Tag Archives: communism

family, funny stories, humor, language, memories

The unusual glory of being a “cusser”…

I’m ashamed to say this, but swearing is one of my many shortcomings as a human.  I cuss like a sailor.  Always have, and probably always will, although I’ve mellowed somewhat in my old age.  Although deep down, I am a lady, to most people, I come off as crusty as a crab cake.  I don’t even like crab cakes. 

Despite my cranky, bitter, and petty demeanor, I still have quite a few true friends who have known me for many years.  I made a lot of those friends in my freewheeling college days.  College was a pretty good time for me, although I spent those years fairly hampered by social anxiety and depression.  I still managed to have a great time at Longwood, despite those handicaps.  I left that school with lifelong friends and mostly good memories.  It was a really nice place to go to school.

One of my friends is a woman I met during the very first week of our freshman year.  In those days, Longwood College (as it was then called), had its bookstore in the basement of the much venerated Ruffner building.  The bookstore wasn’t that big, so one often had to stand in line to get in there at the beginning of each semester.  It was a chore that could take awhile.

I was standing in line, waiting for my turn to load up on overpriced textbooks, and somehow struck up a conversation with the striking redhead standing next to me.  She was a fellow freshman, dressed in denim shorts, a t-shirt, and a beautiful cardigan, which was very stylish in 1990, although curiously, I would imagine it would have been hot as hell to wear that during a typical Virginia August.  It’s also possible that my memory of what she was wearing isn’t quite accurate, although I do know she loved colorful cardigans and pearl necklaces.  What I do remember very clearly is that I noticed the redhead’s well-coordinated, stylish outfit and her brilliant red hair.  She was friendly, confident, and funny.  Her name was– and still is– Donna, a fitting name for her that means “lady”.  Donna is very ladylike and hilarious, to boot. 

We stayed friends throughout college and shared a suite during my traumatic sophomore year of school.  We were both English majors; she also majored in Spanish.  She joined Sigma Alpha Iota, the honorary music fraternity, and I was her big sister.  We were both members of Camerata Singers, which was Longwood’s auditioned choir that included a lot of liturgical, classical, and Broadway music. 

I lost touch with my friend after we graduated.  Then, one day in 2006, I got an email from her.  It was out of the blue.  She had included an adorable picture of her then three year old daughter, who was pretty much her clone.  Donna’s daughter has the same flaming red hair her mother has.  Not long after that, Facebook became a thing, and we reconnected that way.

This morning, as I looked at Facebook memories, I was reminded of something really funny that happened eleven years ago. My old college friend, Donna, was having dinner with her super bright and funny daughter. They had the following conversation:

Tonight over dinner, [her daughter] C says, “Your friend Jenny is a cusser!”

Me: “What are you talking about?”

C: “Your friend Jenny on Facebook. She’s a cusser.”

Me: “Why are you saying this?”

C: “Because every time I get on the computer, your Facebook page is up & she posts pictures that have the F-word by them. She’s a cusser.”

My friend continued…

Okay, so I just scoured your wall & I only saw one picture with the “f-word” near it & it was posted by [our mutual friend] Chris. HE’S the cusser! LOL!

It really is sad how she ended up a crack-baby & all. Especially since I never did any crack.

Donna is a dear friend, and we’ve known each other since 1990. Her daughter, C, is now a student at our alma mater, Longwood University. I’m sure she’s making her own hilarious memories at our school. Every year, on November 7, I see that funny post from 2012 and have a good laugh. What’s even funnier is that as of 2012, C hadn’t yet met me in person.

In 2014, just a few months after we moved to German, Bill and I flew home for my family’s annual Thanksgiving reunion. We were there to memorialize my father, who had passed away in July of that year. The memorial service was held in November so more people could attend. That’s also why I got married in November, although it turned out we couldn’t get married over Thanksgiving weekend. We probably should have done the deed in October. The weather would have been nicer.

Anyway, on that trip to Virginia, we met up with my college friends, Joann, Donna, Donna’s husband, and their hilarious eleven year old daughter, C, who had correctly identified me as a “cusser”. She was just as cute as she could be!  I thoroughly enjoyed meeting her.  As we were about to finish our visit, I said “Do you really think I’m a cusser?”

I treasure my true friends, and their clever offspring…

The girl blushed scarlet and hung her head in shame.  I laughed and asked for a hug, which she willingly gave me.  That day was probably my favorite of the whole visit, since it had been so long since I’d last seen Donna and Joann, and it was the first time I got to meet Donna’s husband and daughter and they got to meet Bill.  Sometimes I think if I lived in Virginia again, I might even have some semblance of a normal social life.  On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t, because I’m kind of a recluse most of the time.

