Letters to a Young Gymnast

by Nadia Comaneci

  On my last visit to the house by the border, I failed to go back through the police gate. Instead, I ran forward into darkness.

  ■ Defection

  My beam routine at the 1976 Olympics: I started by facing the side of the beam, then jumped to a straddle L position and pressed to a handstand and a one-quarter pirouette step down to stand on the beam. Next, an artistic step-step to gainer back handspring to three-quarter turn. Two steps to the end of the beam to an aerial front walkover, side-kick, and turn. Side aerial car twheel to immediate back handspring, then choreography. From a seated position, back walkover through handstand to standing position (called a “Valdez”). Split leap from end of beam, back walkover to two back handsprings. Choreography and poses to two steps into a cartwheel to immediate back flip with a double twist dismount.

  In your last letter, young friend, you treated my decision to defect with respect. Yet I am troubled by the feeling that you lack a full understanding of what exactly it meant. Have you truly grasped how dangerous it was to think outside of the government’s rules and laws? How insane it was to even try to defect? How far Ceausescu could reach?

  All of the what-ifs barreled through my head like a train. What if my parents were hurt because of my decision to defect? What if my brother, despite our best efforts, still lost my house and had to live on the street? What if my family members were imprisoned by the secret police, interrogated, tortured? It’s the what-ifs that wear you down and make you afraid to move. Romania’s government officials counted on that. Their ability to spread fear and paralyze the people of our country is now well documented.

  So, what gave me the courage to slip out of that house on the border and into the night? Everything I’d done, heard, spoken, experienced, yearned for, suffered through, desired, required, hoped, and dreamed. Everything blotted out the nothingness of my existence. I prayed my parents would be well, for I’d left them out of my scheme, and that my brother would remain untouched. I prayed that I would be able to move one foot in front of the other when I watched my six companions become shadows with pale, anxious faces and labored breath.

  There was no way, of course, that my disappearance would go unnoticed. I had a government job and was expected to be at work every day. I’d been at work every day for eight years. If I didn’t show up or call in sick, the alarm would sound because countless people would notice my absence. Time would be of the essence, and so, before my final visit to the house near the border, I had a farewell dinner at a restaurant in a nearby village with my brother and sister-in-law. We knew that the meal needed to be a public one and appear like any other so that no one watching us would be suspicious.

  It was unbearably sad and difficult to pretend to enjoy a meal with my loved ones when I knew that, a few hours later, I might die. There was such concern and worry in Adrian’s eyes that night. He knew only that our group was going to try to cross the border into Hungary but not exactly when or how or what would happen to his big sister if I was blessed enough to be successful. When dinner was finished, I stood up and walked away from my brother and his wife without looking back. I sincerely believed it was the last time I would ever see them in my life. But if I had looked back, I don’t think I would have had the courage to go ahead with my plans. Regardless, I actually felt a piece of my heart breaking.

  There was no plan. Constantin told our group that night that we were to follow the man who’d previously defected three times, through six hours of icy terrain, half-frozen lakes, and dense woods and across the Hungarian border. It was November, and the temperature was below zero, so we would have to move quickly to keep from getting hypothermia. Constantin would wait for us across the border in a car. We would try to sleep through the night somewhere and then decide individually if we wanted to present ourselves at the Hungarian embassy and ask for asylum.

  The man who had attempted defection gave our group some last-minute advice before we stepped out of the house into the night and began our run for the border. “No flashlights,” he instructed, “there are guards everywhere, and the light will give us away. If you hear a noise behind you, don’t run. If it’s a guard, he’ll shoot you for running. If we get caught, don’t run. Guards will also shoot you if you try to get away. Try to move silently, and don’t talk.”

  When we stepped out into the night, we each put our hands on the shoulders of the person in front of us because once we moved away from the house, it was impossible to see. If I hadn’t been touching the person in front of me, I would have gotten separated from the group and been lost. I remember that the ground beneath my feet was icy and that I slipped again and again. Time moved so slowly that it seemed to stop. There was only the cold, the trudging and running when possible, and always the straining of my ears to hear a guard’s call, the crunch of his boots, the click of his gun being readied.

  I tried to think about anything but a bullet in my back. We reached a frozen lake that didn’t appear too solid. It wasn’t, but the water seemed shallow, and there was nowhere else to cross. As soon as we all put our weight on the ice, it cracked and we fell into knee-deep water. It was cold as hell. Please, God, I thought, just let me make it to the other side without the bottom of the lake getting deeper and the water going over my head. I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes submerged in that freezing lake. It took a long time to get across the water, but the pain of cold blocked out everything else. We were numb.

  Many times during the next six hours, I was overwhelmed by the gravity of what I was doing. I couldn’t believe I’d actually made the decision to defect, that I was risking my life, that I’d never see my parents or brother again. But I never thought of turning back. Where was I going to go? Back to my house, where I could barely afford the heat? Back to a dead-end job and being treated as if I had never done anything to bring my country glory? Back to no future? Wasn’t that the same as being dead?

