The book, "Fearless At Any Cost" sustains a real episode from the life of the author during the 1980's in communist Romania. In a country, where the expansion and public adoration of communism were holy laws. In a country, where contradicting communism and its faithful followers were synonymous with death. In a country, where the spokesmen of religion or of human rights were prosecuted. From this country, I, the author, tried to escape, longing for freedom. My first attempt to escape was unsuccessful. I was caught at the Rumanian border. In this book, I had describe a faithfully all the suffering, the inhuman treatment I was subjected to. The unfair punishment of hard labor only to try to break my spirit, and my desire for freedom. Did they succeed? No. I had tried to escape a second time. Unfortunately, my second time had failed also. This time I wasn't captured, for I had lost myself in a deadly swamp. This deadly swamp was my salvation, so I didn't stand get back into the hands of the murderous communists, and didn't stand in front of another unjust court. This second failed endeavor almost broke my fighting spirit. But what choice did I have? I was gambling with my young life, as a hustler and I risked everything again with a third try. I knew, this third one would be the last. Whether I make it or not, I won't have another chance. For if I fail again, the protecting heroes of communism are going to finish me. At this time, luck was with me. My third attempt was the real thing. I succeeded and I finally achieved my long awaited freedom. In this book, I had described all the pain and suffering my family and I had to endure. Exciting complications, daring actions, overcoming deadly dangers, they are all here. I had described the seven days spent in a locked freight car without any food. All the real events of my escapade.
Fearless At Any Cost
By Paul DobandiAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Paul Dobandi
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4567-6215-5Chapter One
Sitting in prison, I had plenty of time to ponder over the events thathad happened so fast. Did someone turn me in? Who likes to lickcommunist asses? I thought, my plan to sneak through the Rumanianborder to Hungary was flawless, still, the Rumanian border patrol caughtme. Did I make a mistake? Or was it the dark hand of fate? Who knows?I might never know.
For the rest of my life, - if I ever make it out of here alive, - I will bemarked in the eyes of the communists, a marked sheep, destined for theslaughterhouse, food on someone's table. They'll tear me up, bite into me,scratch me till I'll bleed. Like hungry wolves, they'll bare their fangs andscream into my ears: "You worthless, insolent traitor! You anti communistfilth! You disease spreading maggot."
It was easy enough to feel confident on my first day in prison. I soonfound out, however that six months is a communist prison can fairlycompare to ten years in any other prison.
The next day, my fate started to teach me this new math. The math,where six can be more than ten.
We were roused in the cell with a painfully loud clambering noise. Incase you didn't wake up fast enough to this unique, unrelenting sound,then the beastly voice of the guard was suddenly louder than the alarm.Fright, as well as surprise, was my first reaction.
"Hey, you dirty beast, you trash of a traitor, get up, or I'll drum thewake up call in your head!"
Since my head was beaten already badly enough, I got up in a realhurry, lest he would fulfill his promise, and drum the call on my head. Igot up, and hurried to breakfast. Or rather I would have hurry, if the guarddidn't slap me on my neck, so that I fell back into the cell. He hollered toexplain:
"You idiot! What do you think, I am going to clean up after you? Anddon't forget, because I'll tell you only once. From now on, every morningyou take that wooden barrel, whether there is anything in it or not, andfollow you comrades!"
I wasn't used to that, so I didn't even realize, that the wooden barrelin the corner was supposed to serve as a toilet. There you go, here iscivilization for you. Take the barrel, empty of full every morning. Howhumiliating. Having no choice, I picked up the empty barrel, and followedmy prison mates, trying to imitate their actions, since they seemed to bequite experienced in carrying their waste. I felt goose bumps on my backthinking about doing this every morning for six months. I resolved to getused to it. You van get used to the stink of the skunk too, if you try hardenough. Eventually it becomes just another smell. Besides, I did not havea choice. I had to get used to it. The worst part was, it had to be donebefore breakfast.
