Letters to a Young Gymnast (16 page)

The idea of freedom solidified into something real and terrifying and thrilling. Meanwhile, I couldn't tell my mother and father anything about my plans. If I had told them, it would have put them in danger, and I was not willing to take that risk in exchange for some comforting words. Secretly, I began to put my papers in order. I placed my home in my brother's name so that he and his wife wouldn't lose it if I successfully defected. The government would have turned them out on the street had I left the house in my name. We just crossed our fingers that the paperwork we did would protect Adrian.

I still wasn't certain I could actually do it. I continued to go to “parties” at the home of Constantin's friends. Since the house was so close to a border, police monitored the neighborhood. In order to enter, we had to sign in at a security gate and then sign out when we left. While there, we played music, chatted about nothing in particular, and tried to figure out if we trusted everyone in the group. The Securitate could have put one of their own into the mix and told him or her to pretend to defect so that they could catch us “criminals.”

My brother and sister-in-law accompanied me every time I went to the house. Eventually, they started to wonder whether they, too, should defect. I told them to think hard because if we were caught, we'd all be on the streets. At least they had each other and a home. In the end, they decided that it was too much of a risk and that they weren't quite unhappy enough to take it. Do you understand, dear friend, how desperate a person must be to attempt defection? I had to weigh the value of seeking a better life against the probability of my imprisonment or death if I failed in the effort.

Each time I went to a “party,” I made certain to let the secret police know my exact plans by talking about them in public. That way, they believed they were still in complete control of my comings and goings. The others did the same. None of us wanted to attract attention, but it was necessary to defect close to the border if we had any hope of getting across it, and that house was at the beginning of our journey. Maybe we would get a bullet in the back before we'd gone 100 yards; maybe death would come only seconds before crossing the border. But like those that had tried before us, we were all desperate enough to risk dying. In the end, it didn't come
down to trusting the other would-be defectors or Constantin. I understood fairy tales were just children's stories. I simply wanted more out of my life.

On my last visit to the house by the border, I failed to go back through the police gate. Instead, I ran forward into darkness.

■
Defection

In your last letter, young friend, you treated my decision to defect with respect. Yet I am troubled by the feeling that you lack a full understanding of what exactly it meant. Have you truly grasped how dangerous it was to think outside of the government's rules and laws? How
insane it was to even try to defect? How far Ceausescu could reach?

All of the what-ifs barreled through my head like a train. What if my parents were hurt because of my decision to defect? What if my brother, despite our best efforts, still lost my house and had to live on the street? What if my family members were imprisoned by the secret police, interrogated, tortured? It's the what-ifs that wear you down and make you afraid to move. Romania's government officials counted on that. Their ability to spread fear and paralyze the people of our country is now well documented.

So, what gave me the courage to slip out of that house on the border and into the night? Everything I'd done, heard, spoken, experienced, yearned for, suffered through, desired, required, hoped, and dreamed. Everything blotted out the nothingness of my existence. I prayed my parents would be well, for I'd left them out of my scheme, and that my brother would remain untouched. I prayed that I would be able to move one foot in front of the other when I watched my six companions become shadows with pale, anxious faces and labored breath.

There was no way, of course, that my disappearance would go unnoticed. I had a government job and was expected to be at work every day. I'd been at work every day for eight years. If I didn't show up or call in sick, the alarm would sound because countless people would notice my absence. Time would be of the essence, and so, before my final visit to the house near the border, I had a farewell dinner at a restaurant in a nearby village with my brother and sister-in-law. We knew that the meal needed to be a public one and appear like any other so that no one watching us would be suspicious.

It was unbearably sad and difficult to pretend to enjoy a meal with my loved ones when I knew that, a few hours later, I might die. There was such concern and worry in Adrian's eyes that night. He knew only that our group was going to try to cross the border into Hungary but not exactly when or how or what would happen to his big sister if I was blessed enough to be successful. When dinner was finished, I stood up and walked away from my brother and his wife without looking back. I sincerely believed it was the last time I would ever see them in my life. But if I had looked back, I don't think I would have had the courage to go ahead with my plans. Regardless, I actually felt a piece of my heart breaking.

There was no plan. Constantin told our group that night that we were to follow the man who'd previously defected three times, through six hours of icy terrain, half-frozen lakes, and dense woods and across the Hungarian border. It was November, and the temperature was below zero, so we would have to move quickly to keep from getting hypothermia. Constantin would wait for us across the border in a car. We would try to sleep through the night somewhere and then decide individually if we wanted to present ourselves at the Hungarian embassy and ask for asylum.

The man who had attempted defection gave our group some last-minute advice before we stepped out of the house into the night and began our run for the border. “No flashlights,” he instructed, “there are guards everywhere, and the light will give us away. If you hear a noise behind you, don't run. If it's a guard, he'll shoot you for running. If we get caught, don't run. Guards will also shoot you if you try to get away. Try to move silently, and don't talk.”

