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The entire ‘guilt’ that was being set up for me revolved around the people I knew at the Israeli legation. ‘Cosmopolitanism’ was intolerable for the ‘new society’ that was being built. Speaking other languages than Romanian and Russian was unwanted and dangerous. People had been arrested only for having a subscription to the French, or English, or American library. ‘The x or y library group.’ One of my fellow-inmates from Jilava [Penitentiary] was a gentleman named Manolescu whose only ‘guilt’ was that he had repaired a refrigerator at the Israeli legation… I was also told of a waiter who was in the same situation. One of my friends in Bicaz, Dr. Costel Constantinescu, had been to a ‘party’ at the Turkish legation and was in the same ‘group’ with actor Ovidiu Teodorescu, arrested for the same reason.
On 19th October 1951, in the morning, the guard opened the door and said, ‘M. D., get your things and let’s go!’ We rode for about half an hour, in which time we weren’t allowed to talk. When the doors of the van opened they didn’t make me wear the glasses, so I could read on the gate in front of us ‘Fort no. 13 Jilava.’ I suddenly remembered the words ‘Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate’ [Italian, quote from Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy’: ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter’]… We were taken by some guards dressed in police uniforms and escorted through a series of dark corridors lit by dim light bulbs sunk in the brick walls. We reached a larger room; after they stripped us to the bone and inventoried our things again, they allowed us to get dressed and take a part of our things to the cells with us. Once the formalities were over, a guard escorted me through other corridors, equally dark and damp, to ‘room 20.’ Massive wooden doors with latches and locks bordered the corridors. No sound came from behind those doors. Yet, there was one room at the end of a corridor that was different: if you passed by its door you could hear the sound of heavy chains. My new fellow-inmates told me that was the room of ‘those who were condemned to the death penalty.’
After 14 months, on 17th December 1952, in the morning, I was taken out of my cell and escorted to a room where there were several guards and inmates. They returned the few possessions they had taken into custody, such as my suitcase and my vanity bag. Then, without making us put the glasses on, they made us get on a van.
On 19th October 1951, in the morning, the guard opened the door and said, ‘M. D., get your things and let’s go!’ We rode for about half an hour, in which time we weren’t allowed to talk. When the doors of the van opened they didn’t make me wear the glasses, so I could read on the gate in front of us ‘Fort no. 13 Jilava.’ I suddenly remembered the words ‘Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate’ [Italian, quote from Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy’: ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter’]… We were taken by some guards dressed in police uniforms and escorted through a series of dark corridors lit by dim light bulbs sunk in the brick walls. We reached a larger room; after they stripped us to the bone and inventoried our things again, they allowed us to get dressed and take a part of our things to the cells with us. Once the formalities were over, a guard escorted me through other corridors, equally dark and damp, to ‘room 20.’ Massive wooden doors with latches and locks bordered the corridors. No sound came from behind those doors. Yet, there was one room at the end of a corridor that was different: if you passed by its door you could hear the sound of heavy chains. My new fellow-inmates told me that was the room of ‘those who were condemned to the death penalty.’
After 14 months, on 17th December 1952, in the morning, I was taken out of my cell and escorted to a room where there were several guards and inmates. They returned the few possessions they had taken into custody, such as my suitcase and my vanity bag. Then, without making us put the glasses on, they made us get on a van.
Period
Location
Jilava
Romania
Interview
Dan Mizrahy