Romania

Blessing in Bucharest
By Peabod

There was a sense of mystery; a feeling of intrigue the first time I ventured into Eastern Europe. It was winter, and the dull gray skies of light-shortened days combined with the surroundings and the weather to create the illusion of stepping back into one of those black and white espionage films of the 40s.
Years ago, I was traveling in Romania with a group of students from Wingate College. It was during the time when Nicolae Ceausescou was in power; a time when those shadowy and sinister feelings were very much a reality. At that time, Romania was the most intensely surveilled and Stalinistic country in Eastern Europe.
We crossed the border by train from Hungary on New Year’s Day after it had stopped for a couple of hours while Romanian customs officials performed a thorough search of each railway car.
Even in their inebriated state after a day of celebration, the inspectors were efficient and humorless as they went about their duties. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, the train lurched forward through the black surroundings shrouded by the Carpathian Mountains.
Throughout the night, each time the train made a stop, gypsies would emerge from the curtain of darkness with their babies in their arms, begging for money and cigarettes.
By mid-morning, we reached Bucharest, a city of two million people in a country that had no national history until the end of the American Civil War.
In Bucharest, the New Year’s trees were brightly decorated with ribbons and tinsel. Trees were not allowed to be decorated until after Christmas since Christmas was not acknowledged or tolerated by the government.
Romanians could attend church, but they were required to register their attendance with the government within 24-hours of doing so, which could have a severe effect on upward mobility for workers in the already oppressive society. Therefore, most of the people who went to church were elderly – but still they came; despite the hardship and the weather and the lack of transportation.
They came in such numbers that we had to sit in the balcony for the service because the lower part of the sanctuary was full. The men sat on the left; the women on the right. No one removed their overcoats in the poorly heated sanctuary, and the only sign of color was the brightly colored scarves the women wore on their heads.
Throughout the service, whenever we stood, the Romanians kept turning from below, looking up to the balcony. It was unusual for them to see so many visitors, especially from America, in their place of worship. And speaking only with their eyes, it was as if they were reaching out to touch us with their hearts.
After two hours, the service came to an end, and the Wingate students walked down the balcony stairs to the vestibule to greet the Romanians who were leaving the sanctuary. The students formed a semi-circle at the door, shaking hands and smiling at the people as they departed. Then an old Romanian woman looked at one of the Wingate students and uttered the word, “Pace.”
The young girl from Wingate turned to our interpreter who simply translated, “Pace. It means ‘peace’.”
Soon the entire vestibule was filled with the hushed tones of American and Romanian voices, all saying the word, “Pace.” It was totally appropriate, for it was the only word that needed to be spoken.
They said it over and over again. “Pace. Pace.”
Then in the dim light of the room, the young coed from Wingate reached into her purse and handed the old Romanian woman a small English version of the Bible.
The woman looked down and began to cry softly, quietly. As the tears rolled gently down her cheeks, she looked at the interpreter, and in her native language said, “All my life I have dreamed of having an English version of the Bible. Today you have answered my prayers.”
Then the Romanian woman spoke again as the interpreter repeated her next sentence, “She says she only knows three words in English.”
At that moment, the Romanian moved forward to hug the young woman from Wingate and, as she did, she whispered into her ear, “I love you.”
Three simple words. “I love you.”
The message is universal, and even in that dreary, bleak corner of the world there was hope, there was faith and there was love.
And the candle still flickers because people still do believe. For perhaps better than anyone, those people understood the meaning of the word, “Pace.”