When we stepped out into the night, we each put our hands on the shoulders of the person in front of us because once we moved away from the house, it was impossible to see. If I hadn't been touching the person in front of me, I would have gotten separated from the group and been lost. I remember that the ground beneath my feet was icy and that I slipped again and again. Time moved so slowly that it seemed to stop. There was only the cold, the trudging and running when possible, and always the straining of my ears to hear a guard's call, the crunch of his boots, the click of his gun being readied.

I tried to think about anything but a bullet in my back. We reached a frozen lake that didn't appear too solid. It wasn't, but the water seemed shallow, and there was nowhere else to cross. As soon as we all put our weight on the ice, it cracked and we fell into knee-deep water. It was cold as hell. Please, God, I thought, just let me make it to the other side without the bottom of the lake getting deeper and the water going over my head. I wouldn't have lasted two minutes submerged in that freezing lake. It took a long time to get across the water, but the pain of cold blocked out everything else. We were numb.

Many times during the next six hours, I was overwhelmed by the gravity of what I was doing. I couldn't believe I'd actually made the decision to defect, that I was risking my life, that I'd never see my parents or brother again. But I never thought of turning back. Where was I going to go? Back to my house, where I could barely afford the heat? Back to a dead-end job and being treated as if I had never done anything to bring my country glory? Back to no future? Wasn't that the same as being dead?

There were many times when I didn't trust the man leading us. He said if we didn't “keep to the left,” we'd
end up back in Romania. Keep to the left . . . what kind of direction was that? I wanted to see a compass or a map or something. But there was nothing to do in the dark except follow the guy and hope he knew where he was going. He told us that when we crossed 5 meters of very dark dirt, we were at the border. But we crossed a lot of dirt, and still there was no border. This is so stupid, I actually remember thinking. I'm going to get killed and all because I'm following a man with no sense of direction. I didn't say anything, though, because no one could break the silence and speak. I just concentrated on keeping my teeth from chattering.

There are many places along borders that are not lined with barbed-wire fences and have no guards. A country simply cannot control every square inch of its borders. We were supposed to cross into Hungary at one of those spots. Then our leader would guide us to a street where Constantin would be waiting in his car. But we never found the exact place where we were supposed to cross the border. We didn't find the street, let alone Constantin. We didn't even know we'd crossed into Hungary until we saw a small plaque that bore a long name with a lot of
z
's and
s
's. Clearly, not a Romanian name.

Our bedraggled group walked and walked and walked . . . right into two guards. Constantin had told us that, once in Hungary, if we encountered the police we were to say a single word that he'd taught us—
hello,
in Hungarian. The thing is, the guards went beyond hello and started asking questions, and we all looked at them like idiots. Plus, it was pretty suspicious to see a group of seven people walking down a deserted road at 2:00 A.M. Where the hell were we supposed to be going? The guards told us to go with them. They put us in a car and
took us to the Hungarian police department. The car ride was silent. Not because we weren't allowed to talk but because every one of us was absolutely terrified.

Each of the potential defectors was interviewed separately. When the police saw my identification papers, they immediately offered to let me stay in Hungary. I was a famous gymnast and thus a hot catch in their minds. I think back on it now and wonder why I was so valuable to them. My career was over, and though I am considered a very good coach, what else could I really bring to Hungary? Two others in our group were also offered asylum. The rest were told that they'd be returned to Romania the following day. They began to cry.

“Look,” I told the police, “I will only stay if the whole group is allowed to remain in your country.” The words were out of my mouth before I even considered what might happen. Gymnastics had taught me to be a team player, and in this case, my team was made up of my fellow defectors. I just thought that the situation wasn't fair. We'd all taken the same risks and crossed the border, and we should all have been allowed to stay. “We came together, we'll stay together,” I declared. To my complete surprise, the police agreed. Not only that, they offered us hotel accommodations for a week, until we got on our feet, and vouchers for food and help in finding jobs. I knew that we were not going to stay in Hungary, but we accepted the government's kindness because we were cold and hungry and desperately needed to sleep.

Meanwhile, Constantin, having realized that his plan had gone awry, found us just before we left the police station and told the police he'd take our group to the hotel. Instead, however, he chose a different one. He knew that the media and the police would soon find us, and he
wanted to give us a little extra time to think before we made our next move. You see, my friend, Hungary was not our final destination. It was too close to Romania. We all planned to attempt to cross the Austrian border and seek asylum there.

We spent a sleepless night crammed together in one room. The next morning, I saw my picture on the front of a newspaper but couldn't read what the article said about me. I didn't need to read it, though. It was enough to know that I was already “missing” in Romania. Keep moving, I told myself, if you don't want the politics of defection to catch up and possibly result in the Hungarians handing you back to Romania. Later that morning, the group divided into two cars. Constantin drove one car, and his friend drove the other. We were going to try and cross the border into Austria.