The European Championships were different that year for a single reason—the advent of the perfect score. Before 1976, most gymnasts and their coaches didn’t take as many risks or focus as much on the technical aspects of the sport. But by the 1977 European Championships, a new type of gymnast had emerged. She was smaller, younger, leaner, and focused not only on mastering technique but also on pushing the envelope on each apparatus to achieve the maximum level of difficulty and the highest possible score. Though this may have brought gymnasts to a higher level, it also meant that there was very little margin for error—if a gymnast made the slightest mistake, her chances of victory were dashed.
Despite the fact that I was the previous European champion or that I’d won the all-around gold at the Olympics, I faced tough competition. Yelena Mukhina was the newest member of the Soviet team, competing alongside Maria Filatova and Nelli Kim. Steffi Kraker, on the East German team, was also a strong rival. Friend, you asked about Elena and her accident in your letter, and I will tell you that story, but first let me finish writing about Prague because it is one of those times when you believe nothing will change in your life and then everything does.
The strange thing is that nothing before or during the Prague championships was out of the ordinary. The night before the competition began, Bela instructed all his gymnasts to go to bed early, to do what we’d learned in training, and to ignore the media and focus solely on our performances. The next morning, Dorina and I asked for instructions before the competition started. Bela told us that even with the higher standards, we both had a great chance if we did as we’d been told. And he said to me that he expected nothing less than complete sureness and concentration and would not accept failure of any sort, for there was no excuse for it. I agreed.
After the first day of competition, I had won the all-around, followed by Yelena in second and Nelli in third. But the apparatus finals changed everything. As I said, though, nothing was outwardly strange. As usual, Bela got frustrated by some of the scores and fought for his gymnasts—throwing his hands up in disgust whenever he thought the judges were unfair. These things happened during every competition. During the finals, both Nelli and I performed the vaults we were supposed to do with good results. Our final scores were added to our preliminary day’s scores, and when the official board flashed, Nelli and I were tied for the gold on the vault. When we marched toward the podium to receive our medals, my name was called for the silver and Nelli’s for the gold. Somehow, my score had been lowered. I don’t know how, by whom, or why.
I turned my focus to the bars, competed, and received a 10 despite what had just happened on the vault. I moved on to the balance beam and performed another near perfect routine. After my dismount, Bela told the team members to pack our bags—we were leaving the arena before the end of the competition. A man from the Romanian embassy had told Bela that our government had ordered us to go home. I didn’t want to leave: I wanted to compete because I’d spent countless hours in practice to do just that. But it didn’t matter what I wanted. As I left the arena, I glanced back and saw my beam score. It was another 10.
A government official later explained the reason for having our team walk out of the competition. The entire country of Romania had been watching the championships, and the people were infuriated by the unfairness of the judges. For the first time in our country’s history, the event had been on television, and when they’d seen Bela carrying on and shaking his fists against the judges, they demanded that the Romanian team be saved from injustice. What they didn’t understand—and what I now understood completely—was that injustices were part of gymnastics, some big, some small, and some just a matter of perception. When we flew into the airport at Bucharest, there were enormous crowds and mass hysteria in support of our team. I felt torn in two—it’s hard to know what to believe when you think one thing and your entire country thinks another.
You wanted to know what life was like after the 1976 Games, and I continue to disappoint you, dear friend. Where are the fairy-tale endings, the mansions, and money? Where is my sweet sixteen birthday party and dinners at Ceausescu’s palace? They are the stuff of fantasies. In truth, after 1976, I began the sometimes troubling and difficult process of growing into a young adult in a Communist country.
Bela believed that the unbridled support of the nation would further erode his gymnasts’ disciplined lives. I think, however, that the erosion was a by-product of our ages. We were older and smarter, and we finally understood that life and competition were never fair and that obeying was a choice, not a given. We were teenagers, and part of that meant expressing a level of defiance toward authority of any kind, feeling the desire to push our boundaries, and having the need to strive for independence. Except that, unlike “average” teens, we were also elite athletes, and to maintain our abilities, we still needed to follow a very regimented schedule.
The desire to be a teen clashed with the desire to be an elite athlete. It was a tough time, just as it is for any teen, whether he or she is a gymnast, plays high school soccer, or edits the school yearbook. The only way to get through those tough teen years is to get through them with as few regrets as possible. At the time, my mother told me that if I didn’t want to train, I should just quit. Don’t play around, was her message, but I wasn’t really listening, though there were many wake-up calls.
Two years after Prague, Yelena Mukhina broke her neck during training. It was something that could have happened to any of us. I know you want to understand the accident because it scares you and you need a reason to explain it away, but I don’t know what went wrong, only that Yelena got disoriented in midair and broke her neck when she hit the ground and was paralyzed. Believe me, all of us wanted to explain away what occurred because if Yelena, who was an elite gymnast with years of conditioning, could break her neck, then what about the rest of us? At the time, I accepted the accident as just an incredibly unlucky event.
