I can say that Nicu and I were acquaintances and that he seemed to be a nice guy. It has been written that he was a wild drinker and a womanizer. I don’t know if any of that was true. What I heard is that he helped a lot of people. Many mysteries surround him, but it is not my place to judge. People gossip; they are interested only in the bad things, the mistakes others make. It is human nature to try to knock down anyone the public perceives as having climbed too high. Nicu was born to an elevated position. He was Nicolae’s son, and for that, he paid a very high price, especially toward the end of his life.
I have never talked in detail about Nicu because there isn’t much to say. I’m not interested in the speculations about our so-called relationship, and I hope that you will respect that. People speculated about us because we were seen at some of the same receptions and parties, but there were always ten or twenty other people there, too, and we were never alone. So, let me make this very clear—Nicu and I were never boyfriend and girlfriend.
During those early years in Bucharest, I didn’t date anyone very seriously, though the media had me engaged to an assortment of men. I’d go out and have a good time, but when I realized a relationship wasn’t going to go that far, I’d stop it right there. I could always tell when something wasn’t going to work. Prospective boyfriends would ask what had happened, what they’d done wrong . . . and I couldn’t tell them exactly. It was just a feeling that things weren’t going to work and that we should move on. With my husband, Bart, things were different. People say that in your life, you have one big love. Bart Conner is mine. My destiny was to be with him, but it took defecting and a lot of hard knocks before we ever truly met.
But back to my first coaching job. I did choreography for a folk-dance troupe. After years of learning the intricate choreography and dance steps for my floor routines, I was well qualified for the job. I made a little bit of money, and for the first time in my life, I felt like an adult. Occasionally, I’d have neighbors over for some drinks. We Romanians like to party. We like life, and we live life. We never think ten days from a given moment because we know the world is so uncertain. In those days, if there was food on the table and something to drink, we were happy. In a Communist system, you never know what tomorrow will bring. Things can change overnight. You have to take your fun when you can.
In 1981, I received a telephone call from the Gymnastics Federation, telling me that a group of Romanian gymnasts was going to the United States to do an exhibition tour. The government wanted to raise $250,000 from the eleven-city show. They offered me $1,000 to join the group. For me, that was a lot of money (I made about $3 a day at my job), and I needed it, so I agreed to go. Since the government sponsored my job, there was no difficulty getting time off for the trip. And the government was going to make money on me, so the officials were naturally very supportive of my decision.
Bela and Marta, I was told, would be leading the tour. Whatever trouble Bela had been in after the 1980 Olympics, it seemed he was out of it by then. The director of the Gymnastics Federation would also be on the tour as head of the delegation, along with several undercover policemen (introduced to everyone as journalists), sent to make certain that nothing went wrong. The director was going to be in charge of our schedules, hotels, transportation, and even our passports. I would be allowed to govern my own time a bit . . . mostly because the tour was called “Nadia ’81.” Without me, it wouldn’t have happened.
I remember the best part of the trip was that we got to ride a bus with a group of American gymnasts. None of the Romanians could speak English very well, but we had a great time with the cute, blond guys. We listened to their music and tried to communicate, even though we didn’t speak the same language. I spoke a lot to Kurt Thomas but remember thinking that another gymnast, Bart Conner, was cute. He bounced around the bus talking to everyone—he was incredibly friendly and fun.
I was not that unhappy in Romania when I went on the tour—my hardships were no more or less than anyone else’s in my country. It never crossed my mind that I would ever live anywhere else in the world. Defection was not in my thoughts. I finally had a job and the adult life I’d craved for so long. Yes, I was poor, but I was getting used to it by then. Everyone was poor; everyone struggled. And I loved my country. I still do. When I went on the exhibition tour, I didn’t know how unhappy Bela and Marta were (their school in Deva had lost most of its government support). But I will get to that later. Suffice it to say that I probably had more fun on that tour than I had during any other . . . until the end.
Bela recalls that he was forced to accompany the team on its tour, despite the fact that he was no longer the national team coach. He did not want to go because he was disgusted with the government and its treatment of him after the Olympics, but the director gave him no choice. He was also forbidden to speak to any foreign media. After his comments to the ABC reporter, the government was not taking any chances with him. Bela felt like the entire tour was a humiliation.
Throughout the tour, I reported to the director when I wanted to do anything or go anywhere. He was fairly lenient with me, but I was always accompanied on my outings by one of our “journalists.” Still, I was allowed out to discos with the guys, as long as I didn’t do anything dangerous (the director believed someone might want to kidnap me). I was given a long leash. At the time, I didn’t realize that a long leash was still a leash or that it might tighten until I felt strangled.
What happened next is a blur. I can only tell you what I myself know for certain, which is that there was a big fight between Bela and the director. The outcome was that Bela, Marta, and Geza Pozsar, our choreographer, believed they had no choice but to defect from Romania because they feared for their lives and their families’ safety. In a single night, the course of their lives changed forever.
