Traian Trifan – a lawyer with deep wisdom and high moral conscience

Another aberration of the inhuman communist system was the farce—without any legal foundation—called the “socialist competitions.” The communist regime, ignoring the most elementary principles of law, applied this absurd practice in the nation’s prisons, particularly in Aiud, where a large metallurgical and woodworking industry had been developed in the former factory complex.

The Communists, having violated every legal principle, naturally constructed new “legal” foundations upon a single doctrine: whatever benefited their party was deemed right and moral, and whatever harmed it was considered wrong. These new tenets legalized crime, injustice, incompetence, moral corruption, terror, and abuse of power—everything that served to consolidate the communist dictatorship.

To ask a political prisoner to choose between alternatives—to participate in such “competitions,” even socialist ones—when his fundamental right of choice had already been denied by the regime, was a true anomaly. The political prisoner, stripped of every legal right under communist legislation and the regulations governing its application, was no more than a captive without a voice. Yet, despite all evasions and resistance, this system was practiced.

Bringing political prisoners from their cells to work in the factory might have seemed a momentary relief. However, because of the constant interference, periods of terror, beatings, starvation, and nightly confinement, followed by forced labor during the day, this had nothing to do with the much-vaunted “socialist humanism.” But let us turn to the specific events.

Around 1951–1952, among those working in the Aiud factory were Dr. Traian Trifan, Doctor of Law and native of Sebeș–Alba, and the philosopher Lucian Blaga. Dr. Trifan, who had settled in Brașov, was one of the city’s most respected lawyers. His family included two other doctors—a sister, also a Doctor of Law, and a brother, a medical doctor and director of the sanatorium at Leamna, Dolj County. The son of an Ardelean farmer, raised in honesty, integrity, and faith in God, Traian Trifan was a calm, serious, and deeply reflective man in his fifties.

His very demeanor commanded respect. He was prudent to the point of severity, a virtue born of his Christian conscience, and he was a man who respected both state and community laws. Profoundly cultured—in philosophy, theology, and especially law—he valued honest labor and understood the harsh reality of our situation as political prisoners. The communists, however, twisted this ideal of work into a tool of manipulation. To this end, they employed a vast arsenal of propaganda. Billboards proclaimed promises that could never be fulfilled. First came “Through work to freedom” (the infamous Nazi slogan at Auschwitz), then—realizing their error—they replaced “freedom” with “rehabilitation.” Finally, they arrived at the grotesque version: “Through work to a better life.” In other words, to remain imprisoned as slaves, if possible, forever.

But let us return to the case of Dr. Trifan, whom I had known well for many years. Fully aware of his legal, moral, and political position, he was not one to compromise, even at great personal cost. A man of principle, his words and actions aligned perfectly with his conscience. I could say that Dr. Trifan was a moral barometer—his stance reflected the ethical position every prisoner ought to have taken in similar circumstances.

So it was in the summer of 1952. The deputy commander of the prison, a captain, assembled us in the canteen to stain the consciences of those still deceived by empty promises—or to identify and punish those who dared oppose the prison’s diabolical designs.

This time, the target was Dr. Traian Trifan, known for his moral integrity, dignity, and unwavering anti-communist conviction. Informers had likely reported his influence among the inmates, and this meeting was no accident. With the communists, nothing ever was.

After the captain explained the purpose of the gathering—to launch a “socialist competition” campaign—the first collaborators of the prison administration began to challenge their chosen “partners.” No one protested; it would have been perilous to do so. Then, an informer stood up and publicly challenged Dr. Trifan.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Trifan rose slowly, composed himself, and spoke with calm dignity:
“Captain, I am challenged to take part in a socialist competition, but let it not be forgotten that I am a slave, and a slave has no will; his will is dead. My legal situation is one thing, my real situation another. There is no compatibility between the two. Therefore, I cannot accept the challenge.”

The captain and his followers were dumbfounded. How could anyone resist the “victorious march of communism”? Their doctrine admitted no dissent. When the captain recovered, he snapped: “I did not challenge you to a philosophical debate—I challenged you to a socialist competition!”

Dr. Trifan did not respond. He knew what awaited him. He fixed his eyes upon the ceiling and stood in silence until he was shoved from his seat. He had done nothing more than obey his conscience.

The hall filled with murmurs as the captain’s tirade against Trifan began. Soon, the order was given: a barber and a blacksmith were summoned. The punishment was harsh. Trifan was taken into the courtyard, forced to kneel, and his head was shaved to the scalp. Then he was shackled with heavy chains and thrown into the basement dungeon—a low, concrete cell with iron rings on its walls and floor, still stained with the blood of earlier victims from the Austro-Hungarian era. The metal door and low ceiling made it feel more like an ancient tomb than a 20th-century prison cell. Dr. Traian Trifan was held there for a month, subsisting on one piece of bread every two days under inhuman conditions.

When he emerged at the end of his sentence, I spoke with him at length. His unjust punishment had not broken him; on the contrary, he remained steadfast in faith and spirit.

After his confinement, I discussed the incident with Haralambie Pascaru, a political prisoner who worked in the factory’s technical office and who had become an instrument of the administration. Pascaru suggested that Trifan’s act could be considered sabotage. Knowing Trifan’s character—his scrupulous fairness and moral clarity—I tried to dispel that slander. I told Pascaru, whose words I knew would reach the ears of his superiors, that it was wrong to attribute malice or political intent to a man of such integrity.

The communists had long employed sabotage as a tactic in their own subversive past; it was part of their creed. But to ascribe such methods to Dr. Trifan—a man of honor, guided by conscience and Christian ethics—was absurd. He was incapable of deceit or degradation.

As I and others observed, the more dignified and upright a prisoner was, the more even the Communists, grudgingly, respected him. The weak and servile were despised. And if the communist leadership of Aiud failed to grasp the moral stature of this man, I felt it my duty to make them aware of their grave error.

Although my arguments convinced Pascaru, the administration did nothing to ease Trifan’s suffering. Yet he bore his punishment with serenity. He was fearless—not in bravado, but in faith. His conduct during those long years of imprisonment remains an example to all.

Ten years later, I met him again at Periprava, in the Danube Delta. He had been sent there as an “internee” after serving his twenty-year sentence in Aiud. He was unchanged—still the same noble, unwavering spirit who had once stood firm before tyranny. He died a few years later. His pure soul ascended to the heights of eternity.
May his memory be eternal.

(George Popescu – Under the Sword of the Knights of the Apocalypse, Majadahonda Publishing House, Bucharest, 1997, pp. 50–56)