It’s getting close to Thanksgiving again.  I recently got an email from my aunt announcing the annual shindig, which she blasts to everyone in our humongous family every year.  Although I complain a lot about my family, they’re mostly very good people.  I don’t agree with most of them politically– quite a lot of them are diehard Trump fans and conservative Christians.  But they’re fun to see when there’s a wedding, reunion, or funeral.  Despite being a huge family, we’re somewhat close, thanks to the annual reunion at Thanksgiving.  Some family members are closer than others.  

Lately, I’ve felt like an outcast, but then I live pretty far away now, and have altered my views on religion and politics.  I no longer have the patience for long-winded arguments that I used to have, particularly with southern white men who are convinced that liberal politics are the pathway to Soviet Union style communism.  I might have agreed with them if I hadn’t spent so many years in Europe, which does have some socialist policies that work pretty well and doesn’t resemble the former Soviet Union in the slightest.  Having lived in the former Soviet Union just a couple of years after it fell apart, I feel as though I can speak with some authority about what it was like there.  Europe is not like that at all.  Since we are related, we all seem to have inherited a penchant for arguing to the death.  And some are more insistent about it than others.

In just a few days, I’ll be visiting Armenia, a former Soviet territory, for the first time since 1997. When I arrived there in 1995, it was still pretty Soviet in most things. Today, it’s a lot less like that. Every year, there are fewer people who remember what the place was like when it was a Soviet country. I wasn’t there when it was part of the Soviet Union, but I did go there less than five years after it became independent. And I can tell people I know– especially my conservative Christian southern relatives– that I have yet to see any place like that in my travels, even in countries that have “socialist” leanings. But they don’t listen to me either, because I’m not very religious; I don’t worship Donald Trump; and I am a CUSSER. Somehow, it seems like my love of swearing is the worst of my sins.

Many of my relatives who would argue with me about this are people who have not been outside of the southern United States, let alone “across the pond”.  They don’t respect my experiences or education, and stubbornly insist that they’re exactly right, no matter what, refusing to even acknowledge a perspective that differs from their own.  They don’t seem to understand that even though I’m a woman who is a bit younger than they are, I’m not stupid, inexperienced, uneducated, or in need of “special help”.  I simply have a different viewpoint based on actual things I’ve seen and done.  

I find it frustrating to engage in conversations with a lot of my family members, so I keep my distance. And they avoid me because I curse a lot.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not fond of most of my family members.  I wish them well and would happily break bread with them, if I was in a place where that was easy to do.  Maybe there will come a time when that’s the case again.

Once again, I feel compelled to share this classic song by Paul Thorn, who expertly sums up how I feel about some people who are my kin…

In July 2014, I discovered Paul Thorn’s hilarious song, ” I Don’t Like Half the Folks I Love”, as my dad was dying.  It’s a really perfect description of how I think of some of my family members.   I do love them, but I can’t spend a lot of time with them… and yet, I’d like to see them for an evening, maybe… as long as we don’t talk politics and/or religion.  Ah– never mind.  It won’t happen.  But I still wish them well. And I actually do love most of my friends– the ones who know me well, and accept me for exactly who I am.

Anyway… it might be worth it to go home to Virginia again, if only to see a few friends and eat some genuine American style junk food.  Seriously… I was looking at the menus of some of my favorite crappy chain restaurants in the States… places where there’s nothing at all healthy on the menu.  I certainly don’t need to be eating any of that stuff, but I still kind of miss it sometimes.  

November always makes me think of being home in Virginia.  I do sometimes miss being “home”.  I haven’t seen most of my friends and loved ones in years.  I think it’s having an effect on me.  I also miss really good southern fried food that will send me into a diabetic coma.  *Sigh*…  guess I’ll have to settle for Armenian food this weekend.  I’d probably rather have fried chicken, American style pizza, or ribs.  It’s probably just the hormones talking, though… which will later be silenced by my cranky digestive system. Isn’t it fun getting older? 😉 I think I’ll cuss about it some more.  

Incidentally, today is Election Day in the USA… so please go out and vote, if you can.

Standard
book reviews, history

Reviewing The Rings of My Tree: A Latvian Woman’s Journey, by Jane E. Cunningham…

Some time ago, I downloaded The Rings of My Tree: A Latvian Woman’s Journey, by Jane E. Cunningham. The book, which was published in July 2004, sat in my Kindle queue for a very long time. I just searched my digital orders on Amazon.com and I see that I bought this book in April 2013– over ten years ago! I just now got around to reading it, three months after Bill and I visited Latvia for the first time.

