Until the age of four he was trussed up
in a linoleum-lined, rusting metal cot
unable to walk, talk or even feed
himself, deformed by terminal neglect.
One of dozens of children between the
ages of three and eighteen incarcerated
in Ungerini Irrecuperable Orphanage,
the future for Patreascu looked bleak.
Beverly Peberdy - a secretary in a regional
branch of the Abbey National - persuaded a
charity looking for healthcare professionals
for an emergency mission to Romania of her
determination to help. Bev truly believed that
all that was required to improve things for the
children she had seen on television was love,
compassion and good old-fashioned common
sense, qualities she had in spades.
Arriving at Ungerini, Bev was confronted
with the most appallingly sick and neglected
children. In three months of fighting the
prejudices and intransigence of local staff she
got all but the most disabled of her children
toilet trained and walking, and some
beginning to talk for the first time in their
lives.
DO ROBINS COUGH? is the story of
Patreascu and his friends, of Ungerini and its
good-natured but downtrodden people, and
above all of one extraordinary woman who
fought the horror with grins and hugs, and
refused to allow the cruelty to continue.
NOV 1 0 BQ/
ETOBICOKE
PUBLIC LIBRARIES

Do Robins
Cough?
^
Do Robins
Cough?
*
BEVERLY
PEBERDY
ORION
Acknowledgement
With thanks to Mrs Barbara Herne for
permission to reprint her photographs.
Copyright © Beverly Peberdy 1996
All rights reserved
The right of Beverly Peberdy to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by her in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1996 by
Orion
An imprint of Orion Books Ltd
Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane
London wcih ?EA
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
isbn: o 752.80 175 9
Filmset by Selwood Systems, Midsomer Norton
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Butler 8c Tanner Ltd, Frome and London
Dedications
*
My love, gratitude and admiration go to John, my husband, and
Russell, my son. Without their tolerance, support, understanding
and love none of this would have been possible. I am indebted to
them both and dedicate this book to them.
I should also like to dedicate this book to the children, the
poor, the elderly and the handicapped of the world, those who
are not wanted or loved, but some of whom Mother Teresa and
her Sisters devote their lives and faith in God to helping.
I should particularly like to thank Andrew Crofts, who helped
me put the book together.
I should also like to thank my editor, Caroline Oakley, for her
help, encouragement and most of all her patience!
Acknowledgements
*
Working as I do in the voluntary world, I am constantly indebted
to the many people who sacrifice their time, give freely of their
expertise and help with donations.
Some of the people to whom I owe the most thanks do appear
in the pages of this book, having somehow become inextricably
enmeshed in the story. There are many others, however, to whom
equal thanks are due but if I was to list all their names here the
reader would soon become bored with such a saintly roll call.
I only hope that everyone whom I have been in contact with
since I set out on this adventure in 1991 knows just how grateful
I am for everything they have done and given and that those
whose names did not make it through to the final draft of the
book will understand and forgive me.
Vll
Contents
*
i Arrival in Hell i
z Leaving an Ordinary Life 21
3 Culture Shocks 34
4 Making a Start 46
5 Making Friends 82
6 Slow Progress 89
7 The Arrival of the Sisters 104
8 Coming Home 119
9 Answering the Call 140
10 Bringing the First Children Out 157
11 Patreascu's Ordeals 175
iz The Others Follow 201
13 Our Son - the Prodigy 219
14 A Holiday, a Wedding and a Funeral 230
15 A New Life 251
IX
CHAPTER ONE
Arrival in Hell
*
It was early February 1991 and I felt like we were going out on
an SAS mission as we six new recruits from the Romanian
Orphanage Trust set off from the hotel in Bacau. There were no
windows in the sides of the van and those at the back were thick
with sludge spun up from under the wheels. We caught glimpses
of the spectacular scenery through the windscreen, over the shoulders
of the driver and his two colleagues in the front. They were
talking to one another and ignoring us as we were bumped and
tossed about in the back. There were no seats, just wooden
benches bolted to the metal sides. There was nothing to hold on
to so the two Irish girls and I linked arms and tried to stabilise
ourselves but we still kept being bounced off the seats, landing
painfully on the floor and hitting our backs on the benches. I felt
dizzy with travel sickness and prayed that I would make it to
Ungerini without showing myself up by having to ask them to
stop and let me out.
Every time the van's wheels crashed into the potholes that
dotted the roads, hidden beneath the snow, our heads banged
agonisingly against the roof. Despite the discomfort, I still felt
excited at the prospect of finally approaching our destination; at
making a start on improving the lives of the pathetic little figures
I'd seen on TV.
We kept on climbing up the snowy mountains, our wheels
often spinning on the compacted ice. We passed through tiny
villages made up of wooden cottages painted pretty pastel colours,
overtaking carts pulled by horses and oxen. Everyone who saw
us waved and children ran along beside us as, over an hour after
leaving Bacau, we came into the village of Ungerini and made
our way to the Orphanage for Irrecuperables.
The van slid to a halt in front of some gates set in a long,
breeze-block wall. The driver sounded the horn and climbed out.
He came round the back and opened the doors so that we could
get out into the wet, muddy snow. I took deep gulps of the crisp
fresh air, hoping to quell my nausea and soothe my nerves.
'Can't take the van in there because of the snow,' the driver
explained. 'We'd never ever get out again. We have to walk
down.'
Summoned by the van's horn, an unshaven security guard
stumbled out. He was wearing a cossack hat and was wrapped
in a huge sheepskin which he must have been using as a blanket
in his tiny sentry hut. He had a rough complexion and his
fingers, protruding from soiled mittens, were black with grime.
He fumbled for what seemed like an age with a jangling bunch
of keys before starting to struggle with the rusted padlock, at
the same time babbling in Romanian, which none of us could
understand. Eventually he pulled open the forbidding gates and
we walked in through the sludge, passing under the wrought-iron
sign bearing the legend irrecuperable hospital.
They were just like the gates I had seen on bleak, grainy, black
and white documentaries about death camps and a feeling of
dread and depression mixed in with the travel sickness and
nervous tension which was already churning inside me. But
nothing that I had seen on the television, or been told by the
people of the Romanian Orphanage Trust who had sent us out
from England, could have prepared me for the horrors we were
about to see.
The sludge turned to thick, churned-up mud as we made our
way down the hill into a big courtyard. The building's light brown
walls stretched up around us, the windows all rusting and barred,
the glass black with dirt and lined with grey net curtains. Behind
the building I could see a beautiful little Orthodox church. I heard
a tapping noise and looked up. A small face was peering out
through a piece of clean glass and I saw a hand wave. I waved
back.
The guard shuffled along with us to a pair of metal doors and
unlocked them with another key-jangling performance. Once he
had conquered the lock he threw open both doors in a gesture of
welcome and the blast of putrid air made me step back in shock.
It was like a great heat hitting us and I retched involuntarily at
the smell of rotting food, urine and excrement, mixed up like
some giant, steaming compost heap.
Inside everything was grey, gloomy and wet. A couple of small,
shadowy figures darted across the passage from one of the rooms,
pursued by the shouts of angry women. The floors and walls were
all running with water and there were no windows. As the doors
banged shut behind us, the key crunching in the lock, it took
several moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness and even
then I was only able to see a few feet ahead. Somewhere, far
down the high windowless corridor, one light bulb emitted some
feeble rays. The cold and damp made me shiver but the worst
thing of all was the noise. Frantic, distorted folk music blared
deafeningly from invisible speakers but even that wasn't loud
enough to cover the manic screaming and moaning which seemed
to come from every side. It wasn't like listening to human voices;
it was like a tide of misery washing over us. I felt completely lost
and trapped.
A girl with mad, darting eyes, who looked to be about twelve,
came running down the corridor and leapt onto one of the drivers,
wrapping her legs round his waist and hanging there a few
moments before leaping onto another person, like a monkey
swinging through the trees. She was pulling at their hair and
clothes and wanting to touch everything in an agitated manner.
They laughed and talked to her, calling her Wilma. It looked odd
because she was so big and it was as if they were treating her like
a pet. I hoped she wouldn't latch onto me because I didn't know
how I would get her off.
What on earth am I doing here? Why aren't I back home, safe
and warm and free, instead of being locked inside a bedlam
where I don't speak the language or understand anything that's
going on? I thought. It was like being transported back to the
Dark Ages and then being left to fend for myself in a foreign
land.
The existing team members who'd collected us from Bacau
were still chattering amongst themselves, according us the
occasional word. They led us down the passage and through a
set of doors covered in net curtains into a chaotic room which
had some natural light coming in. There were shelves of supplies like powdered milk, baby creams, talcum powder and boxes of
toys. This is the team room,' someone told us, 'where we store
all our things. We have to go and meet Madam Augustina now,
the Director.'
We went down another wet, dark corridor with Wilma still
attached to one of us and were shown into an outer office where
there was a typist and three other office staff. There were more
dirty net curtains over the windows, cutting out the light, and a
traditional kiln in the corner pumped heat out into the room,
filling it with the smell of coal and making my eyes smart. I was
wearing all my thermal underwear because outside there was a
- zo degree wind-chill factor. Now, in my three pairs of socks
and heavy boots, I felt faint from the overpowering heat.
The staff were all smoking. They seemed to be talking a lot
but not actually doing anything. There was one man and three
women all wearing the sleeveless sheepskin jackets and head
scarves that I assumed must be traditional for the area.
There was a telephone and a couple of old-fashioned, prewar
typewriters, filing cabinets and a few bedraggled pot plants. A
threadbare carpet covered the floor. The office women shrieked
an order at Wilma who leapt off the person she was clinging
to and scurried away.
Taking no notice of the office staff, our guides waited as one
of the women knocked at the door of an inner office to announce
our arrival. Something was said from inside and the woman went
back to her desk, avoiding our gaze as we continued to stand,
waiting, until a commanding voice on the other side of the door
shouted for the woman to bring us through and we were ushered
into the even more intense heat of Madam Augustina's office.
As we came in the Director of Ungerini stood up from behind
a huge old carved desk, covered in paperwork, and gave us the
first friendly greeting we had had since arriving in Romania. She
was a big woman with a heavy face and just the slightest twinkle
in her eyes. She wore a jumper and cardigan, thick woolly tights
and a mighty pair of boots. She strode across the threadbare,
maroon paisley carpet and embraced each of us in turn. When it
came to my turn she hugged me to her, holding my shoulders in her
huge hands and kissing me hard on both cheeks. But she didn't
release me as I expected and I realised that she was repositioning
her face and was going to kiss me on the mouth. I tried to
pull back but it was too late and she pressed her lips against
mine and forced her tongue deep into my mouth. I gagged, unable
to breathe. There was an overwhelming taste of stale garlic,
4
coffee and tobacco and the terrible kiss seemed to last forever. I
wondered if this was a normal local custom! When she finally let
me go I panted for breath but there was no relief to be had from
the thick, close, smoky air.
