Letters to a Young Gymnast (14 page)

Friend, have you ever seen Edvard Munch's painting
The Scream
? A man stands on a road lined by a diagonal railing. His mouth is open, gaping; his hands are raised to his head; his eyes stretch wide and appear tormented and haunted. In the background are two men in top hats, and behind them is the landscape of Oslo—hills and valleys. I have read that in
The Scream,
Munch was trying to portray a state of mind. Can you imagine being caught in a person's scream? Can you comprehend a moment of such total horror, insanity, and dread? I can.

The first time I saw that painting, I knew it. Really knew it. The man is a prisoner, and he will never escape the cell Munch painted him in; he will never be free. I imagine that is how Bela, Marta, and Geza felt when they realized that they were trapped by a lie, when they accepted that they had no choice but to defect from their country. Perhaps they, too, screamed, but the sound came from deep inside their souls, and they couldn't let it out for fear that they would be caught and taken back to Romania in handcuffs.

From your last letter, I don't think you understand what it means to be without your country. You have written that you've traveled a bit in Europe, but English is a common language in most countries. The Romanian language is not. Plus, you have always had a return ticket to your home, have you not? You have left your city, family, neighbors, and way of life but known all the
while that in two weeks time, you'd return, pick up your mail, go to the grocery store, and dine with friends. You have a U.S. passport and can travel anywhere in the world, regardless of your country's affiliations or status or whether your government approves. And you can always return.

When the Karolyis and Geza decided to defect, they knew that they could never go back to their homeland. They left behind their families and friends, their homes, and all of their belongings. They left with the tiny suitcases they'd brought on our exhibition tour and the clothes on their backs. No pictures; no mementos of Romania; no command of the English language; no dear friends in the United States; no certainty that they wouldn't be denied permission to stay and be sent back home to certain imprisonment for the crime of defection.

You've asked how I felt when I learned of Bela's defection plans. You are right to assume that he told me about them but incorrect in the assumption that I was desperate to join him. In 1981, I couldn't imagine facing the overwhelming challenges of defection. And I had no idea what was happening in the lives of my coaches and choreographer until the last night of the tour. But let me tell you how the situation played out.

Bela recalls saying good-bye to all of us during a morning meeting on our last day in Manhattan. The gymnasts were scheduled for several hours of shopping before returning to the hotel and taking a bus to the airport. He told the girls that they were great athletes and that they could maintain their careers by hard work and discipline, and he gave them all hugs. I don't recall that morning. All I remember is that the night before
Bela defected, I ran into him in the hallway of our hotel. It was late, and I was going to my room to pack. We were alone, and Bela said softly that he was thinking of not going back. I thought he was joking or that he might be checking to see if I was thinking of defection so that he could stop me. “Whatever,” I said with a smile and went to my room. I had been trained for so many years not to react to anything that what Bela said didn't register as being even possibly for real.

The next morning was our last opportunity to shop in New York before returning home, and all of the gymnasts were excited. I ran into Bela before I set off, and he mentioned again that he was thinking of not going back. Once more, I ignored the idea and its implications. When I returned from the stores, I went to my room to finish packing. We had a team meeting at noon, and Bela, Marta, and Geza weren't there. I assumed they were still shopping. I went to my room, and the telephone rang. It was a woman who said, “Bela asked me to call and see if you want to stay in the United States or return to Romania.” “I am going home,” I replied and hung up the phone.

I don't think I really even considered the woman's question. I had grown up in a Communist country, and I knew nothing else. My family lived in Romania—how could I ever think of leaving them? Sure, life was tough, but wasn't it tough everywhere? Remember, I never saw enough of any of the places we traveled to to get the idea that “real” people didn't struggle like we did. It was not worth throwing away what I knew for the unknown.

In the minutes following that phone call, the reality sank in. I sat down on my hotel room bed and felt a wave of cold travel from my toes to my head. My God, is this
actually happening? Could it really be true? I went down to the front desk to ask for Bela's room key. The clerk refused to give it to me, but I told him that I had left something in Bela's room and needed to pack it in my suitcase before we left. I stressed how important it was to get into the room, and he finally gave me the key. It felt sharp and dangerous in my hand.

The walk to Bela's room felt unbearably long. When I opened the door, the room was empty. The Karolyis were gone, and suddenly, I knew that it was completely true: They had defected. Friend, you think I was dense for not accepting Bela's initial words, but in Romania at that time, a person couldn't even trust her own shadow. I respected and loved Bela, but I lived according to the unspoken rule of my country: Trust no one completely. But Bela had trusted me. I was the only person he told about his decision to defect. If I had been older and wiser, I would have understood, and I would have trusted him, too.

By 3:00 P.M. when the gymnasts boarded the bus, it became clear to everyone that the Karolyis and Geza had disappeared. The director told us that their passports were missing; he was in charge of everyone's, so somehow Bela must have stolen them from his room. On the plane, he told me that the defection was not that important because “the Queen” was still with him and was going home. By “the queen,” he meant me. The director said that if I hadn't returned with him, he would have been decapitated.

I cried a little on the plane ride, mostly because I wondered what would happen to all of the young gymnasts in Deva. I was grown up, but they were still little girls and depended on the Karolyis and Geza. I cried a
bit for myself, too. Bela and Marta had been parental figures in my life, and I would miss them. Still, I never worried about them because it wasn't as if they'd been kidnapped. They'd decided to defect, and as a result of all of the disagreements Bela had had with the Gymnastics Federation and high-ranking government officials, he was probably better off. His opportunities in Romania had faded, and he was losing ground. It was time for a new life and a second chance.

