared when he saw that Mircea had escaped, and Calciu didn’t even think about disappearing. But he was comforted by the thought that he might not be the one to disappear. He had paid enough, with all he had endured, and why should he pay the ultimate tribute? He couldn’t! With such thoughts in his mind, he still conscientiously guarded the four holes at the base of the door, through which the shadow of the guard’s feet could be seen, lying in wait to catch them napping. He kept thinking of the weekly portion of bread he had given Mircea. Well, that had to be taken into account somewhere up there… And how many doubts had haunted him, after so many reasons why it couldn’t be him!

ELSEWHERE, in the next cell, among those who also knew the situation, it was the same. The fear of possible death hung thick in the air, competing with the damp, mould and stench of those inside. Aurel Popa – Popicu, as he was called – was like the sun among the pumpkins. Bald, yellow, fair-skinned and always smiling, he encouraged everyone to hold on, to hold on a little longer, a little longer, because – he used to say – “the year does not bring what the clock brings”. If the man proposes, the Lord will decide in the end! And if no one can escape death, why should he worry about it until then? Death did not bother him, and no thought of it crossed his mind! He had so much to do with the people in his cell – all more foolish than he was – that he couldn’t see his head for business. N.P., tubercular and very ill, with four cavities in his lungs, couldn’t even help him empty the wc tubs. He was lucky to have Octavian Voinea to help him with the job. It should also be noted that both N.P. and Voinea, who had undergone re-education in Pitești, were not without physical and mental scars, as tuberculosis was much easier for them to bear than the awareness of their own limitations. In N.P. at least, the inner conflicts had reached catastrophic proportions. And who but Popicu had to listen to him and face them?

– Why us students? asked N.P., who was in his fourth year of medical school in Bucharest. Why should we have been the experimental material of this monstrous re-education, when its aim was to turn the whole country into a mass of informers on the one hand, and masters, party members and opportunists on the other? That materialist-dialectical beliefs could not even be mentioned in the history of our country!

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