I’m now glad I waited so long to finally read this book, after actually visiting Latvia, and having spent the last nine years living in Germany. My own life experiences gave me more appreciation for The Rings of My Tree, the extraordinary story of a woman named Mirdza, whose fate led her far away from her homeland when she was just a young woman newly out of high school. The title references how Mirdza’s grandmother taught her how to determine a tree’s growth by its number of rings. Mirdza also learned that strong trees weather storm after storm. Like a strong tree, Mirdza weathered many storms in her long life. And if you’ve ever been to Latvia, you know that it’s a country where trees are revered. One of our guides told us that it’s a tradition for new parents to plant a tree when a baby is born– linden trees for girls, and oak trees for boys.

Mirdza’s story is lovingly written by author Jane E. Cunningham, who, as of 2012, lived in Connecticut, and wrote that Mirdza, then aged 92, was then living in a nursing home. I’m sure that by now, Mirdza has passed away. But wow… she really lived an amazing life. At the time she wrote Mirdza’s story, Jane Cunningham had known Mirdza for forty-five years. They were neighbors. Jane was one of the first Americans who became a real friend to Mirdza, who fled Latvia to escape Soviet occupation. She landed in Hitler’s Germany before a series of lucky events led her to an American run displaced persons camp (DP camp) in American occupied Berlin.

While she was in the camp, Mirdza met and, in 1949, married her Latvian husband, Janis, who died in 2000. In 1950, the two had a son, who was born in Germany. When their son was six months old, the family moved to Oklahoma, where they were sponsored by a wealthy American couple. Janis and Mirdza worked for the couple to repay them for their passage to the United States. They had a second son in 1951, who died when he was a month old. Later, they landed in New England, where Mirdza and Janis spent the rest of their lives. In 1961, they had one more son. In May 1962, Mirdza, Janis, and their German born son became naturalized American citizens.

You might think The Rings of My Tree might be mostly about Mirdza’s life in America, but the story is mostly about Mirdza’s upbringing in Latvia, time in Germany, and subsequent journey to America. Mirdza was born in Jaunpils, Latvia in 1920. At the time of Mirdza’s birth, Latvia was a free country. Mirdza’s mother became very sick and died when Mirdza was only four years old; consequently, her earliest years were spent being raised by her grandmother, Gobina. Gobina was her father’s mother, and a very faithful, Christian woman whose father was German. She taught Mirdza how to speak German, how to knit and crochet, and educated her “from the Bible, ‘But the very hairs of your head are all numbered’ (Matthew 10:30). She would one day come to apply that Bible verse to her limited days of freedom in Latvia.

Mirdza’s father had been the postmaster in Jaunpils. Her mother had been a switchboard operator before her death. The couple met while working at the post office, and built a beautiful home for their young daughter. But the beautiful life filled with roses and domestic bliss was not to last, as leaders in other countries were plotting to seize Latvia. Mirdza and her friends, family, and community were blissfully unaware of what would come in 1940, when the Russians took over the country and annexed it into the Soviet Union.

Mirdza was five years old when her father remarried a young woman named Anna, who was not very nice to her. Anna was very jealous and hated anything that reminded her of Mirdza’s mother. She eventually gave birth to Mirdza’s half sister, Rasma. Although Mirdza had known her mother and missed her, she was expected to accept Anna as her mother, even though Anna never treated her lovingly, as if she was her daughter. When Mirdza addressed Anna by her first name, she was chastised and told that Anna was her “new mother”. That was difficult for her. But in spite of the early hardships she endured, Mirdza was happy in high school and excited about her future.

Then came Josef Stalin and the Russian soldiers who would bomb Latvia into submission, as Hitler’s Army also approached. Mirdza, and so many of her countrymen, were now caught in the crossfire of World War II. At first, she thought life under the Germans might be better than life under the Russians. She stayed and worked at the post office for awhile, befriending a German soldier who was decent to her. She helped him send food home to his wife, and he ended up saving her life by giving her his wife’s address in Germany. When the Russians became a direct threat, Mirdza ran for her life, boarding a ship that took her to Poland, and onward to Germany, where she became a refugee, experienced hunger, humiliation, and homelessness, and witnessed hopelessness and despair that would haunt her forever. On her way out of Liepaja– a Latvian port town that Bill and I visited in June– Mirdza fell and injured her hip and her left hand. From then on, and for the rest of her life, she walked with a noticeable limp– a constant reminder of what she’d left in Latvia.

Mirzda’s life was not easy, but she somehow managed to survive a number of near misses that should have killed her or driven her to suicide. Along the way, she met people who taught her new things, helped her, or hindered her. She met one woman who actually talked her into surrendering to the Russians. She and the woman were actually waiting for a truck to take them to a Russian camp when they were picked up by an American who gave them an opportunity to find freedom.

