4. God’s Gift

I no longer remember when the man had entered. He suddenly stood next to my table, sneaking in with one of my dark thoughts. He appraised me, taking in the situation. In broken English, he asked if he could sit down. His demeanour was ambivalent. He acted subserviently towards me, almost servile. However, he barked his order toward the bar.

My table companion was thin. Considering his average height, he showed signs of malnutrition and at the very least, chronic vitamin deficiency. He appeared to be around forty, forty-five years old. In reality, he was thirty-five, as I later found out.

With a deliberate gesture, he placed his cap on the table in front of him. His fingers traced the grey fur, paused for a moment, then prepared themselves for a conversation. It was like a hesitant hurdler seeing obstacles much larger than just the language barrier. Quietly, he stirred his coffee and then tapped his spoon on the edge of the cup. It sounded like a starting shot.

“It’s cold, isn’t it? Winters in Romania are terrible. Much too cold.” I chuckled a bit and said that it wasn’t too bad. The Romanian took a sip and used the pause to formulate his next opening move.

“Where are you from?”

“From the Netherlands. I’m en route to Bulgaria.”

The coffee cup landed on the table with a thud. The Romanian sat up straight. “You’re from the Netherlands? Really? Oh, mister! Seriously? From Holland? This is a beautiful day! Oh, thank god!”

He repeatedly raised his hands to the sky, thanking the Lord and praising the day. Finally, after a deep sigh, he leaned back with an unbelieving look in his eyes. His exuberant reaction caused a stir. Other patrons looked suspiciously as their compatriot got excited while talking to a Westerner. He introduced himself as Petru and regained his bearings. He assessed the aftermath of his outburst. Apparently, it wasn’t too bad. In a hushed tone, he continued. “Mister, I’m so glad I met you. Do you really come from the Netherlands? Listen. You must help me. Please. It’s only a little problem.”

I wanted to remain polite and friendly, but it was a struggle. This “god’s gift” had already been confronted that day with people wanting everything: conductors asking for money, soldiers begging for cigarettes, black market money changers, porters, and taxi drivers with their incessant requests. I was tired and had had more than enough.

And now, that thin Romanian was sitting here looking expectantly at me. Even though I had been warned. I had just read “Deferment of Liberation” by Prof. Dr. Zdenek Radslav Dittrich, the father of D66 politician Boris Dittrich. The author was Czech by birth, had fled to the Netherlands in 1948, and was a professor of Eastern European history at Utrecht University until October 1, 1987.

Dittrich explained, among other things, how the population in Eastern Europe had been “mentally enslaved” in the past centuries, as he called it, and concluded: “Communism in its capacity as a secular religion connected with the worst excesses of the Counter-Reformation.” Dittrich pointed out the socio-psychological damage that had been incurred. Damage that manifested in: “Hypocrisy and cynical conformity, doublethink and double standards, towering taboos, especially in the sexual realm, and sadomasochistic deformities in the personality structure.”

Especially from those sadomasochistic deformations in the personality structure, I fell silent for a moment. What was I not in for during my first encounter with Eastern Europe?

Meanwhile, Petru was hanging on my every word, and I knew he wouldn’t let go until I agreed. I was afraid his “little problem” might be a lack of money, and I was already half prepared to pay for a meal. He must have noticed my hesitation and began to urge me in a hurried and stumbling manner. “Really, it is a little problem. Please, come with me to my home for just five minutes from here. It won’t take long. Please mister?”

The prospect of going with Petru had its attractions. The last time I checked, it would be at least four more hours before a train to Bulgaria would depart. It would be a relief to escape the station for a while. Besides, I was curious about Petru’s house and his story. It was too coincidental an opportunity to pass up. I made a decision. “Alright. I’ll go with you. But first, I want to check the train schedules. I need to get away from here as soon as possible.”

It sounded a bit curt, to discourage Petru, to not give him the idea that a wealthy Western catch was on the hook. He eagerly helped lift my backpack while admirably wondering – whether genuine or not – how I could carry that weight.

With quick, agitated steps, he marched through the station hall and nervously manoeuvred through travellers toward the departure board. Hours would pass before another train would run.

*

At the station’s exit, Petru barked at eager taxi drivers to return to their waiting cars. Among the smoking Trabants, a growling tanker truck charged at us, its nose built to take on anything daring to cross its path. “This way, this way. Watch out, watch out,” he repeatedly warned about the oncoming traffic. The station and the surrounding buildings were charred by exhaust fumes. A stifling blend of diesel and the unmistakable scent of brown coal-fired stoves hung in the air.

Indeed, the apartment was not far. Petru stopped at a worn-out front door that concealed a dim hallway. He already joked about his family’s reaction. We stepped into an elevator dimly lit by a pale bulb, which creaked anxiously and warningly as we entered. There was hardly room for two people. With the backpack between us, we were slowly hoisted to the sixth floor. In the meantime, Petru tried haltingly and confusedly to provide some insight into his family relationships. I understood there was a wife or girlfriend, a child, and some other family member.

Once we reached the top, I was relieved to exit the stuffy elevator. Petru nervously searched for his keys, muttered, sighed, and then rang the doorbell.