The man who for love of the enemy gave up his own freedom

Prince Alexandru Ghika, former chief of the capital’s police during the brief period of Legionary rule in 1940-41, sentenced to hard labour for life after the fall of the regime and sent to Aiud for penance, found himself taken from prison one day in 1951 and taken to the basement of the Ministry of the Internal Affairs in Bucharest.

From there, one night, he was taken out of his cell and taken to an office where he found himself face to face with Minister Drăghici himself, who made him a proposal:

– Mr. Ghika, I know what you were, when you were and how you were during the Legionary Government. You were the head of the police or security, right?

– Yes, replied Alexander, very self-possessed. And?

– And now I’m going to make you a proposition! I know you’re a prince, but that doesn’t matter to us communists.

Ghika looked down at him, curious to know what he was talking about.

– And I also know,” the minister continued, “that you were not only the head of the Legionary Security, but also its organiser. Therefore, in this former capacity and function, I ask you to give me a statement about Lucrețiu Pătrășcanu, that he was your informer during that period, and I give you my word of honour that I will immediately release you. I have this possibility, as well as the agreement of the Communist Party.

After a moment of silence, during which the minister thought that his surprising offer would have the desired effect, Alecu Ghika rose from the armchair that had been offered to him on his arrival and said, from the height of his stature, which the minister had just noticed:

– Minister! Do you Communists know how much I love you and how much I would like to see you still alive at the head of Romania? But if the price of my life and freedom now is the life and honour of a man, even if he is my enemy, then my categorical answer is NO!

Minister Drăghici, wide-eyed at the rejection of such a generous offer from himself and the party, also waited for an explanation. And this was not long in coming, as Alecu Ghika began to walk towards the minister’s office:

– Minister! Captain Corneliu Codreanu taught me, as he taught all my comrades in the Legion, that in battle it is better to fall on the field of honour than to win with a joke directed at the enemy. That’s why my NO is categorical and my honour is not for sale. I cannot accept freedom in exchange for the villainy you propose. Lucrețiu Pătrășcanu was neither my agent nor my informer!

– Fine! grinned the minister. You can only stay with your legionary honour and serve the sentence we didn’t give you, but Antonescu, whom you brought to power.

– Exactly, Minister! the prince concluded, waiting to be sent back to where they had brought him.

And the minister, although displeased at the failure of his attempt, granted his wish after another long wait in the cellar.

Years later, when Alecu Ghika returned to Aiud, in the same cell with Petre Pandrea, who asked him how he had got there, he simply replied:

– No!

– Pandrea asked. What? Where have you been, with whom have you been confronted? Who else did you meet?

– Drăghici, the minister! Ghika replied laconically:

– And? Pandrea starred, more embarrassed than Drăghici at the prince’s refusal. What did he say? Why did he call you? Go on, tell him!

– Tomorrow, Petre, it’s time for bed. I’m tired and it’s lights out! Ghika ends the conversation, leaving Pandrea’s curiosity unsatisfied.

The next day, early in the morning, just before he woke up, Pandrea began to scratch him because he couldn’t sleep out of curiosity.

– Tell me, Alecule, what was it like?

– Petrică! Why are you so curious and impatient? I know you want to write certain things with “the lamp of eternity on the table”, as you said at Christmas, but why are you so interested in my meeting with Drăghici?

– Alecule, you know that we’ve been friends for so long; you know that when you legionaries arrested Coca – that is, Lucrețiu Pătrășcanu, my brother-in-law – in 1940, when you came to power, I immediately came to you to get him out of my hands, didn’t I?

– Not me, but Petrică Țuțea, our friend. And when he saw you so frightened, he ran to me.

– That’s right, Alecule! And what did you do, as head of Security?

– I freed him in a few hours, because Petrică Țuțea came to me with his breath in his mouth, just as you had come to him, and said:

“Alecule, do you know they’ve blown up Coca? Lucrețiu, our friend?”

And I, you know, I was a friend of his political opponents, as I am of yours, so I said, “Good!” and I released him immediately.

– Yes! Not like Antonescu, you, after the coup in January 1941!

– Yes, but Antonescu… Ghika wanted to say.

– I know what you mean: Antonescu wasn’t a prince.

– I didn’t mean that. All you know is that he also gave Petrovicescu his word of honour that he would do nothing to him after the uprising, but he condemned and “executed” him. Where was his honour?

– Well, Alecule, a la guerre comme a la guerre, as they say! But with you, could he have done otherwise?

– How did I get away with it with your brother-in-law? But why? My dear Petrică, friendship and tolerance for other people’s ideas are rare flowers that neither you nor Antonescu have cultivated in your garden.

Pandrea was silent and the others in the cell were lost in thought.

– That’s right, Alecule,” continued Pandrea. Yes? Come on, tell us, what did Minister Drăghici want from you?

– Wanted what? He offered me my freedom in exchange for a statement that your brother-in-law, Lucrețiu Pătrășcanu – Coca, as you called him – was my agent and informer.

– What? Pandrea asked anxiously.

– And what do you see, Petrică! I preferred to come back here, among my friends, than to make such a joke. Can you imagine? Declaring that Pătrășcanu was my informer and then going free, having given them an excuse to kill him, with or without a trial, after my testimony? All they had to do was kill him themselves, not at the cost of my freedom!

– Oh! Oh! Oh! groaned a poor man from the bottom of the cell.

– Alecule! I’ll put it in writing, Pandrea swore!

– In your writing, “with the lamp of eternity on the table”? smiled Ghika.

A peasant from Oltenia, who had also wandered into her cell, said to his neighbour:

– When I hear again that this man, Prince Alecu Ghika, in all the decades he has been in prison, has never reached out his hand to take anything but the smallest morsel from the bread trolley, I will believe it with all my heart…

Meanwhile, the bread had been brought into the room, divided into portions according to the number of inmates. And after Alecu Ghika, although first in line, had taken the smallest piece, as usual, the Oltean shouted:

– There’s the prince! Still a prince!

His neighbour agreed, but chewed his bread less happily.

(Marcel Petrișor – Past Lives of Lords, Slaves and Companions)