The Rings of My Tree is a fascinating read for me, because I find World War II an especially interesting time in history. I would feel that way even if I hadn’t spent so many years living in Europe. However, what makes this book special– especially in 2023– is that it’s so relatable to today’s times. Mirzda experienced a lot of the same things refugees are experiencing now. Like other people who have fled their homelands for peace and safety, she faced discrimination, ignorance, and hostility. But she also met kindness, decency, and generosity. As I read about how Mirdza was treated in 1950s era America, I couldn’t help but realize that people of 2023 behave in much the same way, forming opinions about subjects about which they know nothing and about which they don’t care to be educated. Below are excerpts of the book that seemed especially insightful to me:

But aside from her experiences as a Latvian refugee turned American citizen, Mirdza also learned some hard personal lessons. When she was living in the DP camp with a bossy fellow Latvian woman named Tanya, she learned how to be assertive. Tanya gave her stockings and said something along the lines of, “Darn these for me.” Mirdza was about to do as Tanya demanded, but then something occurred to her, and she steeled her spine:

I related a lot to this… and I think my husband could, too. He was not afraid to go to Iraq with the US Army, but he was afraid to stand up to people like his ex wife. Thankfully, he’s better now.

I see that The Rings of My Tree is no longer available as a Kindle download. I think that’s a real pity, as physical copies of the book are pretty expensive. I do think the book is well worth reading, and even paying a lot for, if my description of the book is intriguing enough. I’m just happy I downloaded it when I had the chance, and I’m glad I finally got around to reading Mirdza’s story. And I do think it’s a blessing that I waited until now to read this book, after I’d had a chance to see the place Mirdza left behind. Latvia is a very beautiful country, with many trees, beaches, and grand old buildings that predated the Soviet occupation. It’s good to know that Latvians are free to be Latvian now, and their homeland is free again.

When we visited Latvia in June of this year, I heard firsthand from Latvians that they never wanted their homeland to be occupied by Russians… and I read in Mirdza’s story how terrible communism is. I had also seen that in Armenia when I lived there, as well in other countries that used to be ruled under communism. But, toward the end of the book, it becomes clear that capitalism isn’t necessarily better. I don’t know if Mirdza realized it herself, but when her half sister, Rasma, visited her in America, after the fall of the Soviet Union, she was left flabbergasted by American supermarkets. She was bewildered by the huge array of choices Americans have, and the terrible waste… as well as the ignorance so many people in America have about the rest of the world. Sadly, as I see every day on Facebook, not that much has changed since Mirzda’s young life as a refugee. And she had the benefit of having white skin, which helped her fit in with the ruling class in the United States.

Anyway… I really enjoyed The Rings of My Tree. I’m grateful that I had a chance to read Mirdza’s inspiring story through Jane Cunningham’s capable writing. I hope those of you who will read this review will get something from it, and perhaps, try to read this book yourselves. It really offers perspective that I think is lacking from so many Americans… especially those who never venture beyond the United States’ borders. Yes, Americans are very fortunate, but our luck may be running out before too long. I implore you to open your eyes and your minds to what could happen to you or yours someday. You could learn a lot from Mirdza’s story, if you’re open to the lesson. I sure did.

As an Amazon Associate, I get a small commission from Amazon on sales made through my site.

Standard
communication, history, musings, racism, Virginia

An offline discussion reminds me of why I prefer hanging out with my dog…

Sometimes, I truly miss having discussions with people offline. And sometimes, I’m reminded that certain people can be frustrating to deal with in person. As I wrote in my travel blog this morning, Bill and I went to the Wiesbaden wine week festival last night. We met up with some of his co-workers, most of whom were very nice and good conversationalists. This isn’t to say that talking was an easy task, given how loud it was at the fest. There were a lot of people there; most of them were drinking wine and probably getting drunk. There was also loud music.

Before things got too loud, I met one of Bill’s colleagues. He attended Virginia Military Institute, which is the same college my father, uncle, and several cousins attended. I also have several relatives who worked there for many years. Bill and I got married there in 2002.

It’s actually funny this topic is coming up today, since almost exactly a year ago, I got into a contentious online discussion with some Washington Post readers about that school, which spawned a pretty good blog post (in my opinion, anyway). I’m mostly a VMI booster, although I understand why some people don’t like the school and think it should be shut down. There are big problems with racism and sexism there, at least historically. It probably continues today, although the school does put out some pretty excellent military officers. My dad was one of them.

If you know anything about VMI, you know that it’s a very southern school, and people there are very proud of the fact that VMI cadets were involved with the Civil War. The VMI Corps of Cadets fought as a unit at the Battle of New Market in Virginia. General Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson is a hero at the school, and for most of the college’s existence, cadets were obligated to salute a statue of the man. The statue, which was one of several commemorations of Jackson, was removed and relocated in 2021.

If you know anything about Virginia, you might know that until just a couple of years ago, there were many public Confederate monuments and memorials there, especially in the state capital city of Richmond. A lot of people were very upset that the statues were removed, although probably just as many were either indifferent or ecstatic to see them go. They were a reminder of dark times of the past, when Virginia allowed White people to enslave Black people.

