A Visa for Italy

With the eyes of my mind blurred by the tension of the moment, I remember how I received the visa. It was a total shock. I was with my family in Olănești, in the last days of vacation. I was sitting at a table at the restaurant in Comanca, alongside the family of my friend and colleague C.V. The waiter approached me and asked: "Are you Mr. S.L.?" When I answered affirmatively, he informed me that I was called to the telephone. It was my mother, who told me that at home in Bucharest an envelope had arrived in my name, announcing that I had received the visa for Italy and could pick up my passport. I remember well the day in April when, without much hope, I filled out the application for a tourist visa, just to test the limits of the regime. I expected nothing, but it was proof that I was incarcerated in my own country. Now, when the positive response came, I was stunned. I couldn't believe I had managed to get the visa. Being a university professor in the field of computers, I was aware that the communist regime would not have allowed a man like me to leave the country. Repeated attempts to go to international conferences where I was invited had been in vain. Then my adventures with the Securitate in past years could not be in my favor. Departures abroad were reserved for the elites of the communist nomenclature or those with strong ties to the Securitate. I had no such privilege, and yet... I was on the plane, ready to make the first journey of my life across the borders of Romania toward a Western country. A miracle, a slip in the system?

Preparations for Departure

Arriving in Bucharest on Sunday, August 27, my wife A. and I got to work. I went to pick up the passport, she went to Bancorex to recover the 100 dollars left by a friend a few years before with the thought that she would visit her in Germany. She obtained 98 dollars, the rest being the bank's commission. With the passport in hand, I went directly to the TAROM offices and bought a round-trip ticket for the next flight to Rome. The flight was scheduled for Wednesday, August 30 — the name day of our son, Alexandru. Return on September 25, but who cared about the return?

Only two days remained until departure, and time seemed to fly mercilessly. I tried to say goodbye to all my loved ones without leaving too much pain in their souls. My first stop was at my mother's. We spent a quiet afternoon together, she trying to control her tears, oscillating between the joy that I would reach America and the despair that many years would pass until we saw each other again. I tried to calm her, but each word of mine seemed useless, unable to fill the void in her heart.

Then I went to visit N.T., my best friend. I couldn't hide the truth from him — that I didn't intend to return. We embraced tightly, both aware that this might be the last time we saw each other. We promised nonetheless that we would meet again, but in the depths of our souls, doubt floated heavily over both of us.

I also went by the faculty to resolve urgent tasks that appeared after the vacation. I closed my personal library in my office and said goodbye in my mind to the academic environment where I had worked for 20 years. I told no one of my departure the next day, not even C.V., my office colleague. I knew full well he would be upset that I didn't announce it, but I hoped that in the future I could convince him that such information is a heavy burden for those who know it.

But the most difficult separation was from my own family. A., my wife, and Alexandru, our 9-year-old son, gave me the greatest emotions. In the two remaining evenings, I tried to make the separation easier, joking about the new life we were going to have in America. But behind every smile was hidden the weight of uncertainty and a deep pain, which I tried to hide from the child's eyes.

In the morning of the departure, Alexandru was sleeping soundly. I approached his bed and kissed him lightly on the forehead, trying hard to control my tears. A., instead, who always encouraged me to leave the country, having the hope that one day we would be together again in a safe and free place, now could not restrain her pain: she sobbed as I embraced her for the last time. I didn't know when — or if — I would ever see my family again, but I knew I had to leave. I took my small suitcase and, without looking back, set out for the airport. I was leaving behind my entire life up to that point. What awaited me further? A better life? Or perhaps a worse one? Would I regret this step?

And What If...?

As the plane took off from Otopeni airport, I felt my heart jump at every moment I moved further away from Romanian soil. I looked through the porthole as the city shrank, and the familiar landscape transformed into a patch of green and beige beneath us, until everything became just white clouds in the blue sky. My thoughts whirled in a tornado of emotions: fear, joy, doubt, but also a vague hope. Everything seemed unreal, as if the dream I had barely sprouted in my mind was about to fall apart at any moment.

A layover at Tirana, the capital of Albania, followed — a country under the same communist yoke. It was supposed to be just a short 30-minute layover, but for me those minutes seemed an eternity. As we approached Tirana, dark thoughts gave me no peace. The idea that the Romanian Securitate, with its omnipresent influence, could force me to return made my skin crawl. I knew I was being watched, even now. The regime had stretched its tentacles everywhere, and I, a professor who dared to speak about freedom of expression in front of students, was surely on their radar. A part of me expected someone from the Securitate to appear at Tirana with an order to recall me home. Every noise in the plane, every announcement by the flight attendants seemed addressed to me. Every time the stewardess approached me, it seemed to me she had come to lead me to the Securitate man at the back of the plane.

When the plane began its descent toward the runway in Tirana, I felt my stomach tighten and a wave of panic wash over me. What if they changed their minds? What if they let me leave only to catch me halfway? I was haunted by all sorts of questions, desperately trying to keep my calm. My hands trembled slightly on my knees, and I wondered if the other passengers could see the fear on my face. In my soul, I blamed myself for allowing myself to dream of a life beyond Romania's borders.

When we landed, it seemed that every second on Albanian soil passed painfully slowly. Passengers were disembarking relaxed, but I couldn't move. I felt I was caught in a trap, and every minute that passed was a torture. Would some official appear to escort me back to Romania? In the waiting room, every sound seemed amplified, every movement of the Albanian security officials seemed a danger. But finally, they invited us back onto the plane. When the plane door closed behind me, I began to breathe more easily. However, only when the plane's wheels lifted off the runway did I feel my heart freed from the burden. Tirana was becoming smaller and smaller, and with it, my fears. Italy was closer and closer — as was freedom.

My traveling neighbor was a middle-aged lady, well-dressed, polite and helpful. After Tirana I plucked up courage and, with the Romanian-Italian dictionary of common phrases in front of me, I asked her: "Scusi, potete dirmi quanti giorni posso vivere a Roma con 100 dollari?". The lady, smiling understandingly, replied: "Tre giorni, se non mangia". It wasn't very encouraging, but the idea of reaching the Latina camp set up by the Americans for all those who wanted to emigrate to the USA gave me courage.

Finally Free

When the plane landed at Fiumicino Airport, I felt for the first time in my life what it means to be free. I went down the stairs, closed my eyes for a moment, let my face be caressed by the sun and filled my lungs with the warm Italian air. Finally, I was free. With my passport in hand, I passed through customs control, almost unable to believe I had succeeded. I was on Italian soil, far from the regime that had held me prisoner for so many years. For the first time in many months, I truly smiled. The nightmare remained behind. Before me opened a new world, full of possibilities. Everything was still uncertain, but I felt I had reached the beginning of a new life. I was free to dream, to explore, and to live.