My friend, you asked me about courage and the Olympics, and I have told you about the Karolyis’ decision because it puts your question into perspective. To decide the course of your life and that of your family in one night, with no assurance of success, is unfathomable. Nine years later, I would know more about true courage when I, too, decided to defect. But I sometimes wonder, to this day, if courage is just another word for desperation.
■ The Scream
A great floor exercise is composed of five ingredients. First, the gymnast must have secure landings on all of the tumbling skills. Second, she needs good height on her skills, both for high scores and for safety. Third, she has to have endurance because if she runs out of gas before her last tumbling run, she’s in big trouble. Fourth, the gymnast must have great conditioning so that she can avoid injuries. And fifth, she must be able to sell her routine to the judges and audience by presenting her choreography well.
I was walking along the road with two friends.
The sun was setting.
I felt a breath of melancholy—
Suddenly the sky turned blood-red.
I stopped, and leaned against the railing, deathly tired—
Looking out across the flaming clouds that hung like blood and a sword
Over the blue-black fjord and town.
My friends walked on—I stood there, trembling with fear.
And I sensed a great, infinite scream pass through nature.
—Entry in Edvard Munch’s diary, 1892
Friend, have you ever seen Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream? A man stands on a road lined by a diagonal railing. His mouth is open, gaping; his hands are raised to his head; his eyes stretch wide and appear tormented and haunted. In the background are two men in top hats, and behind them is the landscape of Oslo—hills and valleys. I have read that in The Scream, Munch was trying to portray a state of mind. Can you imagine being caught in a person’s scream? Can you comprehend a moment of such total horror, insanity, and dread? I can.
The first time I saw that painting, I knew it. Really knew it. The man is a prisoner, and he will never escape the cell Munch painted him in; he will never be free. I imagine that
is how Bela, Marta, and Geza felt when they realized that they were trapped by a lie, when they accepted that they had no choice but to defect from their country. Perhaps they, too, screamed, but the sound came from deep inside their souls, and they couldn’t let it out for fear that they would be caught and taken back to Romania in handcuffs.
From your last letter, I don’t think you understand what it means to be without your country. You have written that you’ve traveled a bit in Europe, but English is a common language in most countries. The Romanian language is not. Plus, you have always had a return ticket to your home, have you not? You have left your city, family, neighbors, and way of life but known all the while that in two weeks time, you’d return, pick up your mail, go to the grocery store, and dine with friends. You have a U.S. passport and can travel anywhere in the world, regardless of your country’s affiliations or status or whether your government approves. And you can always return.
When the Karolyis and Geza decided to defect, they knew that they could never go back to their homeland. They left behind their families and friends, their homes, and all of their belongings. They left with the tiny suitcases they’d brought on our exhibition tour and the clothes on their backs. No pictures; no mementos of Romania; no command of the English language; no dear friends in the United States; no certainty that they wouldn’t be denied permission to stay and be sent back home to certain imprisonment for the crime of defection.
You’ve asked how I felt when I learned of Bela’s defection plans. You are right to assume that he told me about them but incorrect in the assumption that I was desperate to join him. In 1981, I couldn’t imagine facing the overwhelming challenges of defection. And I had no idea what was happening in the lives of my coaches and choreographer until the last night of the tour. But let me tell you how the situation played out.
Bela recalls saying good-bye to all of us during a morning meeting on our last day in Manhattan. The gymnasts were scheduled for several hours of shopping before returning to the hotel and taking a bus to the airport. He told the girls that they were great athletes and that they could maintain their careers by hard work and discipline, and he gave them all hugs. I don’t recall that morning. All I remember is that the night before Bela defected, I ran into him in the hallway of our hotel. It was late, and I was going to my room to pack. We were alone, and Bela said softly that he was thinking of not going back. I thought he was joking or that he might be checking to see if I was thinking of defection so that he could stop me. “Whatever,” I said with a smile and went to my room. I had been trained for so many years not to react to anything that what Bela said didn’t register as being even possibly for real.
The next morning was our last opportunity to shop in New York before returning home, and all of the gymnasts were excited. I ran into Bela before I set off, and he mentioned again that he was thinking of not going back. Once more, I ignored the idea and its implications. When I returned from the stores, I went to my room to finish packing. We had a team meeting at noon, and Bela, Marta, and Geza weren’t there. I assumed they were still shopping. I went to my room, and the telephone rang. It was a woman who said, “Bela asked me to call and see if you want to stay in the United States or return to Romania.” “I am going home,” I replied and hung up the phone.
I don’t think I really even considered the woman’s question. I had grown up in a Communist country, and I knew nothing else. My family lived in Romania—how could I ever think of leaving them? Sure, life was tough, but wasn’t it tough everywhere? Remember, I never saw enough of any of the places we traveled to to get the idea that “real” people didn’t struggle like we did. It was not worth throwing away what I knew for the unknown.
In the minutes following that phone call, the reality sank in. I sat down on my hotel room bed and felt a wave of cold travel from my toes to my head. My God, is this actually happening? Could it really be true? I went down to the front desk to ask for Bela’s room key. The clerk refused to give it to me, but I told him that I had left something in Bela’s room and needed to pack it in my suitcase before we left. I stressed how important it was to get into the room, and he finally gave me the key. It felt sharp and dangerous in my hand.
