When my plane landed in New York, people waiting for my arrival had packed a conference room at John F. Kennedy Airport. Following a ten-hour flight, I was rushed through customs and straight into a news conference. With Constantin at my side, I told reporters in my best English (which wasn’t very good) that I knew life would be different in the United States but that “I was nine times in the States, I know the life here.” Looking back, that statement wasn’t just grammatically incorrect, it was horribly green. When asked how the Romanian government might feel about my defection, I said, “It’s not my business.”
Those statements were the beginning of my downfall in the eyes of many Americans. They thought I appeared cold and wooden. But consider that I’d just defected from my home and left behind everyone I loved. I’d trudged through freezing water and across icy fields and climbed over barbed-wire fences, all the while expecting to be shot. I’d prayed for asylum in Hungary and again in Austria, then I’d sat on a flight for ten hours next to a man I barely knew, contemplating a life that once again was out of my control. After all of that, I stepped into a room packed with journalists shouting questions and flashing cameras. Suffice it to say that I was shell-shocked.
You’ve asked if I knew that Constantin had a wife and four children at the time of that first news conference. I knew he was married, but the details didn’t concern me, and that’s what I told the media when they asked. My exact words were, “So what?” Constantin had offered to help me defect, and I’d accepted. I assumed that his wife knew that he was going help a handful of Romanians get out of the country and that I was one of them. But what people took from my two-word answer was that I was a home-wrecker. Nothing could have been further from the truth. In hindsight, I understand that I’d made a very poor choice of words.
Constantin had plans to become my personal manager upon our arrival in the United States. I didn’t know that, but he’d promised to help me get settled, and I guess I just accepted his involvement in my future career as fair payment for the risks he’d taken. People died every day trying to defect. They drowned attempting to swim the Danube, got bullets in their backs for trying to cross the border, or risked suffocation in containers buried in the holds of ships bound for America. Some people believe Constantin kept me in a virtual prison, but I look at the situation a different way because he helped me come to the United States.
Friend, I will not apologize for my actions when I arrived in America. There are all sorts of excuses. I was in my late twenties, and I should have known better than to trust someone I didn’t know. I wish I could take back the way I spoke, acted, and dressed. Of course, you remember all of the bad things—the harsh, overdone makeup; the fishnet stockings; and the short, tight skirts. I thought that was how I was supposed to look. The funny thing is, I thought I looked good. Don’t you ever look back on pictures of yourself and wince?
Old friends in the United States—Bela Karolyi and Bart Conner—strained to learn news of my plans. They tried to contact me by telephone, but Constantin did not relay their messages. One day, Bart read in a newspaper article that I was scheduled to be on Pat Sajak’s show. He recalls wondering both why I was going to do a mediocre talk show and why it was still impossible for any friends to contact me. Bart had worked as an announcer for NBC at the last Olympics, and he had a friend, Michael Weisman, who had been the executive producer of NBC Sports. Michael had moved on to be the head of late-night programming for CBS, which is the network that ran the Sajak show. Bart called Michael and asked about my scheduled appearance. I was set to appear that very night. They chatted about my defection and the fact that none of my old friends had been able to contact or see me.
“It would be great to have you on the show, too. Can you be in LA by 5:00 P.M.?” Michael asked. “We’ll put you on the air.”
“I don’t know,” Bart replied. “I’m in Oklahoma, but I’ll check the flights and call you back.”
Bart found a flight, grabbed a bag of clothes, and raced to the airport. He went for two reasons. First, he wanted to see if I needed any help. The press had been harsh about Constantin and me, and many old acquaintances thought something fishy was going on. Second, Bart knew that I might need work, and he had an established business in Oklahoma that could possibly support me. There was nothing romantic about his motivation. It was based on his desire to help a young woman he’d met once who was an icon in our shared sport.
