The summer of our discountent
Victoria Moţoc
 

from the second to the first floor. On the first floor, a stocky guy, with his hair cut according to the norms, grabbed my hair and started to shout: ?She?s high, she?s high!?

The truth is that my eyes were wide-awake. Then they started to kick me with their bats. It was on that occasion that I could discover that it is only the first one that causes pain, then your back goes numb and it is more or less bearable. Once on the ground floor, a bespectacled gentleman, probably a Professor in the Faculty of Geology, in a suicidal act of courage, threw himself in front of the miners who were dragging us, pretending that we were his students. A truncheon immediately hit his face, breaking his glasses. Blood was oozing down his cheeks among crocks.

And they threw us down the Square, in that space of death, where dozens of miners, true gladiators of the darkness, were making use of their bats and chains. They entrusted me to the crowd as if I had been a medieval witch. In order to be lynched. They gathered around me, ripped my clothes off, cut my trousers with a hatchet. And this, till two students in a police school lifted me up and made me run beyond the policemen rows who were imperturbably watching the miner-patriotic display.

I wasn?t off the hook yet. I was expected by the workers and by the FSN1-fan pensioners. They pulled my hair, poured milk on my head and they even broke a glass on my head and a miserable old man was squeaking: ?Let me hit her too, let me hit her too!? Afterwards, they placed us against a wall, while waiting for a car.

It was the first time when I was finally breathing that morning. I slowly licked the blood on my lip. I had the acute feeling that I was in one of Sergiu Nicolaescu?s movies. While waiting for the car I heard a voice coming from behind. I could see out of the corner of my eyes that it was an old man dressed in a kaki raincoat. ?Why did you arrest these kids?,? he said. ?They are legionaries? the trooper who watching us quickly declared. ?Legionaries, you say?, murmured the old man. ?Well, if the legionaries still existed? ? he added going away. It was the first time when I could smile.

Then the patrolwaggon arrived. They took us randomly, students, passers-by, gypsies. They took us, I found this out only later, to a police station, in Măgurele. They left us in a hangar, men and women separately. They didn?t give us water and we couldn?t go to the toilet. They kept on threatening us that the miners were going to come. People also got beaten up, but I was spared.

That was a nightmare which taught me many things. I found out that the gypsy (excuse me, the Rromani) nation would never perish. Even if thoroughly searched by various policemen, the Rromani ladies, to be politically correct, managed to find, God knows where, a few packages of Carpaţi which they shared with the fellows in need. I don?t want to know where they had them hidden and I don?t care. I just want to use this chance to thank them for their generosity. Even more savagely beaten than me, a nice gentleman stood in front of me while I started to cry desperately and smiled at me till he finally got a smile back. There, at Măgurele, I found out that hope dies last.

On the 15th in the morning, some gentlemen, about whom we had been told that were prosecutors, arrived. They wrote down our statements, took our front and side photos and our fingerprints. Then, again we had to wait. On the 15th at noon, all of a sudden and without any explanation, I was washed, cleaned and they bandaged my wounds. I was told that they had arrested me by accident, and then I was transported in a black car to some alley in Grozăveşti.

Then, I had to undergo a week of clandestine living in a house which belonged to some friends, Marcel and Barbel. I chain-smoked Bastos cigarettes, swearing myself to leave Romania for good. I went to Austria on 1st of July, determined never to come back. I came back on 20th July. Determined never to leave for good again. At the end of the day, this is also my country, not only theirs.

Translated by Raluca Vîjîiac

 <<  1  2
 
 
 

 
Martor nr 1/1996
Martor nr 2/1997
Martor nr 3/1998
Martor nr 4/1999
Martor nr 5/2000
Martor nr 6/2001
Martor nr 7/2002
Martor nr 8-9/2003-2004
Martor nr 10/2005
Martor nr 11/2006
Martor nr 12/2007
 

© 2003 Aspera Pro Edu Foundation. Toate drepturile rezervate. Termeni de confidentialitate. Conditii de utilizare