Madam Augustina shouted for chairs to be brought in which
caused a frenetic burst of activity from her underlings. She seemed
very concerned about my comfort and insisted that I sat down
next to her. When we were finally seated nothing else happened
and we all sat staring at one another, smiling nervously. It was
obvious that none of the team had learnt any Romanian and
Madam certainly didn't know any English. Eventually she broke
the awkward silence with more shrieks, this time demanding that
coffee be brought.
As we sat, more members of the existing British team arrived,
as well as a girl called Dana who was to be our translator. More
chairs had to be found. Dana was fabulously attractive with a
melancholy face framed by black hair and enlivened by sparkling
dark eyes. Having a means of communication eased the embarrassment
for us but it was obvious that there was a set etiquette
to how the conversation should proceed. We weren't expected to
speak first; we had to wait for Madam Augustina to say something
and for it to be translated by Dana and we could then respond.
A great performance was made of serving coffee off the formal
tray which was brought in from the outer office, accompanied by
a proud announcement that this was 'finest Nescafe'.
As we drank the hot, viscous, sweet coffee and Madam smoked
endless cigarettes, she asked each of us in turn what we did in
Britain. The telephone rang once and she screamed an order
down it before slamming it back on its cradle.
A little girl with a squint was brought in by an unsmiling carer
and shown to us. I was surprised by how healthy she appeared
and that she was comparatively well dressed. She went very
readily to Madam Augustina without any show of apprehension.
The Director pinched the child's face in a friendly manner and
made a fuss of her. The carer, who was dressed like the peasants
we had seen in the villages on our travels from Bucharest, stood,
her eyes modestly cast to the ground, until she was told to take
the child away again.
The whole welcoming ritual took an hour and a half and I was
becoming impatient to see the rest of the children and the home
itself. Madam Augustina talked to us almost apologetically about
the conditions in the home and explained how they wanted to
improve things but that money was only just starting to get
through to them. Within this building were 186 mentally and
physically handicapped children between the ages of three and
eighteen and a staff of 142.
At my interview in England the ROT had explained that under
the old political regime every orphan in the country was given a
five-minute test at the age of three. If they failed they were
considered to be of no worth to their country and were sent to
places like Ungerini to live amongst the mentally ill or disabled
and the hopelessly crippled.
Madam Augustina explained that before the fall of the dictatorship
there had been no money to pay the wages of the carers.
Now, she said, things were getting better and there were no
children dying any more. She seemed very proud of this fact. She
said they were trying to train the staff to do their jobs better but
it was hard because there weren't enough of them to be able to
take the necessary time away from their daily duties. She hoped
that with our help they would be able to do more for the children.
She told us that the interview was now over and that we would
be taken to look around the home. The British team and Dana
took us back out into the cold, damp corridor. Opposite the door
a sink had a tap permanently running into it. 'That is the only
place to get fresh water,' we were told. 'If you need water for
anything, this is where you come.'
We came into a big hallway and once more we could hear
screaming from behind another pair of double doors. We turned
right and went down a flight of stairs to the laundry. As we
approached, the smell of excrement grew stronger until it overwhelmed
us. It seemed to reach right to the top of my nostrils, so
strong that I knew I would never be able to forget it. I could feel
it seeping into my clothes and feared that I would never get rid
of it.
There were about eight women working in the freezing laundry,
dunking sheets and clothes covered in faeces into a bath of icy
cold, chlorinated water, beating them down into the scummy
brown soup with brooms and then throwing them out onto the
ground where other women threw more cold water over them.
The resulting swill was sloshing all around the floor and over our
feet on its way towards the central drain. I watched it going over
my canvas boots with sheepskin linings which had seemed so
fcoractical
when I set out from England, wondering if it would
soak in and make them unwearable. The women were then
picking the laundry up, gigantic piles of it, and pushing it into
two industrial-sized old washing machines. There was no sign of
any soap powder and once the washing had been turned around
a few times they hauled it back onto the floor and wrung it
out by hand. Everything was then carried downstairs in giant
containers to hang on hot pipes to dry. I was amazed by the
strength of the women. When there was no more room on the
pipes they took the rest outside but, as Dana explained, 'It freezes
very quickly at this time of year.'
The women had been calling out to one another as we came in
but became silent and apprehensive as we stood watching them
working. There was only one small window which let hardly any
light into this damp, cold hell-hole. Their hands were red, raw
and painful looking. I couldn't believe how bad these working
conditions were. If this is how the women helpers are treated, I
thought, what happens to the children?
'Every load of washing has to have a treatment of chlorine,'
Dana explained, 'to kill the germs. The children are all diseased
and this prevents the diseases spreading.'
I tried to hide my horror from Dana because I didn't want to
embarrass her. I wondered what she imagined we were thinking
as we watched this filthy, primitive ritual. She showed no sign of
emotion as she explained to us what was happening and then led
us up, past the ground floor doors and all the screaming and up
to the first floor to Salon One which contained about fifteen
children. There we were introduced to Jenny, an immaculately
neat and rather nervous English lady, the wife of a merchant
banker whose children had all grown up. She told us that she had
been an SRN before marrying. Her clothes were so perfect she
seemed almost surreal amongst the horrors of the room, her scarf
tidily held round her neck with a pretty pin.
'Jenny is in charge of this room,' Dana explained. 'Up here are
the smaller and the most severely handicapped children, the ones
that need constant nursing.'
I was shocked by how dark the room was because of the filthy
glass in the windows and the net curtains caked in dirt. There
was no light on. The terrible, loud folk music was crashing
through a loudspeaker, jangling my nerves. Another coal-fired
kiln seemed to be keeping the room at a comfortable temperature
until I realised that I was wearing lots of thermal layers; the
children were lying in thin, filthy rags in their cots on bare,
apparently wet, linoleum. The children themselves were also dirty,
covered in a mixture of dried milk and snot. Many of them were
damp with urine and faeces.
'How old are these children?' I asked, trying to make conversation
and distract myself from the smell.
'They range,' Jenny said, 'from three to fourteen.'
'Three to fourteen?' I was puzzled because they all looked like
babies to me. I went over to one of the cots which held an infant girl and I looked at her more closely. The most startling thing
about this baby was her teeth - they were adult teeth. I realised
that this tiny scrap of humanity must be at least twelve years
old but she couldn't have weighed much more than an average
newborn baby in Britain.
The most unsettling thing of all was that these children weren't
screaming like the ones we had heard downstairs - although a
couple were moaning softly and continuously to themselves. They
didn't seem to be reacting to us in any way at all; seemed unaware
that we had even come into the room. As I went to each cot and
reached out to touch them they cowered away, like frightened
puppies expecting a blow. Many of them were rocking constantly
and rhythmically from side to side. A couple were on all fours,
widthways across their cots, bashing their heads against the bars
without stopping. When I got closer and my eyes had accustomed
themselves to the gloom I could see that they had bald, red stripes
across their shaved heads from where they had worn the hair
away with this rhythmical banging. Neither Jenny nor the
Romanian carers seemed to be making any effort to stop them
damaging themselves. I wondered if there might be a reason for
this - if perhaps they did worse things to themselves if this bizarre
comforting was stopped. I made a mental note to ask someone
whether I should try to prevent it once I started work.
The Romanian carer in the room was called Lucia, a dark
haired, middle-aged woman with almost black flashing eyes. She
seemed more spirited and friendly than the other workers, making
a big fuss of us and watching us rather slyly as we took in the
scene, as if calculating whether we were going to give her any
trouble. She made a big show of grabbing one of the children and
hugging it to her but I saw the child flinch away, as if unused to
so much attention. It was impossible to tell whether it was a boy
or a girl because of the shaved head. She put the child on the
floor and made it walk around for us. The child looked so
frightened I decided I would try to go much more slowly and
eently with whichever children I was given to look after.
Apart from the cots there was nothing else in the room in the
way of furniture or toys. Everything was perfectly tidy. The few
cots that weren't being used had cushions placed symmetrically
in them but there was nothing for the children to look at. At the
end of the room I could see a pile of lovely continental quilts with
eaily coloured, embroidered satin covers. They were neatly piled
up and seemed incongruous beside the rags that the children had
with them in the cots.
'Why don't they use them?' I asked Jenny.
'They are frightened of the children soiling them,' she explained.

As we went from room to room I became more and more
puzzled by the lack of toys and activities for the children. I
couldn't imagine how they were kept occupied all day. In the
upstairs rooms were some hundred children, many still in the
rusting cots that had been their prisons throughout the years of
oppression. They were nearly all lying very still on cold, wet lino
with only thin rags for cover, staring into space, waiting to die.
Many had their legs curled up to their chests. What on earth
could I do to help such pitiful creatures? I asked myself.
In some of the rooms the children had grown too big to be
contained in their cots and were free to move about. These
children were making more noise and several of them ran up and
started hitting us as we came in. They were small enough not to
be intimidating. 'This is the bad boys' room,' Dana explained as
we went into a room with about ten active boys who leapt off
their beds onto us. I was beginning to notice some gruesome
deformities amongst the mass of bodies milling around us. There
were legs pointing in all directions, some with feet going completely
backwards. Others had missing limbs. None of the boys
was dressed in more than flimsy, soiled pyjamas and many had
nothing on their lower halves at all. My own clothes were becom"ig
drenched with urine where the children had clung onto me.
Their noses were all running and caked and the slime was transferring
itself to my clothes. All their eyes were red and sore- looking. There were scabs on their shaven heads and I wondered
^y had been cut by the razors or beaten, or whether they had
done it to themselves. Many of them were constantly squabbling,
scratching, slapping and biting. Their skins were pale beneath the
patterns of scabs and sores and they all looked anaemic. The
greyish pallor of their skins was almost more alarming than
the angry-looking scars and smears of blood from more recent
wounds. I just wanted to put them all into warm, soapy baths to
try to cleanse and soothe their sores.
Some of the women carers seemed quite proud of the children
in their rooms, telling us who they all were. I couldn't believe I
would ever be able to learn all the unfamiliar names that I was
being told, or be able to remember which children they belonged
to in the swirling hubbub around us. Every so often the women
would scream even louder than the children to try to bring some
order to their rooms, adding even more nervous tension to the
already hysterical atmosphere.
