Valeriu Gafencu – a great mentor and friend
After the Easter holidays of 1942, following the rejection of our appeal, a train carried us from Craiova prison to Aiud prison. The exhilaration of youth overshadowed any natural sadness that might have arisen from being separated from my family and the city of my early youth, which I had loved and still love. The eagerness to encounter a new world—both young and old, yet brimming with spiritual vitality and vast knowledge across diverse fields—dwarfed any regret for lost memories.
The reasonable, civilized, and somewhat respectful welcome I received at Aiud did not dampen my optimism. My first acquaintances included Paul Miron, a student at the military high school in Iași who would later become a professor at the University of Freiburg in Germany; Ion Ianolide; and Valeriu Gafencu. Among the older inmates were Iuliu Stănescu and Traian Marian.
The spiritual bond that developed between us left deep traces and lasting memories. Among the most significant and painful is that of one who is no more: Valeriu Gafencu, who died in the prison hospital at Târgu Ocna. A first observation: his remarkable intuition concerning the true nature of the youth leader in prison, Vasile Tarnovschi, who claimed to have received three sentences of 25 years’ hard labour, totaling 75 years, as asserted by some prison elders. Valeriu was the first—and only—one to question Tarnovschi’s good faith.
His suspicion proved correct in 1944, when we were transferred to Alba Iulia as the front approached Aiud. On the 30-kilometer march, we encountered the first trucks of the Red Army, heading for Aiud to break the German-Hungarian front. In one of these trucks, among the Russians, was Tarnovschi, who waved to us. In the spring of 1944, he was again in Aiud, in the Zarca. I heard his voice from an upstairs cell answering a young man calling to him from the corridor, in the absence of the guard. How and by whom he had been released remains a mystery. Only the prison commander, Major Munteanu, who later boasted of being a “good Romanian,” could have known. Today he lies in his grave. Later information indicated that, after the communist regime took power, Tarnovschi donned a monk’s habit and traveled among monasteries, seeking monks with anti-communist views and attitudes.
Returning to 1942, I left Aiud in the summer, and after several stops in four other prisons, I returned to the “home” just as declarations of dissociation from the Legionary Movement were required. I met Valeriu Gafencu again in a cell in Zarca, where our spiritual bond deepened. At one point I was transferred to another cell on the same floor, and we had opportunities to meet during walks. It was not until the end of Antonescu’s dictatorship that we reunited in the same cell.
Valeriu had matured inwardly. By 1945, he had begun a profound self-denial of both himself and the world, and I believe he succeeded; he grew deep within. Outwardly, he had changed his attire—a renunciation of both substance and form. Few noticed, though all could see, if viewed through discerning eyes.
We once shared a conversation that shook us both. I fell to my knees before him in humility; he returned the gesture while remaining standing. Our friendship was temporarily overshadowed, yet we met again in Vereș Mort, in the workers’ colony, and past misunderstandings were forgotten. At Easter, we went together to visit someone who had insulted us, wishing him a happy holiday.
In the autumn of 1947, the colony was downsized, and some of us were returned to prison. In the spring of the following year, we were taken to Galda, where a new labour colony had been established. We were housed in the outbuildings of the former castle of Count Kerneny, later purchased by Albini of Aiud, along with the vineyard and arable land. All of us stayed in a large room. I shall never forget the ragout we made from the small portion of porridge allotted to us, mixed with oil and cooked on the stove.
At one point, all those born in Bessarabia and imprisoned were sent to Văcărești prison for repatriation to their home province, now occupied by the Soviets. There they remained for several tense weeks, gripped by fear, anxiety, and the dread of Siberia. Valeriu Gafencu emerged as a great mentor and guide, encouraging those detained at Văcărești not to lose faith in God and to hope that they would not be abandoned. His words of reassurance worked miracles: the prisoners regained courage, and they were astonished to find that Valeriu had been right. God had not abandoned them. After a month, the repatriation order was rescinded, and they were returned to their original prisons. One day, we found ourselves with him again in Galda.
Seeing him again filled our hearts with joy, especially after learning how he had comforted that frightened group facing possible deportation to Russia. Such a fate seemed likely; after all, where could he have gone? To his native village of Sângerei? He had no family there. His father, a member of the National Council that had voted for the union of Bessarabia with Romania, had been arrested and sent to Siberia; the last news of him came from Arkhangelsk. His mother and three sisters had fled to Romania, and his home had been confiscated. Any hope of returning to Sângerei was in vain. Yet God had other plans. Imprisonment in Romanian dungeons was sufficient for them. Somehow, on his journey back, Valeriu visited Sâmbăta and spoke with Father Arsenie Boca. After their conversation, he gifted the priest a copy of the Philokalia and asked him to write a few words on it. The priest replied: “I wrote in my heart.”
On 14 May 1948, we were transported by car from the Galda colony to the prison. At the time, we did not fully understand what had happened, but the harsh regime we endured soon made it clear. The different cell assignments separated us, and we learned that Valeriu had been sent to Pitești. Suffering from lung disease, he was then transferred with the first group to the prison hospital in Târgu Ocna. Here, his spiritual life reached its pinnacle, even as his physical health deteriorated daily.
After receiving a course of antibiotics that might have alleviated his suffering, he gave them to a Jewish fellow prisoner also suffering from tuberculosis. This man was none other than the Lutheran pastor Wurmbrand […].
As his illness progressed, even lying in bed became a burden, so he spent most of his time leaning against the metal bed on which he had to sleep. Before his death on 18 February 1952, at the age of thirty-one, he dreamt only of fields of flowers and verdant meadows—a symbolic anticipation of the paradise that awaited him. Indeed, Valeriu Gafencu fully deserved such a reward, having prepared himself for it through a life of faith, sacrifice, and martyrdom.
May his memory be eternal.
(George Popescu – Under the Sword of the Knights of the Apocalypse, Majadahonda Publishing House, Bucharest, 1997, pp. 112-114)