  There were many times when I didn’t trust the man leading us. He said if we didn’t “keep to the left,” we’d end up back in Romania. Keep to the left . . . what kind of direction was that? I wanted to see a compass or a map or something. But there was nothing to do in the dark except follow the guy and hope he knew where he was going. He told us that when we crossed 5 meters of very dark dirt, we were at the border. But we crossed a lot of dirt, and still there was no border. This is so stupid, I actually remember thinking. I’m going to get killed and all because I’m following a man with no sense of direction. I didn’t say anything, though, because no one could break the silence and speak. I just concentrated on keeping my teeth from chattering.

  There are many places along borders that are not lined with barbed-wire fences and have no guards. A country simply cannot control every square inch of its borders. We were supposed to cross into Hungary at one of those spots. Then our leader would guide us to a street where Constantin would be waiting in his car. But we never found the exact place where we were supposed to cross the border. We didn’t find the street, let alone Constantin. We didn’t even know we’d crossed into Hungary until we saw a small plaque that bore a long name with a lot of z’s and s’s. Clearly, not a Romanian name.

  Our bedraggled group walked and walked and walked . . . right into two guards. Constantin had told us that, once in Hungary, if we encountered the police we were to say a single word that he’d taught us—hello, in Hungarian. The thing is, the guards went beyond hello and started asking questions, and we all looked at them like idiots. Plus, it was pretty suspicious to see a group of seven people walking down a deserted road at 2:00 A.M. Where the hell were we supposed to be going? The guards told us to go with them. They put us in a car and took us to the Hungarian police department. The car ride was silent. Not because we weren’t allowed to talk but because every one of us was absolutely terrified.

  Each of the potential defectors was interviewed separately. When the police saw my identification papers, they immediately offered to let me stay in Hungary. I was a famous gymnast and thus a hot catch in their
minds. I think back on it now and wonder why I was so valuable to them. My career was over, and though I am considered a very good coach, what else could I really bring to Hungary? Two others in our group were also offered asylum. The rest were told that they’d be returned to Romania the following day. They began to cry.

  “Look,” I told the police, “I will only stay if the whole group is allowed to remain in your country.” The words were out of my mouth before I even considered what might happen. Gymnastics had taught me to be a team player, and in this case, my team was made up of my fellow defectors. I just thought that the situation wasn’t fair. We’d all taken the same risks and crossed the border, and we should all have been allowed to stay. “We came together, we’ll stay together,” I declared. To my complete surprise, the police agreed. Not only that, they offered us hotel accommodations for a week, until we got on our feet, and vouchers for food and help in finding jobs. I knew that we were not going to stay in Hungary, but we accepted the government’s kindness because we were cold and hungry and desperately needed to sleep.

  Meanwhile, Constantin, having realized that his plan had gone awry, found us just before we left the police station and told the police he’d take our group to the hotel. Instead, however, he chose a different one. He knew that the media and the police would soon find us, and he wanted to give us a little extra time to think before we made our next move. You see, my friend, Hungary was not our final destination. It was too close to Romania. We all planned to attempt to cross the Austrian border and seek asylum there.

  We spent a sleepless night crammed together in one room. The next morning, I saw my picture on the front of a newspaper but couldn’t read what the article said about me. I didn’t need to read it, though. It was enough to know that I was already “missing” in Romania. Keep moving, I told myself, if you don’t want the politics of defection to catch up and possibly result in the Hungarians handing you back to Romania. Later that morning, the group divided into two cars. Constantin drove one car, and his friend drove the other. We were going to try and cross the border into Austria.

  It was a six-hour drive to the Austrian border. No one was following us or watching either car. We were one step ahead of the Hungarians and Romanians. At the border, the Austrians stopped cars randomly to check for identification papers. Constantin decided to leave us at a café while he drove through to see whether he would be stopped. When he returned, he told us that he had, in fact, been stopped and that it was too dangerous to try to drive across the border with us. We would have to cross at another spot . . . at night.

  What can I say of that moment? You just go on. The idea of another night crossing wasn’t high on my list, but what else could I do? Constantin once again said he’d be waiting just on the other side of the border. I had to trust that he would be there because there were no alternatives. In gymnastics, I could kind of control my destiny—if I did well, I’d be rewarded with the esteem of my country. But life is another story, and the process of dehumanization in Romania and the perils and uncertainties of defection showed me just how little control I had over the circumstances of my life.

  Constantin told us where to cross the border. We waited for darkness to settle and then began to walk. I was more frightened than the first time, probably because I was closer to my goals and because to have them snatched away at this point would have been more devastating than getting caught in Romania. Stay in control, I told myself. Focus on your breathing and being silent and not getting lost. Focus on staying alive. There were seven barbed-wire fences to climb, and though I don’t remember feeling their bite, my body was covered by cuts from the sharp metal. I’m incredibly coordinated, but there’s no way to avoid getting cut by barbed wire. Most of the group was covered with blood. It took about two hours to get over all of those fences. I was exhausted when we saw the road where Constantin was supposed to pick us up. He’d instructed us to stay hidden on the side of the asphalt because there might be police cars passing by. Constantin said that he planned to break one of the headlights on each car so we’d know when to come out of hiding.