The more active children all wanted to touch my hair. They
seemed fascinated by it, stroking it and making strange, trancelike
moans. A couple of them took a firm grip and had to have
their fingers prised open to release me. I had tied it back in a pony-tail that morning as the other British teamworkers had
instructed us to do, to try to avoid catching nits and lice, but one
of the children had wrenched the little tie out and run off with it.
One of the women tried to chase him and recover it but it
disappeared and wasn't seen again. All the children who came up
to us sniffed us like dogs, pushing their snuffling, caked and slimy
noses against our hands and faces and necks and hair. As they
leapt in and out of my arms I hoped they wouldn't bite me or
head butt me in their excitement. I had noticed that even the
calmer ones seemed to occasionally lose control of themselves
and attack the nearest person.
I had so many questions I wanted to ask but everyone seemed
too busy or preoccupied to answer them. I couldn't understand
how the women carers could bear to keep the children in the
state they were in. What sort of callous monsters could they be,
not to see what needed doing in order to make the children more
comfortable? They seemed to be behaving like concentration
camp warders rather than 'carers'. I noticed that there were Norwegian Red Cross nurses in some of the rooms, all dressed
in immaculate white uniforms. They were working very quietly
and purposefully and didn't stop to talk to us apart from saying
hallo, giving us friendly grins and going straight back to the small
10
proups of children they were working with. No one in our group
explained their presence to us or even signified that they had
noticed them.
There were three older children, including Wilma, who, I was
told lived downstairs, but who seemed to be allowed more
freedom than the others and kept darting in and out of the
rooms we were being shown. The little children appeared to be
frightened of Wilma who was able to talk and used the skill to
be rude to the women, screaming at them what sounded like
abuse while they tried to send her away. Another of the bigger
sirls was called Valentina. She looked different from the others
because she had longer hair and better clothes. Her hair was in a
short, boyish cut and she was proudly wearing a British school
cap and blazer with britches. I noticed she had pierced ears which
surprised me. She was also rude and shouted at everyone in a
deep, masculine voice.
She looked like a thin, pale, eight-year-old schoolboy but had
strangely grown-up facial features and her deep, slow voice made
me think she might have a hearing problem. I wondered why they
hadn't found such an energetic girl anything constructive to do.
She put her face very close to mine and then bellowed a word
which I was told meant 'foreigner'.
There were other British workers in some of the rooms. They
took little notice of us, just nodding a greeting and then getting
on with their work. In one of the rooms an Englishman in his
twenties called Mark introduced himself. He was tall and slim
with long blond hair that was beginning to thin. He had a very
posh voice and seemed tense. He had a tendency to giggle: an
attractive, chesty laugh. I noticed he was very tactile and gentle
with the children. He seemed friendly, talking to the woman carer
in his room and working together with her. I made a note to get
to know him as soon as I had a chance and to learn as much as
possible from him.
'Now we're going downstairs to see the older children,' we
"were told, after half an hour or so. 'In some of the rooms they
are quite violent. You need to be careful. Don't go too far in.'
'Do you go downstairs much?' I asked Jenny as we made our
way down.
'Oh no, not since I first arrived. The little ones need me more
• • • Do be careful, my dear,' and she gave me a nervous little smile.
1 relt wry apprehensive as we descended the stairs and crossed
ii
the hall, hearing the manic screams and shouts and unpredictable
banging noises coming from behind the doors we were now,
finally, heading for. Our guides opened the doors into a black
corridor and turned into the first room.
'This is where the children eat,' someone told us. 'They've
finished their lunch now.'
As we stepped into the dark, forbidding room I stumbled on
the uneven floor. Glancing down I saw that I was wading through
ageing food debris. I looked around and realised that the walls
and ceiling were also plastered in food. I tried to look more
closely to see what it was and it appeared mainly to be soup with
lumps of bread and fat in it. There were also sharp bones sticking
out from the slush on the floor, which seemed dangerous for the
children. There were only four tables in the room and no chairs,
which I thought was odd. The tables might once have had melamine
on the surfaces but that had all flaked off long ago, leaving
bare, cracked wood and rusty metal legs. It occurred to me
that virtually no new furniture or fittings could have come into
Ungerini since the outbreak of the Second World War. Time had
stood still for half a century. I couldn't understand why so much
of the food had been discarded when the children I had seen
looked so hungry and malnourished. Two women workers were
coming in with more buckets of cold water, throwing it down on
the floor to sweep the waste food away towards an open hole in
the corner. I didn't move quickly enough and a tidal wave of
mush came over the top of my ankle boots.
We went back into the pitch black corridor and I felt utterly
disorientated. It reminded me of an amusement ride where you
pay to be scared out of your wits, not knowing what is going to
happen, unable to see where you are going. And all the time there
was this manic and unnerving noise. Our guides pushed open
another set of double doors, letting out a little light and we were
met with a cacophony of mad screams. Just as the doors opened
I was able to see about fifteen large children sitting on two beds
before they leapt to their feet and ran towards us. The rest of the
beds were neatly made with worn blankets, like in a hospital.
The large, round woman carer in this room seemed almost
kind to the children, bringing them forward to meet us and then
gently scolding them if they became too clinging or too rough.
They seemed to be comfortable with her and I began to revise the
sweeping judgements I had made about the staff upstairs.
iz
Our guides then took us from room to room, showing us more
and more of these children sitting in the same bleak surroundings.
We were told there were eighty-six of these older children in the
downstairs section. The same thing happened in each room.
They became very over-excited when we entered, many of them
appearing anxious, rocking manically back and forth, chewing
on their hands. I noticed that some of them had developed extra
flaps of flesh on their thumb joints, others seemed to have torn
open their own flesh. All the women had big, thick sticks to
protect themselves.
Apart from a few exceptions like Valentina, all the children
wore an assortment of thin, filthy, torn and unsuitable clothes,
none of them buttoned or zipped, so that their private parts were
permanently on display and they had to yank up their trousers
all the time. None of them had socks, shoes or underwear. Their
feet were blue with cold. Some wore only pyjama tops and hugged
their legs to their chests as if trying to make themselves as small
as possible. Many of the older girls' breasts were exposed as well
as their genitalia. Some of the boys were quite mature and several
of them were masturbating feverishly, which made them look
even more threatening. Again I wondered if it was a good thing
to let them do this; would they become so excited they might
rape another child, or did it help them let off some of their pentup
frustrations? My mind was working in overdrive. I found such
uninhibited sexual behaviour embarrassing in front of the men
in the team. The children's lack of modesty didn't seem to concern
either them or the workers; they didn't even appear to be aware
of it, which made it seem even more dehumanising. We could see that some of the girls were menstruating. How must it feel, I
wondered, to live so wretchedly; to be so cold, filthy and hungry
with no privacy or dignity, no attention or love? I felt overwhelmingly
sad. I was appalled just to see them so neglected what
must it be like to have to endure these conditions? I felt like
an intruder, barging in on their misery. Many of the faces were
devoid of expression or emotion, staring anywhere rather than
make eye contact with us.
In one room there was a big boy, mature enough to have pubic
"air, sitting on a very small baby's potty. He watched us for a few
seconds when we came in and then jumped off the potty, leaving a P'11!^"! red ring around his bottom, and leapt onto Nellie, a
11 ^rong nurse who had come out in the same team as me. He
i3
was making an agitated grunting noise, clinging so tightly that
no one could get him loose. Eventually Nellie and the carer
managed to tear him off and sit him back down on the tiny potty.
I was very impressed by how calm Nellie remained. I couldn't
have coped.
Many of the children were lost in strangely ritualistic behaviour,
similar to the little ones banging their heads on the cots upstairs.
One boy was holding a piece of string up in front of his face and
staring at it intently, just flicking it back and forth. Another would
walk a few steps and then bend as if to pick something up,
straighten up and repeat the process. Others were staring at their
hands or swinging their heads from side to side as if doing
permanent exercises. Some of them were doing it so fast I
imagined their necks must be agony by the end of the day. Others
just sat staring ahead of them.
The deformities were as bad as upstairs but more frightening
because of their size. There were children whose legs had knee
joints the wrong way round or of different lengths, cleft palates
and hair lips, squints, club feet, heads two or three times too big
for the bodies that supported them and teeth that protruded in
unexpected directions. There were a lot of 'floor children' shuffling
themselves around on their bottoms or on all fours like dogs,
and some who were on their feet but were obviously spastic. And
then there were other children who appeared normal apart from
their shaved heads and dirty conditions.
Just like upstairs, none of the rooms had anything for the
children to do, look at or even sit on and often the beds were
packed so close together that there wasn't even room for them to
play on the floor or to fit in a chair. In many rooms the floors
were wet with urine and all the children were huddled together
on just two beds. When one of them wet themselves the puddles
ran along the lino covering the mattress, saturating each child as
they spread. How could anything ever come to any good here?
What could I possibly do to even begin to alleviate this suffering?
The sights were so terrible and the despondency so overpowering
that it felt like drowning - as if a tidal wave of misery had swept
over us and spoiled everything and everyone in its path.
In one room I saw two naked girls hunched together beneath
a bed.
'What are they doing under there?' I asked.
'They're blind girls,' Dana said, as if that explained it. I won14
dpred if they were down there to keep themselves out of the way
r jl^ more violent children. I felt like a spectator at a particularly
noorly run zoo, viewing badly treated, bored and filthy animals.
In one of the downstairs rooms a carer had a bowl of thick
soup and a spoon and was feeding all fifteen children from it, giving each a mouthful in turn. I couldn't understand how they
could let the children share a spoon when it was so obvious that
so many of them had colds and mouth sores, let alone more
serious diseases. I wondered why they didn't let them feed themselves.
The soup also seemed to be burning the children because
it was so hot and I wondered why they didn't let it cool down
first. I could see there were chunks of bread in the bowl which
had gone soggy and I thought it was a pity they hadn't given
the children the bread separately so that they could have had
something to chew on. I assumed there must be a reason for
doing it that way. Just as there must be a reason for the dining
room with no chairs.
Finally we came to a room which Dana told us was for the big,
completely mad boys. 'Be careful,' we were warned. 'They can
be spiteful in here.'
The strong-looking carer in this room had a large lump of
wood beside her chair for protection. There were about ten boys
in the room who became highly agitated as we entered and began
milling towards us. By this point I was genuinely scared of what
might come next. One of them was howling like a wolf and others
were shouting and screaming, most of them doing ritualistic acts
like flicking their fingers in front of their faces. Two of the boys
started to fight, snapping, snarling and biting at one another. The
woman screamed at them and whacked the lump of wood down
on the side of the bed to make them stop. They separated and
slunk away from one another, growling.