Bill’s co-worker happened to mention, casually, that he didn’t think it was right for the statues, monuments, and memorials to come down. He said they were part of history, and removing the statues was akin to “erasing history.” I was probably visibly shocked when I heard him say that, but somehow, I managed to keep my mouth closed.

The guy continued that his family comes from Cuba, and to them, when the government starts renaming streets and taking down statues and such, it means communism is coming. I guess I can understand that reasoning. I’ve heard it from other descendants of people who have escaped communism.

On the other hand, a couple of months ago, when we visited Estonia and Latvia, I heard two different guides talk about how glad the Estonians and Latvians were to get rid of communism. When I lived in Armenia, I didn’t hear as many people praising the fall of communism, probably because life for them was so difficult in the early to mid 1990s. I’m sure many Armenians at that time would have preferred that the Soviet Union stayed intact, because the Soviet style of government was what most of them were used to, and life was easier when they were more closely aligned with Moscow.

In any case… even back in the mid to late 1990s, Armenia started divorcing itself from Russia. That meant that the street signs, most of which were in Russian and Armenian when I arrived in 1995, were changed to just Armenian. City names that celebrated Lenin and Stalin were changed back to Armenian names. The Russian rouble stopped being the official currency; Armenian drams were used, complete with pictures of Armenian leaders. Armenians started to sing the Armenian national anthem instead of the Soviet one. There used to be schools that specialized in Russian, and there may still be some now, but there are just as many schools that specialize in English. I taught at an English specialty school. There were many changes made, all of which were essential for the country to move forward.

When I was in Latvia and Estonia in June of this year, I heard about the same things happening in those countries. When the Soviet Union fell apart, and communism was no longer the style of government in those countries, things changed. Statues celebrating Soviet history and heroes were taken down, and people stopped learning and speaking so much Russian… and guess what? Street names also changed! In those cases, the name changes and removal of statues and monuments were due to communism going away!

I suppose I was a little flabbergasted that this guy– a retired high ranking military officer who now works with Bill– thinks that removing Confederate monuments and memorials is akin to promoting communism and “erasing history”. Talk about unskilled thinking. I wasn’t impressed at all.

Bill said that when the guy started talking about how awful it was that the monuments were taken down, I visibly stiffened. He said it was subtle, but noticeable to him. Bill knows me very well and pays attention to my body language. As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, a lot of communication is done non-verbally. I didn’t say a word to the guy about his thoughts on the Confederate monuments, but apparently my body was saying a lot. I don’t know if he noticed my unspoken comments. I’m kind of gratified that Bill noticed.

Count me among those who think taking down the monuments is a positive thing. It marks progress in promoting equality, mutual respect, and racial sensitivity. The monuments don’t really mean much to me, personally. I never would have thought to launch a campaign to have them taken down. I always had them in my community when I lived in parts of Virginia, so they’ve always been part of the environment I’m used to seeing. But I’m caucasian, and have never had a reason to feel offended by the monuments, other than having empathy for those who do find them offensive. I’m sure the descendants of slaves have a very different opinion than those who think the monuments are part of history that should be publicly preserved.

Given that in the United States, we are all supposed to be equal members of society, Black people’s opinions and preferences certainly matter. And if removing the monuments promotes peace, mutual respect, and racial harmony, I’m all for it. We sure could use more solidarity, especially in today’s polarized society. It hurts no one to remove the monuments, as the people who have been memorialized are long gone, and the cause they were promoting and defending failed after just four years.

Why publicly celebrate people who were ultimately traitors? It surprises me that this high ranking retired officer, a man who obviously has basic intelligence, doesn’t ask himself that question… but then, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. I know from knowing my dad, and the many other VMI grads in my family, that going to VMI is kind of like joining a cult and becoming indoctrinated into the school’s ways. And when you’re in a cult, your mind isn’t 100 percent your own.

I still appreciate VMI. It’s part of my own history, even though I didn’t go to college there. But after talking to that guy last night, I realized that an education there has its shortcomings. And given that until very recently, cadets were obliged to salute a statue of Stonewall Jackson every time they passed it, I’m pretty sure that graduating from VMI is, at least in part, behind this guy’s opinion that removing Confederate monuments– that were erected during the Jim Crow era to keep Black people in their places– is akin to “erasing history”.

How disappointing. Guess I should go back to conversing online. Well… at least Noyzi is a good listener.