It was a quiet journey home. You could almost hear all of the officials thinking about what they were going to tell their superiors concerning the defections. No doubt, they would all be reprimanded and possibly demoted. Ceausescu would be furious because having well-known people defect made Romania look bad. During the long flight, most of the officials put pen to paper and tried to figure out what they were going to report. I was glad that I was not in their position.

My life drastically changed after the Karolyis defected. I was no longer allowed to travel outside Romania. I wasn't even allowed to go to Moscow. Whenever the Gymnastics Federation put me on a list to travel for some kind of exhibition tour, the list came back with my name crossed out. Every single time, I was cut from the list. Perhaps the government thought that because Bela defected, I eventually would as well. But I'd had my chance in New York, and I hadn't taken it. I wouldn't leave my brother, who depended on me. I couldn't leave my mother and father or my country.

Being treated like a traitor was extremely upsetting, and I couldn't find any answers as to why I was in that position. Nobody was willing to ask any high-ranking officials why my wings had been clipped: If you asked
questions, you might get fired. I called the director and asked why someone in the government didn't want me to travel. But the director knew only that someone very high up had ordered that nobody should “bother” to put my name on any invitations because I was not allowed to travel anymore. Everyone was told that I was “busy, busy, busy.” I wasn't.

Life, my friend, took on a new bleakness. I was cut off from making the small amount of extra money that had really made the difference in my family's life. It was also insulting that a normal person in Romania had the chance to travel whereas I could not. I kept wondering, why me? Some people were laughing in my face—“Look at you, the big deal Nadia Comaneci, and you can't even make a trip to London.”

When my gymnastics career was over, there was no longer any need to keep me happy. I was to do as I was instructed, just as I'd done my entire life. I was expected to keep sacrificing. After everything that had gone before, it was humiliating. If Bela hadn't defected, I would still have been watched, but his defection brought a spotlight on my life, and it was blinding. I started to feel like a prisoner. In reality, I had always been one. If a country does not allow freedom, even if the chains are invisible, you are still a prisoner. Inside, I started to scream, but the sound was soft and I could still ignore it.

Several years passed, with each day, week, and month much like the last, and I graduated with my sports diploma and was given a new job within the Gymnastics Federation. It was my responsibility to go to different clubs in Bucharest, Deva, and other cities and to see what the gymnasts were doing. Then I'd bring back a report about the coaching and training facilities. I had
a great relationship with everyone and enjoyed the job, but it was nothing special. I was like any other person who gets a salary. The government still took a percentage out of my paycheck each month for my mortgage. I never thought about asking for a raise because the officials would have thought I'd lost my mind.

In 1984, I was still making about the same amount I'd made while I was at the university. The government was not obligated to pay me more than I'd made in my previous job. The only way I was going to increase my salary was to be named to a very high position, maybe as president of the Gymnastics Federation. But that wasn't going to happen because someone directly under Ceausescu would have to appoint me to the position, and that person was probably the very person who had dictated that I could no longer travel.

To add insult to injury, when I reached my twenty-fifth birthday, the government started taking a large portion of money out of my salary each month because I didn't have any children—something they did to all women that age without offspring. Sounds strange, doesn't it? But it is true. You have asked to know more about Ceausescu and his arbitrary laws, and I am pleased that you inquired. To understand our former president is to comprehend why Romania became a ravaged country.

Before I tell you about our deposed leader, let me reiterate that I never personally knew Ceausescu or his wife. I met them one time when I was a child, and we spoke only a few words at an official ceremony. It makes me uncomfortable to judge them in any way because who am I to know? So I must look to the history books and well-known journalists for answers, not rumors, so
that I can do justice to your questions and be fair to Ceausescu and his descendants.

According to the history books, Ceausescu and his wife, Elena Petrescu, came from a background in the Communist Party. Ceausescu ran Romania's Ministry of Agriculture and was deputy minister of the armed forces when the Communists took power in our country. He worked his way through the ranks and became the president of Romania in 1974. From the start, he ran the country with an iron fist, controlling the media by using the Securitate, his secret police.

Political insiders have reported that Ceausescu and his wife ran the country together. It is written that Elena collected titles (all bestowed by her husband, not earned) like diamonds and loved to wear both. She received a Ph.D. in industrial chemistry and was appointed to the National Council of Scientific Research despite knowing nothing about the field. She was a member of the Permanent Bureau of the Political Executive Committee; as first deputy premier, she supervised the secret police and launched programs such as the antireligion and antiabortion campaigns. Elena also helped decide who would be promoted within the government. Some say she was more powerful than the president and far crueler. In any case, the Ceausescus' rule in its entirety was bizarre and brutal.

During the mid-1970s, Ceausescu decided that Romania's population should increase from 23 million to 30 million by the year 2000. He wanted more followers, more tax dollars, a more powerful country. To this end, he created a policy that said, “The fetus is the property of the entire society. Anyone who avoids having children is a deserter who abandons the laws of national continuity.”
Abortion was forbidden, and people like me who didn't have children by the age of twenty-five were monetarily penalized for not doing our patriotic duty.

It's been documented that under Ceausescu's so-called fetus policy, Romania's birthrate doubled, but we didn't have the food or nutrients necessary to either feed the new children or maintain the health of pregnant women. Ceausescu forbade sex education and any books on reproduction and had them classified as “state secrets.” Women under forty-five were forced to go to clinics every three months to see if they were pregnant. The government officials who took them to these appointments were called the “menstrual police.” I never had to go. Perhaps my status was good for something after all.