The ladle man

Hunger was no joke in the 1950-54 period, especially in Jilava. The bellies of many of the bourgeois who had been arrested and investigated a few months earlier in the huts of the Ministry of the Interior Affairs hung like Masonic aprons over the shameful parts of their bodies. Others, younger and hungrier, had the same bellies not hanging out, but hollowed out to the point where they looked like seashells, with the navel protruding like a finger from the centre. And for those who had been in prison since 1941, the bones crackled under the skin like poor carpenter’s tools squeezed in a vice.

Some of them could have grazed nails from any meadow, others could have swallowed twelve gallons of sour juice, one after the other, if someone had given it to them. But who would give it to them?

The only chance of not going hungry was the evening arpacaș, which was served in Jilava at about five o’clock in the evening. It was brought in large trunks, the volume of which depended on the number of people in the rooms in which they were crammed. In some of them, semi-cylindrical rooms of about 80 cubic metres, as many as seventy “pure souls”, as Maromet called them, were “weaned”.

Made of oak staves, the arpacaș containers were of impressive size; and placed on the cement of the rooms, they made a noise according to the quantity and content inside: louder and deeper if the arpacaș was thicker, or weaker and sharper if it was more of a juice in which the grains could be counted.

The dream of all the hungry, when they heard that the arpacaș was coming, was not only to hear the dull sound of the drum, but also to see the ladle inside, before it was divided.

And how many of us have not dreamed of being a ladle-man, dividing the portions so that we can put aside a bigger portion for ourselves! But who could end up and resist being a ladle-man when, after each ladle had been emptied into the bowl of the trembling hungry person waiting for it, the quantity left in the basket had to be mixed again? And this homogenisation had to be done in such a way that no one would notice any difference in the consistency of their own arpacaș compared to their neighbour’s, because if that happened, the ladle-man could be thrown into what was left in the tub.

Each function has its risks and benefits! And everyone agreed. And since the advantages were still greater than the fear of the risks, many of the strongest boldly competed for the post of a ladle-man.

And on the day when, in one room, the old ladle-man was suspended from office because he had not stirred the arpacaș in the chalice properly, the crowd of the condemned was forced to elect a new ladle-man after each arpacș portion poured in the mess tins.

But who? There were plenty of candidates, but who could have been more suitable and more certain of a fair distribution? And, what’s more, strong enough to withstand the distribution of portions of the whole tub? It wasn’t easy to sit hunched over a steaming stew – especially in summer, when the stench in the stuffy room rivalled that of a Turkish septic tank – and one had to ladle out dozens or even hundreds of portions!

So a decision had to be made, and soon: How? By a vote of the crowd, in which no one thought of their own hungry bellies. And not so much so that the new polling station would not favour him, but so that it would not favour – even with a spoon – his neighbour.

As for the possibility of theft, not a chance! Hundreds of eyes were glued to the ladle-man and the thistle from which the division was made. But many of those who had been in prison for a long time could remember when a hungry man had rushed under the ladle to fill his bowl right to the heart of the tub, and then to gorge himself according to his hunger. And as the operation had to be carried out with lightning speed, it happened that, by mistake or in haste, the stew fell on the back of the next man. The bastard screamed like a snake, but never let go of the ladle. And another man beside him rushed to lick his wound, not to kill him, but to get some of the spilled food. What else could the ladle-man do in the face of such a scene? Especially when the other hungry humans on the plains were howling: “What about us? Let him go! Share!” And the ladle-man didn’t even get a chance to wipe the sweat from his forehead or bare chest, which fell into the mess tin of those following in line. Who would protest? And how to vote? And how could the “chosen one” accept his task?

Hunger did not allow for contemplation or self-forgetfulness. The belly had to be lured with something, and the conscience had to be chased away, if not suffocated.

But one man, Andronescu, dared to run for office, even though, once elected, he was weighed down by the burden of the ladle he had turned and removed hundreds of times in the tubs with boiling mixture.

But he stood like a statue in that posture, in striped zebra trousers and a short ilic in which lice would not nest for fear of the stench. He sat, ladle in hand, at the edge of the arpacaș-filled tub, waiting for all the outgoing residents to enter the semi-cylindrical room of some 80-100 cubic metres. As many as had gone out, for not a single one had escaped. It’s just that the waiting made the arpacaș turn a greyish crust, similar to the colour of the materials in the can.

And the first to enter the room, after the air had been let out, was elder Sun, an old peasant from Bărăgan who had been sent to prison for “helping the legionaries”¹. The village priest had once told him to give something for “our people in prison”, after the Party secretary had asked him to give something for “our people” (some Koreans, Vietnamese or something else, the old man said). “Well, if I gave for the Koreans or some Chinese, for the Party and for foreigners, Mr. President, how could I not give for our own? What’s wrong with giving?” he said at the trial. A question with a precise answer: for so many “gifts” he had received about the same number of years in prison.

And because the dungeon had blinded the old man and he could no longer see where he was going, poor thing, after entering the room where the ladle-man was waiting for him, he had the urge to spit and spat in the middle of the arpacaș tub.

The howling of those who saw what had happened seemed to come not from the mouth but from the intestines.

– But what happened? asked those who had not seen the scene.

– He spat in the arpacaș! He spat on our lives! cried the hungry, pointing their fingers at the man who, stunned, no longer knew what world he was in.

Only “take him to his death” was not shouted, but every insult was being shouted instead.

– Shall we throw it away? the ladle-man tried to ask.

– Eat it yourself! shouted a few more engrossed old men.

– Throw it away! shouted others, more moderate.

– Don’t even think about it!” shouted the hungry.

And they all shouted and shouted, and no one could stop them.

Fortunately, just when the argument had become so heated that nothing could be heard but incomprehensible roars, the ladle-man pushed the ladle into the middle of the arpacaș tub, took the old man’s spit and threw it into the dirt bin; then, chewing the arpacaș in the basket, he shouted:

– Who’s first?

And of all those who had been tearing each other to pieces, not one refused the arpacaș.

Then, late in the evening, after they had all gone round the front of the tub with their bowls outstretched, someone on the last bench muttered, when the last grain had been swallowed:

– Great individual this Andronescu!

– Another praised him, chewing his last spoonful.

– For a job like that, the Emperor of China would have made him Minister of the Economy,” grumbled someone in another part of the semi-cylindrical room.

Only poor old Sun, who had caused all the trouble, was no longer mentioned, but no one cursed him.

(Marcel Petrișor – The Mystery of Fort 13. Re-educations and executions, Timpul, Iași, 1995) 

1. Money given to the poor families of imprisoned legionaries.