Standard
book reviews, true crime

Home again, and reviewing Rimaru – Butcher of Bucharest: A Serial Killer in Communist Romania…

We’re baaaaack. We had a pretty easy flight from Copenhagen this morning, and now we’re unpacked and doing laundry. Bill has just come home from a run to the commissary for some fresh food, and in a little while, he’ll go pick up Noyzi. Meanwhile, I have a shit ton of travel blogging to do. Not that many people read my travel blogs, but I do like to write them so I can preserve our adventures.

Before I get started with writing the tale of our epic Nordic trip, I would like to review a book I just finished reading a day or so ago. I don’t know how interesting my review of Rimaru – Butcher of Bucharest: A Serial Killer in Communist Romania will be to most of my regular readers. Nevertheless, I do like to review any book I read. Sometimes people’s interests surprise me.

So, how did I come to read a book about a serial killer in communist Romania? I read it because one of the authors is Stejarel Olaru, who is also a co-author of another book I recently read and reviewed titled Nadia Comaneci ad the Secret Police: A Cold War Escape. I find communist Romania’s history fascinating, plus I enjoy following women’s gymnastics. While I don’t remember thinking Stejarel Olaru’s co-authored book about Nadia Comaneci was that amazing, I was intrigued enough by it to read another book Olaru had a hand in writing. The other author of Rimaru – Butcher of Bucharest: A Serial Killer in Communist Romania is Mike Phillips, while Ramona Mitrica served as the editor. I suspect I also decided to download and read about Rimaru, because the Kindle version of this book is really inexpensive. At this writing, it’s priced at less than $4, and can be read for free by those who have Kindle Unlimited. A paperback version will run about $23.

The grisly story of Ion Rimaru… Romanian rapist and murderer.

It seems like every society has its share of deviants within it. Communist era Romania was no different, even in Ceausescu’s era, with its police force and Securitate. Ion Rimaru was something of a loser. He was studying veterinary medicine in Bucharest, living in a dormitory, and, from the time of his adolescence, suffering from an insatiable appetite for sexual intercourse. Rimaru was a terrible student, and barely showed up for his classes. He had to repeat both his second and third years of veterinary school. He wasn’t well liked or regarded, and a lot of people thought of him as a loser. And yet, the people who looked down on Rimaru for being so mediocre didn’t know that he was the Butcher or the Vampire of Bucharest.

From May 1970 until May 1971, Rimaru stalked and sexually assaulted 23 women. Although his prime motivation seemed to be sexual gratification, Rimaru murdered several of his victims and attempted to murder six more. His assaults often involved blunt force trauma to the head. In four cases, he engaged in bestiality, sadism, and torture. In a few other cases, he committed theft. All the while, he was living right under the noses of the people of Bucharest, continuing his reign of terror for a year before he was finally apprehended, tried, and sentenced to death by a firing squad. Authorities made over 2500 arrests and asked over 8000 people for their identification before they finally got the right man.

Stefjarel Olaru and Mike Phillips have pieced together Ion Rimaru’s story, using actual witness and victim statements. Some of the stories are pretty horrifying, as there seemed to be no limit to the depths of Rimaru’s depravity and insatiable appetite for victims. Sometimes, he had sex with women who were willing, but when they said no to him, he usually responded by just hitting them in their heads with a heavy pipe and taking what he wanted. Then, he’d usually leave them for dead, sometimes helping himself to their money or valuables. Rimaru gave his mother a pair of earrings he stole from one victim.

Romania, like most other civilized nations of the world, has done away with capital punishment. But, back in the early 70s, some criminals were sentenced to death. In Rimaru’s case, the day he paid the ultimate price for his crimes was October 23, 1971. He had just turned 25 years old less than two weeks prior to meeting the firing squad. Rimaru was a coward when he was told he was going to be executed. He begged to live, tried to throw his father under the bus, and on the day the sentence was carried out, he dodged and moved around, making it harder for the marksmen to shoot him. They ended up shooting him in the backside, which still did the trick.

I appreciated the details Phillips and Olaru gave about how Romania used to do capital punishments. Before Rimaru’s date with the firing squad, it was customary for condemned inmates to be put barefoot in a chilly, windowless, black room, where there was cold water on the floor. The inmates typically would get so hopeless and depressed in that room that they actually looked forward to being executed and resigned themselves to their fates. Rimaru was spared the black room.

My thoughts…

Some people who read this book found it very engrossing and hard to put down. I struggled to finish it. Rimaru’s case is very interesting and the authors put together a coherent story about what happened. However, they often use very dull statements from witnesses and victims that can be tough going to get through. Their writing style is very matter-of-fact and kind of dry, almost academic. I did notice that the authors usually styled names like they were styled in the communist era, with the last name first. That sort of lent an air of authenticity.