My mother was right, though: Gymnastics wasn’t a game to play around with—it was to be taken seriously or not at all. But still I dabbled because I was a teenager and believed I was invincible. It wasn’t that I wanted to go to discos or late-night parties. I wasn’t even particularly interested in dating. Back then, girls didn’t start dating at twelve; they were eighteen before anything serious occurred. Plus, I’d spent my entire childhood and early teens with only girls. I wasn’t sure how to act around boys, other than giggling, thinking they were cute, and maybe going out for a soda.
There weren’t many people for me to talk to about how I was feeling. I’ve never had many friends. If I have one, a good one, that’s enough. More than five, I always thought, was a waste of time. My brother was my best friend and confidant back then. It’s very difficult to find real friends. I like people who are fair, realistic, and sincere and who tell me the truth. Otherwise, I don’t consider them my friends. If I hear that something I’ve said has reached the wrong ears, I don’t give too many second chances.
You might think that’s excessively harsh, but remember, I’m from a country where people were told what to say and where two out of three citizens were members of the Securitate (the secret police) or informants of some sort. Life was hard in Romania, and people did what they had to in order to survive. It’s hard for you to fathom, growing up in the United States where police don’t bug your telephone or every room in your home. But I was considered a national treasure because I made my government’s rule and way of life look good, and state officials were determined to protect that at all costs. Can you imagine such an existence?
In 1977, I didn’t comprehend the extent of the danger around me; mostly, I was just trying to sort out what to do next. I felt as if my gymnastics career was coming to an end and that I should move to Bucharest and start taking college classes so I could figure out what I wanted to study. Like any teen, I felt confused and restless and ready for the next stage of my life. I’d worked so hard to be a great gymnast, but suddenly, it didn’t feel like enou
gh. My lack of desire to achieve and compete was so unlike me. I had always been focused on gymnastics and success. And I still believed in the value of sportsmanship, which included professionalism, respect for my teammates and coach, and holding myself to the highest standards. But I was exhausted from the competitions and media attention, and I just couldn’t do what my coaches demanded or my gymnastics and my team required.
From what I understood at the time, the Gymnastics Federation decided that the best thing was to grant a “trial separation” between my coaches and me for a loosely defined period of time. The official reason for my split with the Karolyis was so that they could once again work as talent scouts and create a new training center in the village of Deva. I left for Bucharest, where I was told that I’d train and compete for a few more years but would have the opportunity to go to school. Meanwhile, Bela, who says he was never told that I was being moved, arrived one day for our regular training sessions to find me gone. He was devastated.
Once in Bucharest, I began to train at the 23rd August Sports Complex. My new coach was much more mellow. I played around a lot—went to the movies, the park, the discos. I’d sleep tons, watch TV, then go back to sleep. It was a very sedentary life. I tried all of the foods I’d never been allowed to eat—for example, ice cream. I liked the freedom of having no schedule, but I didn’t truly enjoy the unorganized life. It made me feel slothful and uncertain. I was too young to get a job, and I had no skills. What was I going to do, work in a factory?
The next six months were lost time for me. Many teenagers go through a period like this, and it is very uncomfortable. I gained weight due to puberty and overeating. It was hard to see my body change. Plus, my parents were having difficulties in their marriage and decided to divorce. I worried about my dad, alone in the apartment where we were once a family. My mother had my brother with her. But my dad was by himself, and I missed him.
I believe a lot of children have similar feelings when their parents divorce: Whose fault is it? Will either parent be lonely? Will Mom or Dad ever meet someone else to marry? Will they feel lonely, sad, hurt? Will I be replaced by a new family or another daughter? The younger the child, the worse a divorce feels. It’s important to remember that it’s never your fault when your parents divorce because they’re the adults and make the big decisions and you’re just a kid. But despite the fact that I knew my parents’ relationship problems were between them and had nothing to do with me, I was filled with anxiety and sadness as a result of the situation.
Friend, I do not blame you for the “big” question you asked in your letter. You’re right to think I wouldn’t like it, but it must be answered—not just for you or me but to set the record straight after so many untrue stories have been told. Yes, I was very unhappy in 1978. But no, I did not attempt suicide by drinking a bottle of bleach because I saw my boyfriend with another girl as the movie Nadia showed. I have heard many accounts of that day and what supposedly happened; some journals in Germany even wrote that I drank two bottles of disinfectant because I was heartbroken at the breakup of an affair with a poet.
The truth is that I had been promised, both by my government and by my new coaches in Bucharest, that I’d be given more freedom while living at the 23rd August Sport Complex. On the day in question, a female official stopped me outside the door to my apartment. She asked where I was going. Annoyed, I told her I was going to get some detergent and bleach so I could do my laundry. I returned to my room, wrote a letter, and then left again to do my wash. There were now three officials outside my room. They were pretending to play cards, but they were there to watch me.