After cleaning, breakfast. My first breakfast in prison. Anothersurprise. God Almighty! I write down the menu, in case someone on theoutside might want to adopt it. You will have to be sure though to get alicense from Rumania, for I am sure it has been patented. The menu then:Tea, in the likeness of bath water, laboratory check might have proven itotherwise though. Who would really care? If they call it tea in the prison,then tea it is. Case closed. A slice of bread. Unsurpassable. The best bakersin the world would fail in trying to recreate its quality. Its color, a realchallenge to any painter. Starting at a dark brown, shading into pale thenmixing with some gray. In the center of the slice, a small piece of rockwas eyeing me. The prisoner could have no reason to complain. With hisslice of bread, he also got a piece of the rock. On top of everything, thebread was speckled with green mold. The mold didn't alarm me much. Iremember, o doctor friend of mine once told me, -when on the outsideI was still eating white bread, - that the mold on the bread is a type of"penicillin", so why should I complain getting my antibiotic along withmy bread. So I have named this special manna, "penicillin bread". To addto the richness of this breakfast, I received a piece of marmalade too. I stillcan't decide, whether it was made of apples pears, plums, or straw, for I didfind a piece of straw in it. Who knows? The legacy of this, never before seenmarmalade, is that to this day, seeing anything in a store by this name willmakes my hair stand on ends.
This was breakfast, there dumb struck, and remembered the tantalizingfragrances of the breakfasts my mother used to prepare for me. I almostgave up on eating breakfast at all, when I remembered my father, who hadspent four years in Russian prison camps after the war. He survived thosehorrible years, and here I am being finicky. I seemed to hear his voicefrom a great distance. "Son, it is better than nothing. Close your eyes andfill up your stomach, because dying of starvation is a lot worse than thisbreakfast." Whether it was a voice from heaven, or my misery that tookme close to my father in my thoughts, I don't know. I had closed my eyes,and finished. Good breakfast or bad, what's important is a full belly. Well,maybe not quite full. It wasn't enough for that, but something for the millof the stomach to grind instead of thin air.
Finishing my meal, I though I will lay on my cell bed, ponderingover my worse future. It would have been nice, wouldn't it? It is not whathas happened though. The guards herded us outside, like cattle, to theyard, where big trucks were waiting. We, prisoners, climbed on boardof the trucks, to the tune of the guards cursing, and were taken to theworkplace.
The workplace was a section of the riverbank outside town. We wereto raise the fortify the bank with rocks, to protect the town from floods,frequent around here. Beastly, heavy labor. Raise the bank with shovel,move, roll, and fit the rocks in place with an iron bar. The worst part wasthat if they didn't fit, I had to break them up with a twenty kilo hammer.Splitting them seemed to break my brain with every blow.
Small bits and pieces of stone were flying mercilessly, hitting my arms,my chest, my face. Sharper slivers cut into my skin as harpoons, drawingblood, which mixed with the pouring sweat was stinging, and burningmy whole body.
And the time! Oh God! I didn't know how many hours I had beenworking, but I could barely stand. I was nauseous, my ears were ringing,and a particularly annoying buzz invading even my brain, making me feelas If thousands of mosquitoes were flying around in my head.
My arms started to give up also. I felt them weaken after every blowof the hammer. But what could I do? I was crumpling stone and weeping.Weeping, not for my pains, or my weakness, but for the injustice! I wasweeping for freedom!
During work, I kept glancing at the muddy river and thought ofsuicide. Why should I suffer any longer? Why fight the unbeatable? Itis simple. I'll throw myself into the river, and give my body over to thesecretive depth of the yellowish water which will free me forever.
My thoughts were almost followed my action, when as if from a greatdistance, pictures of my dear mother and father appeared. Father withwarning finger, and mother with tears in her eyes. I heard the voice ofmy father too. "Son why do you want to pain us? Don't do anything silly,son. Suffer a little longer. Now you are suffering, but you will overcometime, and you will win." "You will win, son. You will win." It keptrepeating in my head. The faces of my mother and father disappeared,and I had given up the idea of suicide. However severely my fate willtreat me, I'll fight. I will fight, till fate will give up and leave my batteredsoul in peace.
I'm...
