My Daddy shortly before his untimely death |
Dad was a very honest man
and hated all the theft and stealing that took place around him every day. He
would not take one piece of anything from his job even if it was thrown in the
trash. Everybody worked for the government for the same inadequate and “equal”
salary. People stole from their jobs and traded (bartered) with other workers
who also took materials or finished goods from their workplace in order to
survive. Dad reported often such theft and the culprits would take their
revenge when Dad least expected. Other times orders came from on high to teach
him another lesson for having raised a child like me who chose to live in the
freedom of capitalist America at that time over the exploitation and tyranny of
communism. He never hid his anti-communist feelings and steadfastly refused to
become a member of the Communist Party.
He was 61 years old and
preparing to fly with exuberant anticipation to the United States to see his
only child receive her doctoral diploma on May 13, 1989. In his excitement, he
had packed a suitcase since January when the dreaded Securitatea (security
police) notified him by phone that he had been cleared and a passport was
forthcoming. Little did he know that even then, his passport and permission
could still be revoked, which they did. He wrote and called a few times, at
great expense, to ask me what to pack and what I wanted as a graduation gift.
I just wanted my Dad. I
had not seen him in four years. Every time he applied for a passport, the
communist handlers told him NO with impunity, calling him downtown to the precinct
just to harass him. He had no fame or fortune, just enough money saved in the
bank account for his burial. The commies had already confiscated everything
when my mom defected to the United States after a three month visit. They
punished him for her staying behind in the free America of 1980. For nine years
we tried to bring him as well with no success. The communists left him with the
clothes on his back and the rented, sparsely decorated, and tiny concrete block
apartment on the fifth floor of Block A6 in which I spent part of my childhood.
He had just retired and had received two months’ worth of his meager pay for
which he had worked since he was 18 years old, 43 years of hard manual labor.
A phone call from my uncle
shattered my happiness. I did not want to go to graduation anymore. I worked so
hard for the degree but, at that moment, I only cared about my ailing dad. He
clung to life for almost 30 days, spoon-fed water and clear soup by his sister
Marcela, an angel sent from above. The hospital did not do much to ease his
pain or make him better; they just gave him a terminal diagnosis and a bed in
the ward where he spent his last days in a conscious but unable to speak much
state. He shrank to 80 pounds in 30 days.
Such was the socialist
medical care – rationed care for the masses and the best treatment and access
for the communist elites. Dad needed a CT scan to save his life and state of
the art medical care and drugs. There was only one CT scan machine available in
the Communist Party hospital to which my Dad was not allowed access. He expired
30 days later, holding in his hand a wrinkled Easter Sunday photograph of me with
his two granddaughters.
In physical therapy at the
time, unable to travel 8,000 miles by plane to the hospital and to the funeral,
I was devastated. The president of the university convinced me to at least attend
Commencement Exercises. I reluctantly agreed only because my Dad would have
wanted me to go and see my efforts through to the end. Our President at the time, George Bush Sr. was
going to hand out doctoral diplomas and shake my hand. He subsequently wrote to
me a very lovely and caring letter of encouragement.
I pinned on my mortar
board the phrase, “4 DAD,” in big, bold letters, and dedicated my degree to him.
I would have never made it there had it not been for his loving care and
encouragement to strive to be the best during my 18 years of growing up in our
modest abode. I think Dad was so proud,
smiling from Heaven, and I felt his presence beside me. It was a beautiful and
hot sunny day, not a cloud in the sky when I accepted my diploma with shaking
hands and tears streaming down my cheeks.
I hope my Dad’s passing 25
years ago on May 12, 1989, a victim of Ceausescu’s totalitarian and brutal
regime, and the death of 100 million other innocents who died at the hands of
Bolsheviks, Stalinists, Maoists, Castroists, and other Marxist dictators, will
serve as a wake-up call for all the misguided and misinformed Americans who
believe the lies that communism is the answer to undeserved redistribution of
wealth, non-existent "social justice," and "equality" by
government fiat.
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