From the far end of the room one of the bigger boys started to
trampoline down towards us across the beds. As he reached the
final bed he stared straight into my face and I knew that he was
going to hit me. Before I could avoid him he launched himself off
the bed and punched me in the eye with all his considerable
strength. He caught me on the eyebrow and I had never felt pain
like it. Stars exploded in my head and the air was knocked out
of my body as I fell backwards. Everyone rushed round me asking
" I was all right. I tried to sound blase and brave and staggered from the room, my head splitting with pain.
'What did I do to upset him?' I wanted to know.
'It's not you,' one of the team assured me, 'it's just that we have broken into their routine and it disorientates them. We wen intruding into Marius's lair.'
'Marius, is that his name?' I asked.
'He's one of the brighter ones,' one of the team explained
'They give him medication, but not in a controlled fashion, so he's either completely out of it or aggressive.'
I thought I was going to have to admit my mistake and go
home. I was the wrong person in the wrong place, too frightened
to be useful and unable to achieve anything because I had no
experience or training to back me up. My eye was throbbing
painfully.
But the worst was yet to come. Once I had stopped seeing stars
we continued our tour with a visit to the 'bathrooms'. Virtually
no light came in through the tightly closed and filthy windows
but as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could see the wood was
rotting on the walls. There were two dirty baths in the far corner
with a dividing wall between them and the rest of the room.
Along one wall were a line of about ten overflowing babies'
potties. There were also four Western-style white toilet bowls in
doorless cubicles which were not plumbed in but were nevertheless
being used. They were full to the brim with excrement.
There was no paper or anything else with which to wipe or clean
the children or the room.
'They empty the toilets out every so often by hand,' our guides
explained.
The concentrated stench was so overpowering that I found ir
hard to get air into my lungs. It was like breathing clouds of
poisonous chemicals and my head felt as if it was splitting. It was
the most hideous odour I had ever encountered and it made me
feel dizzy with nausea. It permeated everything - my clothes, rriv
hair, my nose. I could feel myself getting hot and panic gripped me as I struggled to appear calm. Drawing breath was becoming
a problem. The contents of the pots and lavatory bowls had
flooded out over the floors so that not only were we wading
through it in our shoes but the floor children had to shuffle
through it on their hands and bottoms, soaking it up into their
clothes. Those that could walk were coming in and out in bare
feet. We were skidding around on the wet floors as if in some
ridiculous nightmare and I was terribly afraid I was going to slip
16
and land in all the muck. I felt selfish to be having such thoughts because everything was so much worse for the children. Surely, I
reasoned to myself, the plumbing should have been the first thing
to be put right in a place where sickness and disease were rife. To
my relief we were shown some other toilets for our use: two holes
in the ground with a tub of water to tip down after. I looked
around for some comforting toilet tissue but there wasn't even
an old newspaper. It wasn't good but it was better than the
children had.
As the misery of Ungerini Irrecuperable Orphanage soaked
into me, I wondered how the children could have survived at all.
Not only was there dreadful physical deprivation but a lack of
any sort of human contact. There was a total absence of emotion;
no stimulation, no touching, no conversation - just the barking
of orders and the screaming of abuse. The children were herded
like cattle, prodded, pushed, fed, watered and then returned to
their prisons. I couldn't believe that hell could be any more
frightening or wretched than this place.
From bathrooms we moved on to the kitchens, past women
peeling potatoes with knives, sitting on low kitchen stools with
their massive legs wide apart and their thick, full-length knickers
on display. It occurred to me that a few simple potato scrapers
would have made a big difference to their lives. They were being
very wasteful, cutting great chunks out and discarding them, and
once they had finished peeling they just put the potatoes on the
floor so that they then had to pick them up and put them into a
pot in a separate operation. It all seemed like a tremendous waste
of energy to me.
One of the women gave me a sweet smile as we went past into
the main kitchen where they had a massive, central cooking range.
It was being run on petrol which made the air smutty and everyone
had red eyes. Wafer-thin metal sheets had been placed haphazardly
across the flames with huge cauldrons of food boiling
up on top - they didn't smell too bad after what we had just
experienced. My first thought was that if the metal sheets gave
way they would have a major disaster on their hands and then I
wondered how they ever managed to lift these enormous pots.
Ihere were a lot of bones and other unrecognisable pieces of meat being dropped into the mixture. There were six men eating
round a table on the other side of the room. I assumed they were
workers and I noticed that they had some fairly decent looking
i7
meat on their plates. It looked like they got the best bits.
'There is no running hot water here,' Dana explained to us, 's( i if they need it they have to boil it up for themselves.'
I noticed all the dirty feeding bottles from the children's rooms
upstairs were standing around on the floor waiting to be washed
in cold water. I was stunned by the lack of hygiene all around the
building and then I thought that in some perverse way it might
help to make the children resistant to everyday germs. The children
who were still alive in Ungerini must be exceptionally strong
in order to have survived all the various cross-infections thai must be travelling around between the bedrooms, the lavatories
and the kitchens, let alone all the other hardships they endured.
By the end of the tour all six of us had become strangely silent,
each of us lost in our own thoughts as to how we were going to
be able to cope with working here. Some of us had started to
cough from the smoky, damp air.
'We'll stop for lunch now,' our guide told us and we headed
back to the team room.
I couldn't eat, not only because of nausea. Adrenalin was
rushing through me as my mind raced over all I had seen and I
tried to work out what on earth I could do to help these people.
The established team was talking quite happily amongst themselves
whilst we newcomers kept fairly quiet. Three or four of
the children stood outside the door, watching us handing round
our packed lunches which had been made up at the hotel from
food shipped out for our use from Britain. There was bread,
cheese, meat, fruit and cups of instant coffee.
One boy had been allowed into the room. He was introduced
to us as Lucien and we were told he was seventeen, although
he was very tiny and propelled himself around the home on a
skateboard. He had horribly deformed arms and legs which went
in all different directions. He reminded me of E.T. and seemed to
be a favourite of the British volunteers. They were feeding him
bits and pieces of chocolate, sitting him on a bench. One of the
Irish girls remarked sadly that he looked like an organ grinder's
monkey. I couldn't understand how they could do that in front
of the other children who were being given nothing. As time
passed more and more expressionless little faces joined the crowd
outside, their noses pressed up against the window, watching Lucien with envy.
In the afternoon I noticed that the Red Cross nurses had got
18
^r
very small groups of the bigger children dressed and were taking
them outside for walks, which I thought looked like a wonderful
idea - the first positive thing I'd seen all day. Our British guides
still didn't make any mention of these other, quiet helpers. It was
all very odd.
At the end of that first day I felt physically and emotionally
drained. We drove back to the hotel with the other British team
members in silence. My head was pounding. My clothes stank
and felt squelchy with the children's bodily excretions. Mark, the
friendly blond chap, made me a cup of tea with huge lumps of
powdered milk floating around in it and it went down like pure
nectar. I shared a room with Nellie at first because the other two
girls did not like her smoking and, although I shared their feelings,
I wanted to diffuse at least one of the tensions amongst us. After
the first two weeks we were each given our own rooms. There
was no hot water so Nellie and I had cold showers and then
dunked our clothes into a bath full of cold water. I lay on the bed
for about an hour clutching Tough Ted, my teddy, trying to make
sense of it all. How could they keep the children like this? How
could I change things to make it better for them? Would the staff
listen to me and help?
'I thought you were brilliant with that boy who latched onto
you,' I told Nellie. 'I don't know what I would do if he did it to
me.'
'Old Potty Man?' she laughed. She was a trained nurse and
had worked with the mentally ill before. 'Don't worry, Bev. If he
jumps on you I'll get him off.'
One by one, other members of the team I had travelled out
with came into our room and we began to talk, to run over what
we had seen and heard while I made coffee. The team that was
already out there was also staying in the hotel but they were on
the other side of the building and seemed otherwise occupied
until we all met downstairs, in the ornately carved hotel dining
room, to eat a basic meal of chicken and chips. The old hands
were laughing and joking about the standard of the food but I
didn't think we were going to starve. That evening I was told by
our team leader that I had been allocated Salon One where Jenny
"ad been working and where all the most severely handicapped
and the children who were expected to die were put. They said
^ felt that there my lack of experience would do the least
fc » r?
amount of harm - to me or the children. Their deaths were seen
as inevitable so I wouldn't be able to do anything to worsen that
prognosis!
For some reason that first evening we had all smartened ourselves
up for dinner. I had even put on some earrings. It was a
bizarre, surreal experience, sipping local champagne so rough it
gave you a headache before you felt drunk, and making small
talk in the shabby grandeur of the hotel dinning room after
having seen such terrible sights. The waiters in their old-fashioned
uniforms had even managed to resurrect some elegant old champagne
glasses for us. I felt like I was an onlooker, watching the
strange scene from outside myself. There were about sixteen of
us round the table and everyone seemed to be very negative,
complaining about the children, the carers, Madam Augustina,
the Romanians, the hotel, the food. I looked across at the other
table which was occupied by the Norwegian Red Cross team who
seemed to be having a much jollier time than us. An elderly
woman amongst them caught my eye and gave me the sweetest
of smiles across the room. I was later to learn that her name was
Dr Kari; she had suffered as a girl at the hands of the Nazis in
Oslo. There was no one else in our section of the dining room,
the local Romanians having to eat in the outside area.
Although I had planned an early night I couldn't get to sleep.
I wondered if I could ever clear those awful recurring images
from my mind. Would I ever breathe again without being sickened
by the smells which seemed to have invaded my body despite
having scrubbed myself raw and liberally sprayed myself with
precious perfume. It was only weeks since the whole adventure
had begun but it felt like years. In one day I had seen more
suffering and horror than most of us see in our whole lives. It
was two in the morning before I finally sank into a fitful sleep.
zo
•t&,&i!&.;
CHAPTER TWO
Leaving an Ordinary Life
^
1 would be the first to admit that by the age of forty I had started
to lead a fairly humdrum life. Coming from a large, dramaridden
family I had deliberately opted for a quiet, rather ordinary
adulthood. During the day I worked as a secretary in the computer
department of Abbey National. The people I worked for were
extremely nice and conditions were excellent but the job was not
an exciting one and I got more satisfaction from chatting to the
various people who came to me with their problems than I did
from the job itself. I've always found that people like using me
as a sort of agony aunt. I was a bit older than most of the others
in the office, with a very stable home life and plenty of time on
my hands to listen to their woes and give them the sympathy they
felt they needed. In the evening I went home to my tidy house,
my kind and loving husband, John, my stepson Russell, whom I
had brought up as my own for twenty years, and my two border
collies. Misty and Moss.