■ Doing Time
The most difficult skills to learn on the beam are aerials. They are front and back flips without hands, and they’re the toughest because a gymnast loses sight of the beam when flipping, so essentially she’s working blind. But gymnasts develop an “air sense” on all of the apparatus pieces, especially the beam. Aerials become automatic because they’re practiced thousands of times. An imaginary beam is created in a gymnast’s mind, so even when she can’t see it, she knows it’s there. I always knew when I was crooked going into an aerial on the beam. Just like all elite gymnasts, I’d make tiny corrections while in the air. Those split-second judgments made the difference between falling off the beam and hurting myself or completing a successful skill that allowed me to win competitions.
When I found myself in Los Angeles on Pat Sajak’s show, it was at one of my lowest moments. Today, I refuse to watch reruns of that interview because I hate the way I looked. People in Europe at the time dressed in short skirts and tiny tops, so that’s what I was wearing. I wish I’d had somebody to teach me how to dress when I got to America. Constantin took me shopping because all I owned were a pair of jeans and the shirt on my back, but I only bought what I was used to wearing, which was a mistake. For that show, I wore a short, tight skirt and a big jacket. My makeup was way too thick, with too much blue eye shadow. Later, I learned that once you prove yourself and people like you, then you can essentially wear whatever you like in America. Until then, there are rules, and you must first gain credibility and respect before you break them.
I remember that I felt very trapped during that show. My English wasn’t great, and I was afraid people wouldn’t be able to understand me. Some say I came across as edgy and confrontational . . . I was really just scared. No one knew how it felt to be in my skin, and I was unable to communicate my unhappiness. I had no friends, and I felt lonely and terribly empty. Time, I reminded myself, will take care of everything, though I was finding that increasingly difficult to believe.
A few minutes before Bart Conner landed at the Los Angeles airport to surprise me on the Sajak show, he changed into nice clothes in the airplane bathroom, something you have to be a gymnast to be able to do. He was whisked by a CBS escort into a helicopter and flown to the studio, where the show was already in progress. The helicopter landed at CBS Television City. Bart ran through the back door, then someone slapped some powder on his face and handed him two dozen roses. “Welcome Nadia to America,” he was told as they pushed him onto the stage where I sat talking to Pat Sajak.
“Nadia, you have an old friend here that wants to welcome you to the United States,” Sajak said as Bart walked onto the set and handed me roses. I was speechless. “Nadia, you guys have been friends a long time, right? When was the first time you met?” I told him it was in 1981 at the same time that Bart said it was in 1976. “Which is it?” Pat asked, laughing. “This is live TV, how close can you two be if you don’t even known when you met? You’re off by five years!”
Friend, I honestly remembered meeting Bart on the exhibition tour we did in 1981, but on live television, he reminded me about the American Cup in 1976 at Madison Square Garden. Bart had turned eighteen on the day of the competition, and the crowd sang “Happy Birthday” to him. Both Bart and I won the competition and received silver cups that we were asked to pose with for the obligatory photo opportunity. A photographer then said, “Nadia’s so cute, why don’t you give her a kiss, Bart?” So Bart leaned over and gave me a little kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t a romantic moment; he was eighteen and I was fourteen years old.
But when Bart reminded me of that moment, I suddenly recalled it. “Oh, I do remember a little blond guy,” I said. Grinning, Bart replied, “That was me!” He explained to Pat Sajak that he, along with everyone else, was captivated with me in 1976. I was doing tricks that boys couldn’t even do, and there was a lot of admiration for my athleticism. The whole world, Bart recalled, thought “isn’t Nadia precious?” I remember thinking that I’d traveled too far from the place Bart recalled. I did not feel precious in the slightest.
At the end of the Sajak show, Bart gave me his telephone number. He had a place in Venice Beach and told me he’d be around all weekend if I wanted to grab some coffee or get lunch. I was shy and suspicious of him, but I also sensed that he was being open and honest. For a second, I was tempted to ask for help . . . I needed to move on and find a better life for myself. Bart told me later that he tried to call me after the show, but Constantin never let me know of his calls.