“Where are you going now, Nadia?” the officials innocently asked. I hit the roof. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Why can’t I do laundry without the third degree? How can I feel relaxed when there are people ready to jump on me at every corner? Maybe,” I said flippantly, “I should just drink this bottle of bleach and commit suicide. Please leave me alone!” I stalked back into my room and slammed the door. I hated being policed, scrutinized, and constantly watched, and I was fed up. From one comment made out of frustration, rumors and stories evolved, and to this day, some people believe I actually attempted suicide, which is ridiculous and completely untrue.
My gymnastics suffered from all of this drama and unhappiness, and by the time the Senior Nationals were held in Bucharest, I was not in physical or mental condition to compete. I watched from the bleachers. The Karolyis brought all of their new little gymnasts from Deva to the Nationals. After the compulsories, they held the first six places. After the optionals, they’d won them all.
As a result of his success, Bela was asked by the government to take the Senior Nationals team to the World Championships in Strasbourg—not his new little girls, who were in great shape, but the members of his previous team, all of whom had been leading a less disciplined existence and weren’t ready for a World Championships competition. Bela tried to say no, but the government insisted that at least a few of the Nationals gymnasts be included on the team with the less experienced girls. He went to the complex to see me the next day.
When I opened the door of my room, Bela looked horrified. He had seen my face in the stands but hadn’t been certain it was me. I had gained quite a bit of weight, and I was out of shape. He sat down, and we began to talk. He wasn’t angry; he was nice and parental. I know that I cried, remembering the old days and my past glory. I rarely cry and never in front of people. If I cry, I do it alone because I don’t want anyone to see me upset . . . so that day, I must have been extremely distressed.
“Do you think you can come back, Nadia?” Bela asked.
“I don’t know—sometimes I want to, but sometimes I think I can’t do it,” I replied.
“Do you want to come back?”
Again, I was uncertain. “I like the end results,” I explained, “but I don’t know if I can get there.”
He told me that it would be hard. Probably, he said, the hardest thing I’d ever do in my life. It would be incredibly difficult for me to regain my body, power, and skills, but he knew I could do it, Bela said. I agreed but added that if I couldn’t give 100 percent, then it wouldn’t work.
“Nadia, let me tell you what to expect before you make a final decision,” Bela said. “If you come back with me, there is absolutely no way you will get out of going to the World Championships. The government wants you, more than anybody else, to compete in Strasbourg. Your conditioning will be the ultimate torture, and ready or not, you will have to go to those championships.”
You asked me why I didn’t just retire once I grew tired of gymnastics. Do you still not understand who I am? I don’t give up, ever. I don’t run away from a challenge because I am afraid. Instead, I run toward it because the only way to escape fear is to trample it beneath your feet.
■ The Scorpion
My individual uneven bar routine: Start facing the low bar. Jump with one half-turn; glide kip catch to the high bar. Cast to the Comaneci Salto, swing forward, and beat the low bar. Swing backward with a back uprise to a full twist. Catch the high bar immediately, transfer to the low bar, then glide kip low bar, forward hip circle, “Brause Salto” to high bar, catching it with a mixed grip. Immediate full twist, drop to low bar, glide kip, catch the high bar. Straddle over the low bar, and with hips on the low bar, kip up to the high bar to a cast handstand one-half pirouette. Beat the low bar back, uprise to a free hip, circle to handstand, then another free hip circle to a handstand to an immediate toe-on to a Comaneci Dismount.
Friend, my 1978 decision to return to Deva was tougher than you might imagine. I had no one to help me make the choice. My mother always had a stock answer—“If you want to do it, do it. If not, quit.” If she’d said otherwise, if she’d ever tried to push me, I would never have become a gymnast in the first place. That is the way I am. If someone tells me to do something, I won’t do it. I firmly believe that if you do anything solely because somebody else wants you to do it, then thi
ngs won’t work out.
After weighing my decision and balancing out the pros and cons, I agreed to go to Deva on the condition that I no longer had to live in the dormitory with the younger gymnasts. The federation and Bela agreed to the compromise and got my mom and brother a temporary house nearby. It was small—only two rooms, with my brother and I sharing one—but it was ours. We got a dog, Becky, who was my tiny best friend. Being home with my family gave a balance to my life that I hadn’t had before.
Bela was true to his word. My training was torture. Before dawn each day, we took a run, just Bela and me, and I wore lots of layers of clothing and did conditioning exercises while running. The following three hours were spent in the gym training, and afterward, I’d go for a second run, followed by a massage. After the rubdown, I did weight training, took a sauna, and did a shorter run. Bela was with me every moment. Most of the extra weight on my bones fell off, but I was exhausted. I’d roll out of the gym . . . I could hardly walk.
We didn’t do much gymnastics at first because Bela didn’t feel comfortable having me try to perform skills when I wasn’t conditioned. He was a stickler about that because with a different body, I might have hurt myself. I sucked it up and did everything as he instructed; it was like the old days. My meals consisted of salads and fruits at first—nothing else. I craved everything that was bad for me. And unlike the old days, I now knew what ice cream and other desserts tasted like. For the first few weeks, I had to stay at Bela and Marta’s home so that they could keep me under strict supervision. If they hadn’t, I would have sneaked food.
Letters to a Young Gymnast Page 6