It was a secure and happy life and I honestly didn't believe that
I had the ability or desire to achieve anything more. At least,
most of the time I thought that. Just occasionally, however, I had
harboured little fantasies of going out into the world and doing
something that would 'make a difference' to the lives of others
less fortunate. Sometimes I would express this desire to John but
his reaction was always the same: 'You need qualifications for
that sort of work,' he would say gently. 'No one would take on
someone of your age with no medical or teaching background.'
supposed he must be right, I certainly didn't feel confident
enough to stick my neck out and apply for anything without his
^pport and I never had the nerve to give up my much needed
2,1
salary in order to go and get the qualifications that I lacked. Sc
stayed in my rut, like millions of other people, thinking abo
doing great and good things in the world, then getting on wi- everyday life.
At the end of 1990 I heard about the fall of President Nicolae
Ceaucescu. Like everyone else in Britain, John and I started
reading all the articles which were appearing about Romania in
the newspapers. To begin with it sounded like just another tale
of an old tyrant brought down by his own greed and the corruption
of those around him, but I felt excited by it and all my
sympathies were with the revolutionaries who had brought about
his downfall. Gradually, as the Western news teams moved inro
the newly liberated country, the full horror of what had been
happening under his rule was revealed. The Western world had
witnessed nothing like it for nearly fifty years. We had grown
used to seeing images of war and starvation and natural disasters earthquakes
and floods - on our screens, but this was something
else entirely. As the cameras and journalists entered the orphanages
and madhouses of Romania, we were shown as shocking a
picture of man's inhumanity to man as at the liberation of the
concentration camps at the end of the Second World War. There
were the same threatening buildings and inmates who looked like
dead-eyed skeletons, imprisoned in the most horrifying conditions
of neglect. This time there wasn't even the excuse of a war; these
children had never done anything to hurt anyone and had been
completely unable to defend themselves - they simply hadn't
fitted their leader's vision for the future of his country.
As I watched these pictures, I felt that familiar twinge of longing
to do something to help but what could someone as unqualified
as me possibly do? Months later Romania was brought to our
attention again. Blue Peter, the children's television programme,
had started raising money for the area and telling some of the
stories of the children trapped in the institutions. My sister Suzy's
children had mentioned this to us, so John and I made a point of
watching the programme with our tea when we got home from
work. We were moved and shocked. The more I found out about
the country and its people the more I felt that I was somehow
destined to be involved with Romania.
» » »
2,2.
About a week before Christmas 1990, I was sitting reading my boss's Daily Telegraph one lunchtime, munching on something
from the company sandwich and salad bar, when I spotted an
advertisement placed by the Romanian Orphanage Trust. It asked
for volunteers to go out to an orphanage for physically and
mentally handicapped children and help some of the children
get a little closer to leading normal lives. This was exactly the
opportunity I'd been looking for. Somehow I felt that the ad was
talking just to me, that this was how I was going to get to do
something to help. But then my heart sank. They were looking
for qualified nurses, doctors, teachers and physiotherapists. I felt
desperately disappointed but remembered what a Scotsman once
said to me: 'If you don't ask, you don't get.' So, with a mixture
of excitement and trepidation, preparing myself for the inevitable
disappointment of rejection, I telephoned the number in the
advertisement.
'I'm afraid I don't have any medical or teaching qualifications,'
I confessed to the rather grand voice on the other end of the
telephone, burbling on to cover my nervousness, 'but I am good
at organising things and getting things done, and I enjoy the
company of children and I work hard.' I was desperately trying
to think of what other attributes might endear me to her but I
was running out. 'I'm good at following instructions, not prickly
or anything. I'm a good team member. I'm not expecting to be a
star.' I could hear myself going on and on but I couldn't stop.
The woman sounded unsure as to whether I would be considered.
I felt that if I could just win her over I would have passed
the first obstacle. 'I think they really need people with specific
skills for helping sick children,' she told me, not unkindly, 'but I
would be happy to send you an application form anyway so you
can see what you think.' I felt childishly excited to receive even
this much encouragement.
When I got home and told John what I had done, as casually
as I could manage, his reaction was just as I would have expected.
'Don't get your hopes up too high, Bev,' he warned me. 'I don't want you to be disappointed. They're looking for doctors and
nurses and childcare experts - people like that.'
I knew he was right, but I still couldn't suppress a surge of
excitement when the envelope arrived a few days later. I tore it
open and started to read. Not only did I have none of the
professional qualifications they were asking for, I didn't even have
... ^
the right amateur skills. Could I paint? Only in the most childish
manner. Could I drive a car? No. Could I play a musical instrument?
No. There wasn't a single question that I could answer
positively. Was I really such a failure? Did I really have so little
to offer? On top of everything else they were asking for people
to stay in Romania for at least one month, in order to give the
children some continuity, and I knew that my bank manager was
not going to take kindly to the idea of me being unpaid for that
long, even if the Abbey National allowed me the time off work.
I pushed the form into a drawer and decided, with a heavy
heart, to forget it.
That evening we watched Anneka Rice on television, answering
a challenge to refurbish an orphanage in Siret, Romania. John set
the video to record in case we were interrupted by the telephone.
The terrible state of the children made us cry.
'What could you possibly do to help children like that?' John
asked, his eyes still full of tears. 'Where would you start in such
a hopeless situation?'
'I don't know; perhaps they just need a little love and attention,'
I said. I wasn't going to give up that easily. I stared at the drawer
where the form was for what seemed like ages, feeling desperate,
and then dismissed once more the thought that I might be able
to do something, when I remembered all the things I couldn't do.
I don't normally have trouble sleeping, but at two in the
morning I found myself still awake, images of the orphans circling
round in my head. How could it possibly be that I had nothing
to offer those poor children? I could wash and feed them, help
them to dress, play games with them, take them out in the fresh
air, talk to them, cuddle them. I could scrub walls and floors and
wield a paintbrush just like Anneka. Weren't any of those things
needed before the specialists moved in? I slid out of bed, careful
not to wake John and crept downstairs.
I can't think properly if I'm cold, so I pulled a sleeping bag out
of a cupboard and wrapped myself up in it as I replayed the
programme. The dogs watched with puzzlement as I turned off
the television and sat down at the kitchen table to re-read the
application form. Misty, unsettled by my strange behaviour,
climbed up onto my lap and I had to rest the form on her back.
After a few minutes I got out a pen and started to write down
what I could do. I could sing, well enough to get others going,
and I might not be able to draw for toffee but I could use bright
24
niours in paintings. In one of the boxes I wrote: 'Please, please
read the attached sheet.' I then took a clean piece of paper and
fold them why I thought I might have something to offer the
unfortunate orphans of Romania. I told them that I was always
iolly and willing to tackle any jobs I was given and that I made
gallant attempts to be supportive in difficult situations; that I was
good at working as a team member and at doing what I was
asked.
The next day I posted the form off, one minute preparing
myself for the possibility that I would not hear another thing,
the next moment planning exactly what I would do when they
accepted me. I could take lots of beach balls - they wouldn't
weigh too much in my luggage and are brightly coloured. Playing
catch would teach the children co-ordination and would liven
them up for the day. I could take bubble-mixture out with me.
All children love bubbles and it would be fun for them to chase
them around and pop them. I warned myself that all these plans
would probably come to nothing, but something deep inside my
head wouldn't take no for an answer. I was so confident that I
actually rang a temp, a lovely Jamaican girl called Gloria who'd
sat in for me at Abbey National before.
'Would you be free for a month if I was to go to Romania?' I
asked.
She said she would be and I made her promise she wouldn't
tell anyone until it was confirmed. Knowing Gloria would cover
for me was a great relief because I knew she was good at the job
and I wouldn't be leaving my bosses in the lurch. I was working
as a secretary to two of the managers in the computer department,
both of whom I liked very much. I wanted to be ready to counter
any arguments they might put forward against my going and to
leave them with someone who would look after them. When I
told John that I had sent off the form he seemed rather proud,
which surprised and pleased me, although he still kept counselling
pessimism.
Impatient for an answer, I rang the grand but helpful lady
again. Felicity MacPherson was a volunteer who worked from
home so I was always able to get straight through to her, but felt
guilty about bothering her so often. 'I've filled in the form and
Posted it,' I told her, 'but I'm worried you won't think I'm
qualified enough. I'm sure I'm too old as well.'
Don't worry,' she tried to calm me as I babbled on, 'I really
2,5
don't think your age will be a handicap. It might even be a po
advantage because of all the life experience you've had.'
All through Christmas I kept dreaming of what might happen,
and then telling myself not to be so foolish. The holiday seemed
to delay things intolerably and I didn't receive a confirmation of
receipt of my application for nearly three weeks. But at least I
hadn't been rejected out of hand. I didn't find the letter until late
in the day and even though it was well after work hours I rang
Felicity MacPherson again. The poor woman was about to have
her dinner, but she told me that the Consultant Paediatrician, Dr
Judith Darmady, was going to look at all the applications which
hadn't been rejected the following weekend. I was so excited I
could feel a wave of hysteria coming on and had to take the dogs
for a walk to try to get rid of some surplus energy!
The papers were full of the impending war with Saddam
Hussein over the next few days, which put me in a reflective and
sombre mood, worrying about the troops lining up out there and
their poor families waiting at home. Then, on 15 January, Felicity
rang. She invited me to go for an interview the following Tuesday.
I think John was even more amazed than I was, but he still kept
telling me not to get my hopes up because they were probably
seeing hundreds of people. I was overjoyed, but a little nervous;
I hoped Dr Darmady would feel my enthusiasm would make up
for my inexperience.
'I think I'd better give you a lift down there,' John suggested.
'I don't trust you to get there on your own. God knows how you'll
find your way to the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains.'
I was grateful for this offer; it would take a lot of the strain
out of the ordeal for me to have him along and not have to worry
about travel arrangements. John always took care of all the
practicalities when we went on holiday simply because he enjoyed
that sort of thing and I didn't. I did wonder how I would manage
in a strange country, so far from home, without him. We arrived
far too early, but I didn't mind, and we sat in the car chatting
nervously.
'I won't come in with you,' John said. 'I'll wait in the car and
listen to the news about the Gulf.'
At last the appointed time arrived and I joined a bunch of other
waiting hopefuls. Most of them seemed to be professionals teachers
or music specialists - or had experience working with
handicapped children.
2,6
'My name's Fiona,' an intense, smiling young woman of about
hteen with cascades of hair, introduced herself. 'Call me Fee.'
