“This man seduced by his extraordinary power of living every thought or word he uttered.”

Like everywhere else in the prison, it was customary here[1] to fill the solitary confinement cells with prisoners on every holiday, which made it necessary to be extra vigilant. On such occasions you would only see the political officer running with his tongue out from one side of the colony to the other, looking for his catch.

The morning of the first day of Easter 1952 was mild and clear. I had come out from behind the barracks where I was talking to Marinică Naidim, a man who had served many years in prison. He was tall, thin, with a gentle look, his face more like an ascetic than a “politician”. He had been arrested since the time of Antonescu, when he was a schoolboy. He was as naive as a child, without a trace of resentment in his heart towards anyone. He had hardly a tooth left in his mouth, but the serene look in his eyes filled his face with a beauty that others did not possess.

We had hardly sat down when the political officer strolled in. He immediately called the sergeant and ordered him to throw us into solitary confinement. Here, in the mine, there were several wooden pens, very cramped, in which a man could only fit standing up, and two isolators in the two cellars of the infirmary. It was here in these cellars that the prisoners were isolated for longer periods – a few days, a week or two, and usually with chains on their hands and feet.

We were put in the more ‘comfortable’ of the two cellars. Light came in through very small windows at ground level. But we had room to move around.

We didn’t get any food all day, but I wasn’t hungry. A few days before, I had started having headaches, nausea and feeling sick. Poor Marinică, what had he done to me? He thought I was indisposed because we’d been talking, so he put me in isolation. He tried to make my moments as bearable and pleasant as possible by telling me all sorts of stories. Marinică had no interest in politics, science or literature. This man seduced me with his extraordinary ability to live every thought and word he uttered. I imagined him as an accomplished mystic. Never before or since have I met a man who faced all his suffering with such childlike openness. If that could be called happiness, then Marinic[ was a truly happy man. He spoke to me from the lives of the saints, quoted to me from the Philokalia, told me the most beautiful prayers he knew, explained everything to me in a light I could not otherwise see. He made me learn the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi by repeating it aloud, over and over again.

After lunch my health suddenly deteriorated. Marinic[ knocked on the door, called the militiaman and tried to explain what was happening to me. He couldn’t be persuaded. He thought I should first serve my sentence and then treat myself. He patted me down several times, but the result was the same: “You have a high temperature”. Towards evening I began to vomit.

(Ioan Victor Pica – On guard at the Styx. Memories from the Dungeon, Dealul Melcilor Publishing House, Brasov, 2000, pp. 122-123)

[1] The action takes place in the Baia Sprie forced labour camp.