  We lay on our bellies, hidden by weeds, and watched each car pass by, straining to see one with a broken headlight. When we saw two in a row with only one headlight each, we leaped to our feet and piled into the cars. That night, all of us slept on the floor of a single hotel room. The atmosphere couldn’t have been more different from that in the hotel in Hungary. We were celebrating. There was an air of relief and sheer joy in that room.

  Once in Austria, everyone except for me was on his or her own. Most of the group went to a homeless shelter for refugees. They were given a place to live and sleep until someone came and offered them jobs. Once they were given work and had sponsors, they could apply to the government for citizenship. I was thankful that I wasn’t on my own in a foreign country where I couldn’t speak the language. Constantin stayed with me and took me to the American embassy. He knew that I wanted to go to the United States, and he seemed very willing to help me get there.

  It bothered me in your last letter that you just wanted me to tell you “the dirt” on Constantin. You’ve heard all the rumors, and maybe you believe that he controlled me, kept me a prisoner when I came to America, tried to make money off my defection. I will get to all of that and to what truth there is to the rumors. Remember that no one is purely good or evil; we all have a little bit of the angel and the devil in us. For now, let me tell you how things unfolded.

  Constantin took me to the American embassy in Austria because I wanted to ask for political asylum. I remember walking through the doors and telling the first person I met that I was Nadia Comaneci and I wanted asylum. It created quite a spectacle and a flurry of activity. I felt like every paper had been dropped at the mention of my name. People in the embassy stared at me as if I were a ghost. An official told me that the people in the embassy had heard I’d defected but that no one knew where to find me. If I’d had the ability to communicate better, I would have told him that over the last few days, I didn’t even know where I was myself.

  “What do you want to do?” the official asked me.

  “I want to go to America,” I replied.

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “There’s a Pan Am flight leaving in two hours, you’re on it,” he said with a smile. I was considered a “person of special ability,” which is a category for scientists, artists, and others who can contribute to American society; such people are fast-tracked through the system. Strange how hard defection had been until that moment, and then suddenly, the pieces slid into place. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Everything was going to be easy now, a veritable piece of cake. I’d fly to the United States and get a great job and make tons of money. The public would admire me for my past accomplishments, and I’d be rewarded in terms of my shining future goals. But if you believe that is how it happened, I have a bridge in Romania to sell you.

  The embassy completed the necessary paperwork and then put me in a police car with an escort. The Pan Am personnel were extremely generous and seated me in first class on their flight. First class! I wouldn’t have cared if they’d put me in the cargo hold. I was finally free, and I was on a flight to the United States of America. The fact that I was fed a lovely meal and given wine and champagne was just icing on a cake that was already iced.

  I thought a lot about my brother during that flight. I wished that I could call him and tell him that I was safe. The Romanian government was probably saying that I was dead, with a bullet in my head. There was no way for me to contact him and tell him the truth. I also wondered, with the same lingering anxiety, what was going to happen when we landed in the United States. Constantin told me that I was going to live with his wife and children for a bit. I never questioned him.

  Please don’t be like everyone else was, my friend: Don’t tell me what I should have said to Constantin on the plane or what I should have done when I arrived in America. I’d spent my entir
e life being an object. When I was young, my coaches instructed me about how to train and live. The Gymnastics Federation decided if I was to compete or withdraw from competitions and exhibitions. The government moved me from place to place. I do not remember one moment when I lived as an entirely free person, when what I thought actually mattered, when I was given a voice. As an elite gymnast, every word I said to the Western media was scripted. Big brother watched and followed and listened. I had learned to live with secrets and mistrust and to keep my mouth shut.

  I once read about a psychology experiment in which a dog is put in a cage with a bottom that can be triggered to electrically shock him. If the shock consistently comes from the left side, the dog learns to live on the right side. The reverse is true if the shock comes from the right side. But if the shock is inconsistent, coming from left or right randomly, the dog will eventually go crazy. I left Romania because I was going crazy. To learn that not everyone is as inconsistent as my government or the world of gymnastics or Ceausescu did not come easily to me when I arrived in America. I needed time to adjust.

  Is it so unlikely that I would have done just as Constantin instructed on the plane, which was to trust him and follow his advice? Back then, I believed that if I listened to the instructions of the man in charge, I would have a better chance of survival. I also sincerely believed that the Romanian government would send someone to try to kill me. The officials would not let “their Nadia” defect because it would be an embarrassment to the country and a personal insult to Ceausescu. If I got hit by a car or fell off a tall building once I was in America, no one would question my death. I was sure that was how the secret police would do it.