“Who is the man who gives me such a lesson?”

In the Depths of the Mine

The second night, we went back down into the mine. This time, Fădor assigned me to the Joseph-North gallery, in the shaft, as a runner. I worked with an elderly gentleman who introduced himself simply as Alexandru Popescu. At first, I had no idea who might be hiding behind such an ordinary Romanian name!

There is, in fact, a whole philosophy that could be built around the relationship between a name and the person who bears it.

You are sometimes introduced to a person with great ceremony: “Mr. X.” The name has weight, resonance. You trust that the man’s life must live up to his reputation. Yet as you come to know him, you may discover that the name—or the fame—is far greater than the person himself. In the Pateric, Abbot Silvanus exclaims: “Woe to the man whose name is greater than his deed!”

Among the Native Americans, a child was not given a name at birth. Only when he grew up and performed a worthy deed or displayed a particular virtue was he rewarded with a name he could bear proudly for the rest of his life. And in Revelation, we are told that the saved will receive a new name—their true and eternal one: “To the victor I will give… a white pebble, and on the pebble a new name written, which no one knows but the one who receives it.” (Revelation 2:17)

Legend has it that a cowardly soldier was once brought before Alexander the Great for rebuke.
“What is your name?” the emperor asked.
“Alexander,” replied the soldier.
Upon hearing this, the emperor exclaimed: “Either change your name—or change your behaviour!”

But the opposite can also be true. A name that means nothing at first may later reveal a great man. Greatness is often cloaked in modesty.

Mr. Alexandru Popescu was a frail man, worn down by years of persecution and imprisonment, his face bearing the visible traces of long suffering. He told me he was a judge, originally from Vrancea, but lately living in Bucovina, in Salca.

We began to work. The task consisted of filling a metal tub with lead ore, carrying the heavy material 20 to 40 metres, and rolling it forward. Then we dug again through the ore blocks, lifted the chute, carried it to the roller—over and over. As time passed, the load seemed to grow heavier, the tub twice its original weight.

I watched this man, bowed by age and hardship, working with a tenacity that his frail body did not seem capable of. But he knew that if he failed to meet the quota, punishment would follow—and punishment would only weaken him further, creating a vicious circle that led from exhaustion to ruin. Watching him, I felt deeply uncomfortable. I wanted to ask him to let me do part of his work.

Before I could act, he looked at me and said quietly:
“Sit down now and rest. I’ll do all the work myself. You’re young and not used to such hard labour. You must rest.”

I tried to protest, but he insisted until I obeyed. I said nothing of my own intention to work for him. So I sat on a lead boulder and watched, ashamed, as this old man laboured on my behalf.

The scene, there at the bottom of the pit, moved me deeply. How could this man, worn out by age and torment, find the strength to suppress his instinct for self-preservation and act with such selflessness? In a world overcome by selfishness and devoid of sacrifice, such gestures were almost beyond comprehension. Who was this man who had just given me such a lesson? Before I even knew his name, I already knew what kind of man he was—and that was what truly mattered.

When our shift ended and I reached the corfa room, I approached an older gentleman I had often seen in the hut where we lived. Pointing toward my work partner, I asked:
“Who is that gentleman?”

Mr. Costache Busuioc smiled and replied:
“That’s Mr. Popescu-Vrancea—the author of the song ‘Ștefan Vodă of Moldavia.’”

The name “Alexandru Popescu” had sounded so plain, yet within the Legionary Movement it carried renown. His modest name had become a legend.

I resolved to tell him as soon as possible that I had known his song since I was ten years old—and that its words had echoed from our voices so many times, through the valleys and hills of the Codru Mountains, and even within the dungeon of Oradea.

(Fr. Liviu Brânzaș – Ray from the Catacomb)