The marriage

In the spring of 1965, by chance — or rather, by divine providence — I heard of a young woman from a neighbouring commune, Grădiștea, six kilometres from Sălciile. She was thirty-five years old, a tailor by trade, and waiting, as people said, for a man who neither drank, smoked, cursed, nor raised his hand against his wife.

I thought to myself, “This girl must be waiting for me.”

She was the daughter of the village schoolteacher and had received many suitors, yet each one left as quickly as he had come. The teacher had five daughters and three sons; of them, only this youngest daughter and one of her brothers remained unmarried. Her relatives, alarmed at her persistence, urged her on. One aunt told her:

— My dear, if you turn the lathe and it doesn’t come out as you wish, it’s not your fault!

— I’m not getting married, the girl replied firmly.

I went to visit her family.

— Mademoiselle, I’ve heard that you’re waiting for a man called…

— Yes, sir, she answered seriously.

— Well, I am that man.

— If you are, you may ask for my hand; if not, you may go.

I was delighted by her honesty. Briefly, I told her who I was, where I had come from, and what I had lived through. When I left, her whole family accompanied me to the gate of their home. There, the girl and I lingered for a while, talking softly, while the others stayed back. I decided to return after Easter, once Lent began, bringing my parents so that they might meet my future bride — and that we could marry.

After I left, her mother asked:

— Will you take him?

— Yes, I will.

— How do you know he’s as you say? What did he tell you at the gate?

— He only asked if I was healthy, and whether we would live a Christian life together. You see, Mother, everyone else who came here asked if I had money in the bank, if we had furniture, or what dowry Father was giving me. They wanted my wealth, not me. He asked only if I was healthy — so he wants me, not my fortune.

— And you’re a rascal, just like him! she teased. “He wants to marry at forty-three, after twenty-two years in prison!”

After Easter I returned with my parents. They met my future wife and took a liking to her at once.

The wedding was held quietly at home, without pomp or noise. When the priest said, “Isaiah, rejoice,” I responded, “Lord, have mercy.” As the Apostle was read, reaching the final verse — “And let the wife fear her husband” — one of her aunts whispered behind my back:

— Step on his foot! (as the saying goes, so that the man will be ruled by the woman).

— If that’s what you’ve done, why doesn’t Mr. Ion stay home? the bride replied wittily.

That was the only laughter at our wedding.

I gave my bride the cross I had carved in prison, together with her bouquet.

— Beside me, you may have to suffer, I told her. We must carry together the cross of life. Don’t think I’m a teacher now, for tomorrow I may be sent to dig ditches.

— Even if I must go to the cows, I’ll be with you and will never leave you, she answered. We’ll be reconciled, as you’ll be reconciled with your soul.

A year and a half after our wedding, I was released. My wife followed me faithfully and silently, sharing the rhythm of life on the construction site. Two years later, in 1968, God blessed us with a daughter. We baptised her with the name of the saint on whose day she was born — 12 January 1968 — Saint Tatiana the Roman, Virgin of Christ.

(Virgil Maxim, Hymn to the Cross Bearer. Abecedar duhovnicesc pentru un frate de cruce, 2nd edition, Antim Publishing House, Bucharest, 2002, pp. 429–430.)