T thought I talked a lot but even I couldn't get a word in edgeways
as she chattered nervously on as we waited our turn. She told me
all about heavy carriage driving which was her hobby, and her
flute playing. She told me she was a committed Christian. Oh
well I thought, someone has to be! She was very friendly and
jolly and I admired her for volunteering for something like this
when she was still so young. She told me her mother ran a home
for people with mental and physical handicaps and that she had
helped out all her life.
Another woman told me that she was a teacher and had played
hockey for England. She asked me what I did. I told her. 'Oh,'
she said after a long pause, 'do you think that your experience as
a secretary in the Systems Department of the Abbey National will
prove useful to the orphans?'
I wished I could think of a smart answer, but I couldn't because
she had voiced exactly the doubts which had been gnawing away
in my head for the past month.
At last I went in to meet Felicity MacPherson and was introduced
to Dr Darmady, a warm, lively woman with sparkling eyes
who explained all aspects of life and work in the orphanage,
good and bad.
'Do you still want to go?' she asked at the end.
'Oh, absolutely,' I assured her.
'There is quite likely to be violence from some of the bigger
children,' she warned me. 'How would you handle that?'
I have been afraid of violence, since childhood. My father had
a drink problem and a temper and often took his frustration out
on my mother. His rages were very frightening and I only plucked
up the courage to interfere once. He fixed me with such a look
that I scuttled away, never daring to challenge him again.
'I think,' I chose my words carefully, 'that if they know I'm not
going to hurt them and that they have nothing to fear, then they
won't want to hurt me.'
The women working there will be unfriendly, unhelpful and
definitely unco-operative,' she continued, not commenting on my
answers, 'completely deaf to new ideas. How will you handle
them?'
The worse they are the more cheerful and persuasive I will be,'
assured her, 'until the results speak for themselves.'
2,7
Dr Darmady nodded, still without commenting. I dare say she thought I was being rather optimistic. After we had talked for a
while I mentioned that John was waiting in the car and she
suggested I invite him in. I suppose they wanted to see how
supportive he was being and whether he was likely to put pressure
on me not to go. Normally John is the most confident man going,
able to talk to anyone and everyone, but he was so worried about
saying something that would spoil my chances at the last moment
that he behaved as if he was applying for the job himself.
I noticed both Dr Darmady and Felicity were talking about
'when' I went out to Romania, but I didn't have the nerve to stop
them and ask if it meant I'd got the job. Eventually I summoned
up the courage to ask and they said, 'Yes, we need you urgently.
Can you fly out in two weeks' time and stay for three months?'
I leapt up, grabbed the doctor's hand, shook it vigorously,
kissed her on the cheek, gave her an enormous hug and then did
the same to Felicity. I thoroughly embarrassed myself.
'Well,' Dr Darmady recovered from her surprise and gave a
broad smile, 'those children can look forward to lots of warmth,
touching and hugs from you, can't they, Bev?'
When we got outside John and I just fell into each other's arms,
our eyes full of tears. We didn't say anything; we just hugged and hugged. The one factor that we still couldn't predict was the
reaction of the Abbey National to the news that I was going for
three months (it eventually turned into four and a half months).
I could take the first month out of my annual holiday, but what
about the rest?
'They may not agree to let you go, Bev,' John warned, still
reluctant to believe that things were actually going so well.
'No,' I agreed, 'I know.' The idea worried me because I didn't
feel confident about leaving and having no job to come back to.
It would be enough of a culture shock to be travelling alone to a
foreign country, without losing all my security blankets at home.
John was working hard to set up his own direct marketing
company and although it was doing well it was still a small
business, vulnerable to the whims of a few clients. Knowing that
at least one of us had a salary coming in each month gave us both
a lot of comfort, and my working for Abbey National meant that
we had a special deal on our mortgage that we didn't feel we
could give up. I've never been good at managing money, always
spending it as soon as I have it and never saving anything, ^I'l''
2.8
r
with plenty of debts to credit card companies there was nothing
crored away to cover months without a salary.
'Two weeks really isn't enough time for you to get yourself
sorted out,' John continued.
'No it isn't,' I agreed, staring out the window at the passing
winter scenery. I knew that everything he was saying was true
but in my heart I knew that I had to go to Romania now, whatever
happened, and I rather wished that he would stop looking at the
potential obstacles and concentrate on the fact that I had been
accepted. We didn't allow our doubts to deter us from planning
exactly what I would need to take with me on the trip. I thought
it would be better to take lots of layers to keep warm, rather than
very thick clothes, and John volunteered his two rugby shirts. I
would have to spend out on a good coat and some boots and
thermal underwear - what a sight that was going to be! Funds
were too low to buy much more; I would just have to make do
with what I had.
I was very nervous when I went into work the day after the
interview and went straight to my boss, Peter Lazard. I told him
what I wanted to do, holding my breath as I waited for him to
tell me it was impossible.
'That's wonderful,' he said. 'I admire you so much. Leave it
with me and I'll go to Personnel for you and sort it out with
them. I'm sure it will be fine.'
I couldn't believe that it was going to be that easy. He went off
to do battle and I waited nervously for the response. When he
came back he told me that initially the personnel people had
grumbled about 'setting precedents' but that he had pointed out
that not many people were likely to want to pack up and head
for Romania at a moment's notice and they had agreed.
I had rather hoped that I wouldn't have to tell anyone else
about what I was doing. I didn't want to draw attention to myself;
it would sound rather like showing off to announce that I was
going to Romania to help orphans. By now it felt so natural for
me to be going that it didn't seem anything out of the ordinary or
worthy of special attention -1 was just going. But I couldn't keep
it a secret for long. A female manager I had always been rather
in awe of stalked over and told me she couldn't decide whether
was 'mad or wonderful', and another woman, Janet Stevens,
who worked in the management training department, gave me
^g with a wooden crucifix on it. 'You won't understand
. Sl, K z?
the significance now,' she said, 'but you will when you get there.
You will never be the same person again.' Being an atheist I didn't
put much store by her words, but I took the ring and I appreciated
the gesture.
The next two weeks were a whirlwind of activity. I never got
more than a few hours' sleep each night as I charged through the
house cleaning out cupboards, mending clothes that had been
awaiting my attention for months, washing and ironing everything
I could find. I even tidied up the garden - in January! I
was taking on an expedition mentality - getting everything and
everyone organised. I was up at five every morning to arrive at
work early so that I could get up to date with my filing - something
I have never been good at - and prepare everything for an
impending office move.
I went to see our family doctor, Dr Prisk, at the Central Milton
Keynes Health Centre a few days later about injections and he
gave me stern warnings about the risks of getting AIDS from the
children. I told him that I had read up on this and would be
taking proper precautions. Almost as a throwaway comment he
added, rather wickedly I thought, 'Oh, and of course there is the
risk of AIDS from promiscuity.'
'Doctor,' I said, 'you would only have to see me in my thermal
underwear to know that there's little risk of promiscuity.'
I went to the local library and John went to the Romanian
embassy looking for background information on the country, but
there seemed to be virtually nothing available beyond market and
population trends. The Romanian Orphanage Trust, which was
organising and financing my trip, sent me a little material but it
was obvious that no one in the West knew much about what had
been going on in the area since the last war.
At the same time I wrote letters to anyone I could think of,
asking for donations or help for the project. Amongst others, I
wrote to Roy Castle. He sent a very nice letter back, enclosing
2 pounds 5 and apologising for not being able to spare more, but explaining
that he received so many requests that it was impossible to
respond to them all. He told me that he wanted me to spend the
money on getting myself a pair of warm boots rather than on
anything for the children. I ignored the final instruction. (I wrote
to him on my return, and we struck up a friendship. He was
greatly cheered to have positive news of the children he had
helped.)
30
I did have to buy some clothing for myself and I headed to
C & A for most of it. When I asked for advice the girls behind
the counter thought I was going skiing. When I explained what I
was doing they brought out more and more stuff they thought I
would need and I had to admit that I was on a very limited
budget. They then talked amongst themselves and came back to
say that they would like to donate their own staff discounts and
vouchers. I was very touched by the gesture and grateful for the
extra layers I was able to afford.
My sister Karen, who has a sort of siege mentality, believing
you should always bulk buy in case of emergencies, also gave me
a lot of sensible stuff. I had cause to be very grateful on the cold
nights in the hotel with only a sheet and blanket on the bed.
All sorts of people at work and in the family rallied round to
help raise money and collect extra things which I could take with
me for the children. I found it all very encouraging but deeply
embarrassing. On a trip to the office loo I discovered colleagues
had posted a notice on the board opposite announcing, 'Bev
Peberdy is going to an orphanage in Romania - please can you
help?' I had known that some of the girls were fund-raising but I
hadn't realised it would be so public. I shot into the loo, my face
brick red and pulsating with embarrassment. It was then I really
began to panic. Had I bitten off more than I could possibly chew?
Was I going to be taking the place of someone who would be of
some specific use to those poor children? I was racked by nerves
and self-doubt. One minute it seemed like a great adventure, the
next like a ludicrous act of self-delusion.
John was astonished that not only had I been invited to go but
that I was actually going to go through with it. But not for a
moment did he try to talk me out of it. One evening shortly after
the 'loo' incident he told me what some of his clients had said
about me going and I was surprised I cropped up in his conversation
at work.
'You told them about me?' I asked.
'Of course,' he said. 'I'm really proud of you. They were very
impressed.' I felt very touched.
John was more than willing to help me get everything together
for the trip and to look after the house and dogs while I was
away. There was only one stipulation: 'Do not,' he warned me,
'on any account, come back with a baby or a toddler!' We both
roared with laughter at the very thought. Although we loved our
3i
smaller nieces and nephews coming to visit, we were always
relieved when we had the house back to ourselves. Taking on a
small child full-time was unthinkable.
When we first got married I had hoped that we would have
children but it never happened. John wasn't too upset because he
had already had Russell (by his first wife) and after a while I had
talked myself into thinking that perhaps bringing up a stepson
from the age of four was as much as I wanted to do on the
maternal front. John was already divorced when we started going
out, so there has never been any animosity between Edna, his exwife,
and me. She was always very co-operative about John
having regular access to Russell and we saw him either in London
at John's parents or he came to us for weekends. He had his own
little bedroom in our tiny flat and was very much part of our
family, if only part-time. After we had been married for about a
year, Edna decided that Russell would have a better life with us
and I found myself the full-time mother of a six year old. Of
course, Russell still saw his mum whenever it was possible. I
stopped pining and settled for enjoying the freedoms that came
as Russell grew up.