The walk to Bela’s room felt unbearably long. When I opened the door, the room was empty. The Karolyis were gone, and suddenly, I knew that it was completely true: They had defected. Friend, you think I was dense for not accepting Bela’s initial words, but in Romania at that time, a person couldn’t even trust her own shadow. I respected and loved Bela, but I lived according to the unspoken rule of my country: Trust no one completely. But Bela had trusted me. I was the only person he told about his decision to defect. If I had been older and wiser, I would have understood, and I would have trusted him, too.
By 3:00 P.M. when the gymnasts boarded the bus, it became clear to everyone that the Karolyis and Geza had disappeared. The director told us that their passports were missing; he was in charge of everyone’s, so somehow Bela must have stolen them from his room. On the plane, he told me that the defection was not that important because “the Queen” was still with him and was going home. By “the queen,” he meant me. The director said that if I hadn’t returned with him, he would have been decapitated.
I cried a little on the plane ride, mostly because I wondered what would happen to all of the young gymnasts in Deva. I was grown up, but they were still little girls and depended on the Karolyis and Geza. I cried a bit for myself, too. Bela and Marta had been parental figures in my life, and I would miss them. Still, I never worried about them because it wasn’t as if they’d been kidnapped. They’d decided to defect, and as a result of all of the disagreements Bela had had with the Gymnastics Federation and high-ranking government officials, he was probably better off. His opportunities in Romania had faded, and he was losing ground. It was time for a new life and a second chance.
It was a quiet journey home. You could almost hear all of the officials thinking about what they were going to tell their superiors concerning the defections. No doubt, they would all be reprimanded and possibly demoted. Ceausescu would be furious because having well-known people defect made Romania look bad. During the long flight, most of the officials put pen to paper and tried to figure out what they were going to report. I was glad that I was not in their position.
My life drastically changed after the Karolyis defected. I was no longer allowed to travel outside Romania. I wasn’t even allowed to go to Moscow. Whenever the Gymnastics Federation put me on a list to travel for some kind of exhibition tour, the list came back with my name crossed out. Every single time, I was cut from the list. Perhaps the government thought that because Bela defected, I eventually would as well. But I’d had my chance in New York, and I hadn’t taken it. I wouldn’t leave my brother, who depended on me. I couldn’t leave my mother and father or my country.
Being treated like a traitor was extremely upsetting, and I couldn’t find any answers as to why I was in that position. Nobody was willing to ask any high-ranking officials why my wings had been clipped: If you asked questions, you might get fired. I called the director and asked why someone in the government didn’t want me to travel. But the director knew only that someone very high up had ordered that nobody should “bother” to put my name on any invitations because I was not allowed to travel anymore. Everyone was told that I was “busy, busy, busy.” I wasn’t.
Life, my friend, took on a new bleakness. I was cut off from making the small amount of extra money that had really made the difference in my family’s life. It was also insulting that a normal person in Romania had the chance to travel whereas I could not. I kept wondering, why me? Some people were laughing in my face—“Look at you, the big deal Nadia Comaneci, and you can’t even make a trip to London.”
When my gymnastics career was over, there was no longer any need to keep me happy. I was to do as I was instructed, just as I’d done my entire life. I was expected to keep sacrificing. After everything that had gone before,
it was humiliating. If Bela hadn’t defected, I would still have been watched, but his defection brought a spotlight on my life, and it was blinding. I started to feel like a prisoner. In reality, I had always been one. If a country does not allow freedom, even if the chains are invisible, you are still a prisoner. Inside, I started to scream, but the sound was soft and I could still ignore it.
Several years passed, with each day, week, and month much like the last, and I graduated with my sports diploma and was given a new job within the Gymnastics Federation. It was my responsibility to go to different clubs in Bucharest, Deva, and other cities and to see what the gymnasts were doing. Then I’d bring back a report about the coaching and training facilities. I had a great relationship with everyone and enjoyed the job, but it was nothing special. I was like any other person who gets a salary. The government still took a percentage out of my paycheck each month for my mortgage. I never thought about asking for a raise because the officials would have thought I’d lost my mind.
In 1984, I was still making about the same amount I’d made while I was at the university. The government was not obligated to pay me more than I’d made in my previous job. The only way I was going to increase my salary was to be named to a very high position, maybe as president of the Gymnastics Federation. But that wasn’t going to happen because someone directly under Ceausescu would have to appoint me to the position, and that person was probably the very person who had dictated that I could no longer travel.
To add insult to injury, when I reached my twenty-fifth birthday, the government started taking a large portion of money out of my salary each month because I didn’t have any children—something they did to all women that age without offspring. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? But it is true. You have asked to know more about Ceausescu and his arbitrary laws, and I am pleased that you inquired. To understand our former president is to comprehend why Romania became a ravaged country.
Letters to a Young Gymnast Page 10