Meanwhile, a Romanian friend named Alexandru and his wife (they had lived in Canada for many years) invited me to Montreal to revisit my memories of the 1976 Olympics. Constantin and I decided to make the trip. We stayed with a friend of Alexandru’s who owned a large home in the city. When he finally had an opportunity to get me alone, Alexandru asked what was next for me. I told him that I was thinking about staying in Montreal but hadn’t yet mentioned the idea to Constantin because he’d already booked us on a flight back to Los Angeles. The next day, Alexandru sent me to meet with the director of the Olympic stadium, who told me that I could do some exhibitions and appearances for him. It wouldn’t be much money, but it would be a start.
I understand your curiosity, my friend, and wish I knew exactly what happened next. All I know is that when I woke up the next morning and went downstairs, Alexandru told me that Constantin was gone. I never heard from him again, but I hope he is well and thank him for his help. I realize that our business relationship may have tarnished my name and image, but I safely escaped from Romania, and that is truly what was most important. There wasn’t too much time to try to figure out why Constantin had left because very soon after his departure, CNN contacted me, and I was overwhelmed by excitement. A reporter at the network had heard about the forced separation from my family and figured out a way to allow me a two-minute conversation with my mother and brother! After months, I would finally be able to tell them that I was safe and to make sure that they were, too.
Unfortunately, the opportunity to talk to me actually began as an incredibly frightening experience for my family. Someone who didn’t speak Romanian tracked them down and told them that they were going to be given a chance to speak with me. My mother thought that the CNN people were from the secret police (the Securitate had not been completely wiped out in Romania at the time). Since she didn’t speak English and my brother had only a passing knowledge of the language, they didn’t know what CNN was, and unfortunately, the correspondents couldn’t explain.
Believing they had no choice, my mother and brother went along with the men to a hotel room. They were given snacks and champagne. My mother was certain that they were going to be killed and that this was to be their last meal before death. When she and my brother were taken to the roof of the hotel, they felt certain they were going to be pushed over the edge. But the CNN crews just needed to broadcast where signals could reach their satellite.
When I got on the phone, I could see my family but they couldn’t see me. My mother was shaking, and when she heard my voice, she cried that she’d thought I was dead because the police had told her they’d shot me. “I’m not dead, I’m fine. I can’t wait to see you!” I cried. The connection was too brief to go into details. The revolution that erupted in Romania in 1989 had left the country in chaos, and I didn’t know when I’d actually get to see my family again. But at least they knew I was alive, and I knew that they were safe.
Alexandru and his wife invited me to move into their home. They had two little apartments, one on the bottom of the house for them and another on the top for Alexandru’s mother. They moved his mother into their apartment and gave me my own place. I was awed by their generosity. They did not have a lot of money, but Alexandru gave me a credit card and told me that I should use it to buy food and new clothes. His wife and I became close friends, and she made me feel like I had finally come home.
Instead of dreaming about the United States, I began to dream of Canada. I lived with people who liked me and who didn’t want anything from me. I made a few friends at the corner grocery store because I bought many lottery tickets there: If I didn’t play, I couldn’t win, after all. I spoke the French I had learned in school and could communicate with everyone. I even met Celine Dion, who was a big star in Canada at the time. She introduced me to the audience at her show as one of her heroes when she was eight years old. As I stood on stage with her, I thought to myself that if I worked really hard, I just might get to be a somebody in my new homeland.
At the time, life was so good, but frankly, I couldn’t sit with my butt in two chairs. I couldn’t keep my refugee status in America and live in Canada. The United States had granted me political asylum, and I felt I owed it a lot for that, but the idea of moving yet again to a place where I knew no one was too daunting. My biggest goal was to earn some income so that I could take care of my family, and I thought I could do that best in Montreal. So, I gave up my refugee status and became a resident of Canada. It would only have been a matter of time anyway before my political asylum status was revoked. After the 1989 revolution, Romania was no longer a Communist country, so theoretically, I had nothing to flee from anymore.