My biggest worry about going to Romania, to be honest, was
whether poor old Misty and Moss would get enough attention
without me around. Joy, my sister-in-law, promised to walk them
in the woods regularly.
'I couldn't do what you are doing,' she told me, 'but I can
provide you with support back here at home.'
By the time I was due to leave England I had accrued boxes
and boxes of toys, paints and other materials which I thought
would help with the job. I had been to the medical department
at work and they had stocked me up with surgical gloves and
syringes. Blue Peter heard, I assume via the Romanian Orphanage
Trust, that I was going and asked me to take out the posters
which their viewers had made for the orphans. I was happy to
agree, not realising quite how many parcels there were going to
be.
John and I went to meet the rest of the group in the evening
on Wednesday, 6 February, three days before we were due to
depart. I had been told by Felicity MacPherson that I had been
appointed 'wave leader', which meant that I was to be in charge
of the half dozen people who would be flying out from Heathrow >
with me. I protested that I would much rather be just a team
I
member. I had no ambitions towards leadership but she said they
had thought about it carefully. She promised that as soon as we
reached Romania I could hand over responsibility to the existing
team leader, a nurse working full-time at Ungerini. The team was
an eccentric and interesting bunch of characters, all endowed
with exactly the sorts of qualifications I so obviously lacked.
Coming from such diverse backgrounds I wouldn't have expected
the team to be the best of friends in normal life but I assumed
that, united by a common cause, we would manage to cover our
differences and work together.
As the time to leave drew nearer it became increasingly obvious
that I was not going to be able to get everything into my luggage.
Thankfully, Russell, a seasoned camper and traveller, came to the
rescue and repacked for me. Then it was the morning of departure
and time to say goodbye to Moss and Misty, to the house, to
comfort, to security and, though I didn't realise it at the time, my
whole way of life.
When it was time to say goodbye to John at the airport, I
wept, feeling a terrible wave of panic sweeping over me. Anyone
watching would have thought we were going to be apart for
years. How would I manage without him, without his company
and support? We had never been away without each other in
twenty years of marriage and he had looked after every practical
arrangement we had ever made. How could I possibly get this
group of people all the way to Romania without him? As I went
through the departure gate, I glanced back and, through a blur
of tears, took one last look at my beloved John. Then all too
quickly he was gone and I was on my own.
33
CHAPTER THREE
Culture Shocks
*
1 felt my first task would be to keep the group's spirits up through
a thirteen-hour flight delay. We were all heading for a foreign
land and had virtually nothing in common.
Roger had trained as a barrister but had recently been looking
after adults with very special needs. He turned out to be wonderful
with the children, but not so good at communicating with his
colleagues. Roger was particularly skilful with the most difficult
and unattractive children. Whereas there was a temptation for
all of us to work hardest with the children who were the most
normal, he always struck a chord with the ones with the most
problems. There was a little Down's Syndrome boy, Andrei, in
Salon One who always lay on his back. Roger became a particular
friend to him and we would get him up and put him in a corner
seat, from which he would survey the room like an old judge,
blowing bubbles with his spittle all the time.
There were two Irish girls; Jacqui, a feisty young psychologist
and Diane, a beautiful, six-foot physiotherapist who had already
done three months in Romania and was fluent in the language. I
was sure she would have been much better than me as wave
leader.
Matthew was a very handsome and personable nurse who
specialised in looking after old people, and there was another
nurse named Catherine, and who preferred to be called Nellie.
She had cared for mental patients and, being immensely strong,
did more than her fair share of carrying our cases around.
And then there was me, a secretary and seemingly the most
placid personality in the group - just wishing that someone would
turn up and take responsibility and tell me what to do next. I
34
could tell immediately that I was going to get on with the two
Irish girls (before long I was calling them the 'Two Irish Tarts' or
'Tits' for short, and they referred to me as 'The Old Bag').
By the time we boarded the aircraft I was already getting to
know some of my fellow travellers. They weren't turning out to
be how I had imagined charity workers to be. I had imagined
that all women charity workers and volunteers would be crosses
between Anneka Rice and Esther Rantzen, and that the men
would be somewhere between Philip Schofield and Dr Finlay. I
imagined they would be problem-free, existing solely to carry out
admirable works. Their saintly endeavours would require vast
amounts of energy, expertise and self-sufficiency, which they
would all have in abundance. They would all be incredibly proactive
rather than reactive. It came as a surprise, and something
of a relief, to find out that they were human just like the rest of
us!
I suppose if I had thought more deeply about why people might
give up everything - job, home, family - I would have realised
that there would be people who were looking for a way to escape
from their own personal problems. After all, I had been looking
for a way to enliven my own existence.
The moment we stepped into the TAROM plane we knew that
we were moving into a very different culture. No one working
for this national airline was worried about things like courtesy
and customer service. 'Sit over there!' the stewardess shrieked at
us. The plane was horribly hot and a familiar feeling of nausea
began to well up inside me, despite the travel-sickness tablets.
Roger begged to be allowed to sit next to me. I was rather
surprised, expecting him to want to sit with one or other of the
attractive Irish girls. Then I realised that he was so terrified of
flying he was looking for a comforting presence rather than
flirtation and he had been fooled by my outward appearance of
calm. I did my best to offer him gentle encouragement. He was
red hot to the touch and sweating profusely as he held my arm
in a grip of steel with one hand and threw back drinks with the
other. I thought he was very brave to volunteer to put himself
through such an ordeal.
Around us was a group of about twenty Baptists who had had
the Bible translated into Romanian and were heading out to
'spread the word'. They talked a great deal about how we should
be 'letting Jesus into our hearts'. I was actually more worried
35
about keeping my food down. I warned them that I was an atheist
and unlikely to be satisfactory material for conversion.
'You can't be an atheist,' they insisted, 'if you are going out to
Romania to do God's work.'
I couldn't quite see why only Christians were allowed to help
other people and why they should have the monopoly on caring,
but I didn't feel up to a heated debate and I was fairly certain
that nothing I could say would change their opinions anyway. In
the coming months I would meet a lot of people with strong
religious convictions, some of whom were doing very good practical
work indeed, and some of whom were concentrating on
getting as many converts as possible to their particular sects
without actually doing anything to help improve the quality of
life in Romania ... it takes all sorts.
I was feeling worse and worse as the plane grew hotter and
circled for what seemed like an age before landing at Bucharest.
Roger said that even though he was otherwise occupied with his
fear of flying, he did notice that I had gone more colours of green
than he knew existed. It seemed that the flight would never end
and I was beginning to wish I had never heard of Romania.
Eventually we descended onto the tarmac and were directed onto
a bus which took us swaying and bumping over to the terminal
building.
Because of the delay in London we had arrived in the early
hours of the morning. There only seemed to be one light on in
the whole airport and there were a number of bored looking
soldiers hanging around the concourse with rifles and machine
guns and worn-out uniforms. A greeter from the Romanian
Orphanage Trust had come out to the airport to collect us but
had failed to bring the necessary documents so we were unable
to clear customs. After the seemingly interminable flight, this was
the last straw and some of our team were ready to go home,
saying, 'Do they want our f. ..... help or not?'
Realising that this was the moment when a 'wave leader' should
be taking control I put on my most confident face, willed my
hands to stop shaking and handed the officials my Romanian
Orphanage Trust letter of acceptance which ran to six pages. The
letter was in English and looked very official. They looked at it
suspiciously and then took it away for about forty-five minutes
and pretended to read it. I know they only pretended because
when they gave it back they spoke to me in French, obviously
36
having been unable to discern what language the letter was in.
Anyway, it seemed to do the trick and we were let through. I was
astounded that I had actually taken charge and succeeded in
achieving something already but I was nervous that the other
team members would think I was pushing myself forward. I
waited for somebody to decide what would happen about getting
the luggage out to the waiting van but no one seemed to be
making any suggestions, so I tentatively suggested that perhaps
we should organise ourselves into shifts with two people standing
guard outside to make sure the luggage wasn't stolen from the
van while the others took turns to ferry the cases out. I alone had
103 kilos of luggage so I could see that I had to do something to
get things moving. Russell had rather unkindly but honestly
pointed out when repacking for me that it was lucky airlines did
not take a passenger's body weight into account when setting
weight limits, otherwise I would have been lucky to get on board
with a carrier bag.
After carrying out almost the last load I tried to go back in for
the rest. A soldier shoved me in the ribs with his rifle, barring my
way. I felt breathless with a mixture of pain from the blow and
sudden fear, and I was desperate to spend a penny but could find
nowhere to go. By this point I felt close to tears and couldn't face
going back into the airport. The others brought the last pieces
out and we climbed into the van with relief. Diane and Jacqui were
also desperate for a pee by then and our agony was intensified as
the brakeless van which picked us up bumped and crashed into
|| town over the potholes.
A The hotel in Bucharest must once have been a rather elegant
|1| old establishment but was now decidedly faded. Our driver
" dropped us off in reception and disappeared. There was a note
telling us our room numbers and saying that the next leg of our
journey would be delayed because the van in Bacau had broken
down, but there was no number for us to call to find out the
details of when it would be fixed.
We had to haul our luggage up seven floors by hand because
the lifts weren't working. The lift woman was very apologetic
and helpful, making a big show of beating the dust out of the
chairs on each floor as we sat down to catch our breath before
attempting the next flight of stairs. I gave her a bar of chocolate
to thank her and she was overwhelmed with gratitude, returning
the favour with some undrinkably grainy, sweet coffee which she
37
made a great fuss of presenting to us. Having got ourselves into
a complete muck sweat humping the luggage, we discovered that
there was no running water, hot or cold, at that time of day, most
times of day in fact, and no food or drink available.
John had given me a case which he'd told me not to open until
we arrived. Retreating to my hotel room hungry, thirsty and, like
everyone else, increasingly desperate I found that he had packed
half a dozen meals and soft drinks. The whole group fell on this
bounty gleefully! Everyone happily tucked in, while I wondered
how I was going to manage three months without John. He had
slipped in a card telling me how much he loved me and how
proud he was of me and there was also a note from Russell. Boy,
did I feel homesick.
On the evening of the following day we met in the dining room
a group of volunteers from the Romanian Orphanage Trust who
were on their way back to England. They were very depressed
and negative about everything they had experienced, believing it
had been a complete waste of time. The more they moaned and
complained about the authorities, the conditions, the workers
and the children the lower our team spirit was sinking. When
they had gone I tried to revive everyone by saying that perhaps
they had just had bad luck - our experience would probably be
completely different. Deep in the pit of my stomach I was beginning
to feel that I might have misjudged just how bad things were
going to be at Ungerini, even though these volunteers had worked
elsewhere. I had imagined spending afternoons with the children
doing simple crafts, drawing and such and taking them for walks
in the countryside, but the picture these people painted was
altogether greyer and more depressing. The worst part for me
was the fact that these volunteers had ended up with their spirits
broken. I assumed they must have come out with dreams like
mine and I worried that I might end up as disillusioned as them;
that I wouldn't be able to do anything useful or help the children
at all.