I do think Rimaru – Butcher of Bucharest is well worth reading if you are interested in Romanian true crime or communism. The authors have explained how things were done in the communist era, when the secret police were still terrorizing Romanians. They were so feared, and yet it took them so long to figure out who was raping and killing women in Bucharest for an entire year. It must have been terrifying for women living there at that time. I lived in Fredericksburg, Virginia when the Beltway Snipers were on the loose in 2002 or so. That was scary enough. I’m sure it was much worse in 70s era Romania.

Anyway… I don’t usually support the death penalty, but I don’t think I can muster up much sympathy for Ion Rimaru. He was probably one of those folks who just needs killing, for the safety and wellbeing of everyone else. I think I’d give this book 3.5 stars out of 5, and my recommendation.

Now, I think I’ll start gathering my thoughts on cheerier matters, as I prepare to write about our great big trip up north. Ciao!

As an Amazon Associate, I get a small commission from Amazon on items sold through my site.

Standard
book reviews, celebrities, narcissists, politics, sports

Reviewing Nadia Comaneci and the Secret Police: A Cold War Escape…

A couple of years ago, I became aware of a new book about legendary Romanian women’s gymnastics champion, Nadia Comaneci. The book, titled Nadia Comaneci and the Secret Police: A Cold War Escape, was written by Romanian author, Stejarel Olaru, and published in 2021. For a long time, it was only available in Romanian. I was very eager to read this book, because not only am I fascinated with old school women’s gymnastics, but I’m also intrigued by Cold War politics, particularly in Romania.

Although I haven’t yet visited Romania, I have read several books about the Ceaușescu era, and watched some really interesting films about Romania before the fall of the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc states. So, the prospect of reading about Nadia’s experiences in Romania after she became a national treasure was very exciting for me. I was very pleased to see that the book was going to be translated into English (and other languages).

I just finished the Kindle English translated edition of Nadia Comaneci and the Secret Police: A Cold War Escape. Stejarel Olaru’s book was translated by Alistair Ian Blyth and made available in the US Amazon store this month. I had originally pre-ordered a print edition; that’s how much I wanted to read this book. I canceled that order when I realized I could get the Kindle edition sooner. As of just a little while ago, I have finished reading after a couple of weeks of effort. I’m glad to be finished with the book, which was very interesting, although less exciting than I had expected it to be.

I want to be very clear. This is NOT a book about Nadia’s life story. Elements of her life story and some information about her family are in the book, of course, as it’s not possible to deliver this story without those elements. But it’s important to note that this book is ultimately about the high price Nadia Comaneci paid when she made history at the 1976 Summer Olympic Games in Montreal. Those who read this book should also come with some knowledge of who Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu were, and what their regime was like. Remember that until the former Romanian president and his wife were executed by firing squad on Christmas Day in 1989, Romania’s government was an oppressive totalitarian regime.

One month before the Ceaușescus were executed, Nadia Comaneci defected with several other Romanians. She did so out of desperation. She couldn’t take life as it existed under Ceaușescu and his Securitate (Secret Police) anymore. But Nadia was a “national treasure”, and as such, she was highly valued by the Romanian dictator’s regime. Nadia worked very hard to be able to achieve Olympic greatness, but after she reached that pinnacle, she was rewarded with constant surveillance at home… phone taps, interrogations, and constant pressure to maintain her physical prowess in a sport where it’s common to retire while still very young, especially at the elite level.

Olaru’s book begins in November 1989, when Nadia undertook her daring escape to Hungary with a group of more average citizens. The group fled across fields during a frigid night. The Romanian border guards missed them, but they were picked up by the Hungarians, who were shocked to find the famous gymnast among those who were fleeing. The Hungarians were going to let Nadia go, and send the rest of the party back to Romania. Nadia, being a team player, spoke up and said that she wouldn’t be going without the rest of the group.

Nadia in 1990, just after she left Romania. If she’d waited a month, she wouldn’t have had to defect.

Very soon after her illegal border crossing, Nadia was on her way to New York City. She lost a lot when she defected; the man she left with was a married man who abused her. A lot of Americans had a negative impression of her in the weeks after she defected. I remember reading a 1990 era Life Magazine article that really made Nadia out to be kind of lowbrow, implying that she was bulimic and a bit of a skank. The reality was, the man was basically holding her prisoner, beating her, and exploiting her for money.

Upon arrival in the United States, Nadia Comaneci requested and was granted political asylum. I remember watching Nadia in the news, as this was going on during my senior year of high school. I barely knew who she was, because I was only four years old when she won gold in Montreal, and lived in England at the time. I didn’t follow gymnastics until I was about 15 or 16 years old. Still, I remember very clearly the story in the news, and was fascinated by it, because although I wasn’t a gymnastics fan in Nadia’s day, I did grow up during the height of the Cold War.

