Valeriu Gafencu, one of the “Saints of prisons”
The young men in prison were far, far superior to the older inmates. Youth, after all, carries its own advantages: it is easier to face the end of life when one has not yet been burdened by its full span; passions burn more ardently, yet the spirit remains untainted; and the grievances, prejudices, and resentments that weigh heavily upon the older generation have not yet taken root. They were unscarred by the bitterness and rancor of age, free from the encumbrances of time—stupidity, failures, disappointments—confirming Robert Brasillach’s notion that it is better to die before the corrosive march of years has taken its toll. I cannot say with certainty, but in every way, they were better.
In every room, the young men—particularly the legionnaires—came to my aid. They offered me morning coffee and my twice-weekly slice of bread, priceless sustenance for a weakened stomach, in exchange for whatever scraps I could provide: sour pickle soup, undercooked beans, boiled potatoes with skins and soil, or raw cabbage that would have disgusted even the most hardy lighioane. Until, after more than three years, I learned to eat peanuts, it was they who kept me alive, without a care for themselves.
It happened, too, that Dinu Pillat, through Father Todea, recounts his father-in-law, the socialist Gh. Ene Filipescu. In Târgu-Ocna, then a hospital for political prisoners, Filipescu boldly proclaimed his socialist and atheist beliefs in the legionary youth room. He did not hesitate to rebuke the guards, calling them “children who mock their parents.” Yet as his condition worsened, his breathing labored and the disease advanced, it was the care, selflessness, and devotion of the young legionaries—and the deep respect they showed him—that softened his heart.
Before giving up his soul, Filipescu, though each breath was a spasm, embraced the one who had ministered to him, then the others, and was finally able to confess to Father Todea, dying in full communion. A few weeks later, the young man who had attended him also passed away. From Ioan Ianolide, I learned that Valeriu Gafencu himself was counted among the “saints of the prisons.”
Aristide Lefa also attests to Filipescu’s return to the faith, achieved especially through Valeriu Gafencu’s influence:
“In this room, dozens and dozens of sick men ended their days, mostly young. I sat among them and watched them die. Not one rebelled against fate, nor against God. They died in peace, confessing Christ—even Ion Filipescu, the old socialist who claimed to be an atheist. And all of this was thanks to the spiritual atmosphere to which Valeriu Gafencu contributed most of all.”
—Nicolae Trifoiu, Studentul Valeriu Gafencu – Sfântul închisorilor din România, p. 107