I wasn’t sure how to take the next step to find a career. Alexandru was a fitness instructor, and he suggested that I think about doing some kind of traveling gymnastics show. No way, I said, my gymnastics career is over. How about we just start by working out? he encouraged. Believe it or not, it had been six years since I’d done anything athletic. I agreed to begin exercising and riding a bicycle but not to do gymnastics. All my life, gymnastics had been about achieving at least a perceived level of perfection. If I wasn’t an elite gymnast, then why do gymnastics? I didn’t understand that I could find joy in my sport without being the best in the world. Life had always been very black or white for me in Romania, and I needed to learn that there was a world of experiences in the gray areas that could be just as fulfilling.
In the spring of 1990, Bart Conner went to Montreal because ABC was interested in doing an in-depth piece about me. The network had years of footage of me as a gymnast and now wanted the whole story. The people at ABC also wanted Bart to help do research and conduct the interview with me. If possible, they suggested he try to get me to put together an exhibition performance. Friend, it’s impossible to tell you Bart’s exact impressions of me at the time. But since I have a little bit of influence over him (marriage will do that), I asked him to describe out first “in-depth” conversation and his thoughts at the time:I went to Montreal to interview Nadia and got the opportunity to spend a lot of time with her. . . . That’s when I started thinking there’s a really fascinating person behind all this. She was very uncomfortable at showing too much to people. I’m the kind of guy, I have like a thousand friends, and she only wants three. I found Nadia totally captivating. It’s very interesting because we were so different and still are. But I found her to be very mysterious and interesting based on the fact that I had this tremendous admiration for what she did, and I know how hard it is to do what she did because I was a pretty good gymnast but I didn’t revolutionize my sport. I won some medals because I worked hard, but I can’t imagine the level Nadia attained.
At the time, all of Nadia’s gymnastics friends and acquaintances hoped that she was okay and wanted to do anything for her because she was such a symbol of our sport. It hurt us personally that one of us, a member of true gymnastic royalty, might not be okay. I did a long, in-depth interview with Nadia that ran on ABC, and we kept communicating after I left Montreal. Just phone calls her
e and there. I sensed that Nadia was looking for support, and I was more than happy to provide it. Only later did I realize that she was counting on my friendship.
You are right, friend, I found Bart “captivating,” too. But nothing romantic occurred between us at the time. I remember that during one of our telephone conversations, he asked me if I’d be interested in doing some exhibition tours with him. I told Bart that my gymnastics career was over. “If I’m not going to bring home medals,” I explained, “I might as well get an office job.” Bart tried to convince me that gymnastics could be about more than medals, glory, and perfection. Just come to Oklahoma and train with me, he suggested. He promised it would be fun. And it was. It felt good to get my body back into shape. I didn’t try to perform the routines I’d done when I was eighteen years old. There’s no way I could have regained the strength and conditioning I had back then, and at age twenty-eight, there was no way I wanted to try. Competitive gymnastics is for the young. But I learned that enjoying recreational gymnastics could be for everyone. Bart and I started to bond. Still, I had no plans to leave Montreal. Alexandru and his wife were my new family, and I felt safe and comfortable with them. But my feelings for Bart were growing, too.
My twenty-ninth birthday in Montreal later that year was the best of my life. Alexandru held an enormous party with 200 people for me at the Olympic stadium. He had a friend who composed a song for me, my very own song. He also surprised me by inviting Bart. I liked Bart, but I didn’t know if he felt anything other than friendship for me. He likes everybody and is nice to everyone, so it was hard to tell. When he left after the party, he told Alexandru that he “surrendered.” I didn’t know what that meant. Alexandru explained that it meant he was giving up trying to fight his attraction to me. He wanted to pursue some kind of a relationship. I said, “That’s great, then he should call me more often.”
Letters to a Young Gymnast Page 13