I never dreamed, when I was a kid, that one day, that whole system would disintegrate within a couple of years. If there’s anything to learn from that era in history, it’s that things can change very quickly, forever altering or even ending people’s lives. That’s one reason why I get so worried about Trump and his admirers. History has shown us that things can change in a “New York Minute”, as Don Henley sang back in 1989.

Olaru’s book also offers a very negative and damning look at Bela and Marta Karolyi’s years as Romanian team coaches. As bad as some of the revelations have been from American gymnasts who have trained with them, they are even worse in this book, as Olaru writes about how the gymnasts were literally starved and sometimes physically beaten when they didn’t perform well. Securitate notes provided by alleged informants, such as Geza Pozsar, the choreographer who worked with the Karolyis, indicate that the gymnasts often wept because they were so hungry. As Nadia grew older, she and Bela had difficulties, because she was no longer as compliant as she had been. He could no longer “spank her bottom” when he wanted to, especially after she became famous.

I’ve watched Bela Karolyi for years when I’ve viewed women’s gymnastics on television. His public persona is that of a big bear, with lots of energy and enthusiasm. But, based on this book, and several others I’ve read by people who have trained with him and his wife, Marta, he is clearly an abusive coach on many levels. So far, I have not seen evidence that he sexually abused his gymnasts– thank God– but I have seen ample evidence that he was verbally, mentally, emotionally, and physically abusive to them. However, even the best gymnasts, like Nadia, got that treatment. At least he was somewhat “fair”, I guess.

When Bela and Marta Karolyi defected from Romania in 1981, the Securitate became even more intensive in their efforts to control Nadia Comaneci and protect their national treasure. Although she lived a relatively upscale life by Cold War Romanian standards, the reality was, she was more in a cage than her fellow Romanian citizens were. And the “lavish” privileges she enjoyed weren’t all that great. She did have a car and a seven room villa, for instance, but the villa was poorly insulated. Consequently, she slept in the kitchen so she could stay warm. And she didn’t necessarily have to stand in line to get food, like rank and file Romanians did, but the fact that she didn’t have to do that doesn’t exactly make for a luxurious lifestyle, as Romanian officials tried to indicate.

In many weird ways, reading about how Nadia and her family members were policed reminded me of reading about people trapped in cults or abusive relationships. The Securitate didn’t want Nadia to abandon Romania, so they were constantly looking and listening for indications of potential plans to leave. And they did things like tell her she couldn’t survive outside of Romania. They didn’t seem to realize that Nadia had already proven her incredible strength and resilience, not just in 1976, but in the years following that triumph, after she grew several inches and gained twenty pounds. For awhile, she was looking as washed up as John Travolta did throughout the late 80s. But, just like Travolta, Nadia Comaneci made a great comeback for the 1980 Moscow Games and came home with more medals. I don’t know why the Securitate didn’t see that she was capable of doing that again in 1989; she was only 28 years old when she left.

As I read this book and got some insight into Nadia Comaneci’s plight after her 1976 Olympic glory, it occurred to me why Nadia was known for never smiling. Based on Olaru’s accounts, backed up with actual notes from the Securitate, phone taps, interviews, and interrogations, it sounds to me like Nadia Comaneci’s life was a living hell. When she was being trained by Bela Karolyi, who has his own version of this story famously depicted in a movie about Nadia, she was evidently enduring a nightmare that we could never fathom. No wonder Nadia was willing to risk it all and leave for the West, once she retired from gymnastics.

Today, Nadia Comaneci is married to fellow Olympic gold medalist, Bart Conner, who won his medals in Los Angeles, back in 1984. They run their own gym in Oklahoma, and share a son named Dylan Paul Conner, who was born when Nadia was 44 years old. She still physically looks amazing, but I notice she smiles a lot more these days.

Overall, I think Nadia and the Secret Police is an excellent read for students of Cold War history, especially if they are interested in the Ceaușescu era and/or Romania. I will warn that this book is translated, and sometimes the translation gets a little mucked up. There were times, for instance, that the translator wrote names as they would be written in the Eastern Bloc or Soviet Union, with the last name first. Other times, he writes them as if they were in a western country. At times, the writing is also a little dry and formal, and there are some typos. I was surprised by the abrupt ending of this book, although I appreciated the many footnotes, notations, and photos.

Again, I cannot reiterate this enough. This book isn’t really for people who idolize Nadia or gymnastics and are looking for a life story. This is a book about history and politics. Nadia Comaneci just happens to be the subject, because she’s probably still the most famous Romanian in modern times. The focus is less on gymnastics, and more on world politics and intrigue. Yes, it’s useful for diehard Comaneci fans to read, but the focus is more on the oppressive government regime and less on Nadia Comaneci’s gymnastics prowess. I’m glad I read it. And I’m glad I’ve finished it, so I can move on to the next book.

As an Amazon Associate, I get a small commission from Amazon on sales made through my site.

Standard