Waiting to leave for Romania

A few days later, my husband went to Chișinău to see what was left, because trains of repatriates were leaving from there. I, who was at home, started to pack things into bales. My husband returned from Chișinău a week later, happy that two trains of repatriates had left for Romania.

On 15 January we were called to the militia to get our Soviet identity cards. We both went. I, being the braver one, said to them: “Why should we bother with Soviet citizenship if we are going to Romania legally with Romanian citizenship?” Then the militiaman just gave her husband his military booklet, which was valid until 5 May.

From time to time the husband went to Chișinău to see how the departure was going, and from there he received the same answer: “Wait a little longer!”

One day the secretary of the People’s Council, a young Jew, a former pupil of mine, came to my school and said to me: “Madam teacher, it is with great regret that I warn you in the most secret way that they want to arrest your husband. Send him away from home!”

I came home, but in a diplomatic way, so that my husband would not feel the reality, I said that I had heard that those who stay in Chișinău permanently go to Romania, and I convinced him that in order to leave more quickly it would be better to stay there all the time, and when the time came for him to leave, he should not come here, but send me a telegram so that I could go with his luggage and the boy. He also had a place to stay because I had relatives there.

He left, but I stayed at home in a depressed state, not knowing what was wrong with me. At school I played the artist, looking calm and even cheerful, so that my colleagues, who were Russians, and the deputy headmistress – even the wife of the head of Security Service – would not notice. During this time, my husband’s husband was appointed to the post of district agronomist, and I took him in.

It was a very hard time, with excitement and nerves at home, constant tension and hypocrisy at school, but the call for repatriation was not heard. Many of my friends who came by train told me that there were militiamen at the station asking if they hadn’t seen my husband.

In our town there was a Russian Security Service inspector, the fear of the people, who arrested innocent people, former bosses, politicians, who had lived all their lives on their honest work. He was so brutal, so sadistic, that everyone was afraid just to see him walking down the street. They called him “Jmur”.

One day the headmaster of the school, a very nice Ukrainian, asked me to stay after class to paste a map. When I went to the school office, I found the map of Romania, over which I had to paste the map of the Soviet Union. I was alone in the office, I started kissing the map of Romania and crying, and this went on for half an hour. I couldn’t bear to put the map of Russia over the map of Romania. The headmaster came in and saw me crying and asked me: “What happened? And then I replied, showing him the map of Romania: “This is our dear homeland, why don’t you let us go there, we have the right?” He said nothing and left.

A few days later, in the evening, the caretaker came and told me that the headmaster was calling me at the school. I was surprised because I knew I had no business being at school at that time, but I went. The headmaster was waiting for me at the school gate and said “Welcome” with a smile, inviting me to his house. Even more surprised, I asked him, “What am I going to do in your house?” He replied: “Don’t be afraid. Everything is for your own good.”

I entered the house and froze. In the room was “Jmur”. My first thought was that I was under arrest, but the director, seeing my excitement, said, “Look, talk to my best friend,” and went outside. Jmur invited me to sit down and said, “I know I’m the scarecrow of the district, but I want to talk to you in the friendliest way possible. The headmaster and all the staff are very pleased with you as a teacher and colleague. They have asked me to persuade you not to go to Romania and to stay with us.”

When I heard this, I calmed down and even took courage, but determinedly I said: “I can’t do that. You have disregarded my husband. He was expelled through no fault of his own. I’m sure the same fate awaits my child here. I, who graduated from a Romanian school, find it very difficult to teach according to completely unknown methods; then, raised, educated, taught by Romania, we are obliged to serve Romania. Why don’t you allow us to leave, like so many have left, as we are legally entitled to do?”

He was excited, nervous, indignant, but he controlled himself and said in a very soft voice: “People we don’t need have left, pensioners, the sick, mothers with small children, but the people we need we keep”. And when he came to me, he put his hand on my shoulder and said: “Look, the application is ready, just sign it. You can also sign for your husband, and tomorrow he will be sent where he wants to be, and we will remain friends forever.”

Five minutes of silence passed, not because I was hesitating or not determined, but because I was getting stronger to give the final, decisive answer. An inner force lifted me from my chair and I said boldly: “I will not sign anything!”

His eyes glazed over like those of an eagle and he said: “You will remember me!” And in his sadistic tone he shouted: “Get out of here!” At that moment the director entered the room and, confident that his plan had succeeded, said smiling, “Did you get along?” but Jmur, who was going out the door, answered the director as he went: “You can’t get along with stubborn gypsies, but they’ll be very sorry.”

I don’t know how I got out of there and I don’t remember how I got home.

I was glad to find my child and grandchild asleep and that they hadn’t seen the state I was in. I didn’t say a word to them, even later, about what had happened. From that night on, I never slept peacefully, waiting for them to arrest me. I thought that even the director would change his attitude towards me, but he remained as he was and never talked to me about what had happened. That was in March 1941.

On 24 April I went to Chișinău to see how my husband, who had not been home for three months, was doing, but there I heard nothing definite about repatriation, only false promises. On the evening of the 25th I returned home to find the boy frightened and the house ransacked. The boy hugged me and told me that Vitali, the nephew, had been arrested. They picked him up from work, “Jmur” of course, brought him home and searched the house in his presence, but found nothing. They didn’t search my bedroom. I understand that Jmur started to take revenge. The next day, after classes, I went to the militia, but I found out that they had sent him to Tighina prison that morning.

The 5th of May was approaching, the deadline for my husband to change his military book. I was in a terrible state. Much as I wanted to hide it, I couldn’t. The director’s assistant, a Russian woman, the wife of the head of Security Service, noticed that I had been very upset lately, and just as the devil had turned into a serpent to lead Eve into sin, so she had turned into an angel. She came to my house one afternoon and asked me very kindly, in a motherly, comforting tone, what was wrong with me that I was so changed. I, who was young, 35 years old, used to Romanian sincerity and honesty, opened my heart because she promised to help me.

After listening to me, she told me with compassion: “Call your husband on the evening of 4 May, but don’t let him come to the main station, but to the railway station, and the next day go to the militia, change his military book and leave the city immediately. If he doesn’t come, I’ll tell you a big secret: Bessarabia is under siege and he will be wanted by the Security Service forces, and where they find him, they will shoot him on the spot, as a deserter. I’ll arrange everything with my husband to help you”. She was the wife of the head of Security Service.

At the same time, seeing many pillows and carpets in my house, she said that they had nothing to sleep on. I gave her 2 pillows, a carpet, a tablecloth, cakes, and so loaded she went home, and I remained more quiet, believing her lies and cunning.

(Blondina Gobjila – The Sufferings of Mother Blondina, a Martyr of Siberia, 3rd ed. Sistria Monastery, 2010)