No messages arrived for us the next morning and we had no
idea how to contact the existing team at Ungerini who were
supposed to be coming to fetch us. To begin with we hung around
the hotel waiting, but that seemed like a complete waste of time,
so we left a message with reception for anyone who called or
came looking for us to please leave us a number or address and
38
set off to see a bit of Bucharest. Diane knew her way around and
spoke enough of the language to take taxis and talk to the locals.
This allowed us to acclimatise ourselves to this country that had
been through such devastating times and about which the rest of
us knew next to nothing.
I was shocked by just how little food there seemed to be
available. We visited a huge covered market and found it almost
bare of produce; some ancient yellow apples on one table, a few
yoghurts or pickled cabbages on another, each stall manned by a
dead-eyed peasant man or woman wrapped in layer upon layer
of shabby grey clothing. I began to realise just how deep the
poverty of the ordinary people had become. All the best food, we
were told, was exported to bring in dollars. Stopping at restaurants
we were surprised by the size of the menus but soon
learnt that virtually nothing listed was actually available. The
trick was to ask what they had and then choose from the three
or four items offered. The food would then arrive in whatever
order suited the kitchens. Potatoes, for instance, might arrive way
before or after the omelette they were supposed to be accompanying.

The whole city seemed as grey and drab as the peasants in the
market. No one looked up or smiled as they bustled about their
business and an air of depression hung over everyone. Most
people walked along the pavements with their heads down and
if you caught their eye or smiled at them they would look away
and hurry past. Some were more enterprising and would latch
onto us, offering to exchange our dollars for local currency. While
Diane haggled with them to get the best rates their eyes were
always moving furtively as if expecting police officials to appear
at any moment and reprimand them for speaking to foreigners,
an activity that had been strictly prohibited by the previous
regime. There was an air of oppression everywhere.
One beautiful gypsy child, who looked no more than three
years old, latched onto me and begged for some chewing gum or
chocolate whilst quite skilfully attempting to go through my
pockets. I was horrified to see she had only plastic summer sandals
on her bare feet. Her little hands were blue with cold and as she
stared directly into my eyes with a beaming smile her teeth
chattered with the cold. She had a brightly coloured but grimy
scarf on and a full, flared skirt, an exact miniature copy of her
mother who stood nearby, watching nervously.
39
Wherever petrol was sold there would be queues of cars, mostly
rickety, bald-tyred little Dacias - the poor quality of the fuel was
obvious from the way the cars kangarooed around the potholed,
cobbled streets, giving off noxious dark fumes. There was an
occasional Mercedes, but they nearly always had diplomatic flags
on their bonnets. Most of the taxis were Dacias and although
there were enough of us to fit into two cars they nearly always
managed to squash us all into one. The drivers ran round the cars
to let us out because the door handles were missing, or leant
across us, reeking of garlic, to let us out. Many of them had to
hold the doors shut with pieces of string as they drove along.
Everyone seemed to be afraid of the police and the officers
we saw did appear very threatening, always heavily armed and
swaggering along the pavements, forcing other pedestrians into
the road. We stopped to ask one policeman for some directions
and he indicated that the information would cost us five cigarettes.
As with chocolate, we used cigarettes as currency and never got
the whole packet out or the whole lot went.
Many of finest avenues of this once elegant city had been
bulldozed to make way for massive prison-like complexes of
apartments for the family and friends of the Ceaucescus. But it
was still possible to see some beautiful buildings hidden beneath
the grime of pollution and neglect. Many rural villages had been
flattened in just the same way in order to move the people into
the towns where they could work in factories and help to fulfil
the President's dream of turning Romania into an industrial
power.
We could clearly see bullet holes in many of the buildings which
had been badly damaged in the weeks of turmoil surrounding the
fall of Ceaucescu. As we found people who were willing to stop
and chat we learnt much more about the background to the
rebellion and the terrible years of repression which had preceded
it. Many civilians were still armed and we often heard sporadic
gunfire at night.
On our way back to the hotel, gazing up at the beautiful old
buildings with their balconies and bomb damage, we came into
a square full of chanting crowds with placards. From the flags on
the building they were picketing we assumed it was a government
department. The protesters spotted us and came over to talk.
Everyone in Romania seems to think that all foreigners have some
sort of influence on world events. Diane told us that they were
40
from a part of the country which had been annexed by Russia
and they were demanding that the new authorities ask for it back.
We felt very nervous about being seen talking to these people in
case we were accused of indulging in political activities and
thrown out of the country before we even got to the orphanage.
As we tried to move through them towards our hotel there was
a screeching of brakes and tyres as the police arrived in force,
distracting the picketers enough for us to walk quietly away.
Glancing back over our shoulders we saw the crowd dispersing
under the terrifying gaze of the law.
The atmosphere never lost its tension but these were the early
signs of people regaining their courage. Later that day we passed
a church and, hearing some lovely singing coming from inside,
ventured in. It was an Orthodox service with everyone standing
and the beautiful, icon-decorated church was packed with worshippers.

We paid a visit to the Graveyard of the Martyrs, where two
thousand of the people who had been shot or beaten to death in
the revolution were buried. We lit candles and laid flowers on
some of the huge graves which bore pictures of the dead. Word
spread that we were there and several Romanian women came
up and kissed us, thanking us for taking the time to visit the
bodies of their sons, brothers and husbands. It was very moving
to see places we had seen on the news coming to life.
Diane took us to visit Ceaucescu's Palace, the biggest building
I have ever seen. It was designed like a gigantic modern Hyatt
Hotel but with entrances on each corner leading directly underground
which were big enough to take tanks and other armoured
vehicles. We bribed two sets of guards with bars of chocolate,
which they wrapped up carefully to take home to their children
before letting us past. They took us in to show us just the smallest
part of this colossal mansion and I have never seen such opulence.
There were fabulous mosaic floors and marble walls, hand-carved
staircases, crystal chandeliers and completely over-the-top goldplated
bathrooms.
'They say these are not the best areas of the palace,' Diane told
us, 'that there is much more. They say there's another whole
complex underground with passages leading all over the city,
some of which they haven't even been able to trace yet. No one
has been able to count how many rooms there are.' It was an
extraordinary contrast to the life of the people outside, especially
41
since it now stood empty and unused, waiting for some foreign
investor to take an interest and think of a way of utilising it.
The enforced waiting revealed more of the various characters
within the group and I was surprised by my own ability to mediate
between them and to make decisions, even at a very basic level.
It was a side of my character which I had forgotten existed and
reminded me of my earlier life.
My father had been away a lot of the time when I was a child,
working as a foreign correspondent for Reuters. Because of his
drinking it was rather a relief when he went off on his trips to
exotic-sounding places like Africa. Mum was always a very gentle
and sweet person. The eight of us lived happily in Wimbledon,
south London. In my youth I had an ambition to be an actress
but both my parents told me, very sensibly, that I should get some
business training first so that I would have something to fall back
on if the acting didn't work out. While I was on the business
course my mother died of a coronary thrombosis and Dad just
fell to pieces. My youngest brother was still only five and that
meant that someone had to be around to help get him to and
from school and generally provide some support. As the oldest
girl I could see that was my responsibility and I was quite happy
to take it on. Living with my father, a sometimes difficult man,
and being responsible for the family when he was away taught
me to deal with practical problems very pragmatically. It didn't
seem sensible to think any more about taking up acting and so I
started working as a secretary. I went to work at Philips, the
electronics company, and that was where I met John who was
newly divorced.
Once my responsibilities at home were finished (after two years
my father married Margaret, a very attractive and lively divorcee
with three children - making us a family of eleven in all), John
and I married and decided that we would have more to talk about
if we didn't work for the same company. So I moved on to work
as PA to Professor E.M.L. Beale, FRS, Technical Director of a
very large computer company, Scicon, President of the Royal
Statistical Society, Chairman of the Mathematical Programming
Society, Visiting Professor at Imperial College etc, etc, etc. It was
an extremely exciting, rewarding and fulfilling job which taught
me many of the organisational skills which I realised were resurrecting
themselves. After I had been with him for sixteen glo-
42
rious years Martin Beale died, but John and I remain great friends
with his widow Betty and his family. Betty has been one of the
people encouraging me to write this book. When Scicon moved
to Milton Keynes we moved too and John and I settled into our
comfortable life. Years later I was rediscovering those old powers
of diplomacy and mediation.
After two days of sight-seeing in Bucharest a Romanian driver
arrived for us and we were taken out to Bacau, a six-hour drive
away in a battered old van with no brakes and not enough seats -
Jacqui sat on my lap all the way. As we set out our spirits were
high. I stared out of the windows, wide-eyed with wonder and
curiosity at everything we passed. There were very few cars on
the roads but many horses and oxen pulling carts being driven
by peasants. The scenery was rural with primitive little villages
dotted along the sides of the road, as I imagine it must have been
in Britain a hundred years ago. Each village had a well that the
residents went to for all their water, carrying it back home in any
way they could. It all seemed a million miles away from the
President's extraordinarily luxurious modern palace in the capital.
Diane had got up early and managed to buy us some pastries
from a patisserie, which we ate as we went along, but we had
nothing to drink. The bumpy roads made us all want to relieve
ourselves within a couple of hours and the driver pulled up at a
public lavatory next to a beer house. This was our first experience
of the plumbing that lay ahead and none of us were able to bear
the smell long enough even to step inside. We decided that it
would be better to resort to the bushes, despite the freezing
temperatures. A few miles further down the road the driver
stopped at a corn field and we all got out for a much needed
steaming pee! Necessity was beginning to melt some of our
inhibitions.
I had been given an SAS survival kit to bring out, complete
with water purifying tablets, but they tasted so foul I hadn't
bothered to make up any drinking water for the journey. We were
all nervous about drinking untreated water but soon became too
thirsty to care and when someone suggested stopping at a village
well we all agreed. The driver found one and helped us to pull
up an ancient bucket full of icy cold water. I didn't fancy the look
of the rusty cup attached to it and used my hands to scoop the
water up. It tasted good and I was later told that most well water
43
was actually a lot cleaner than some of the tap water we drink in
England.
Bacau was a shock after passing through so much beautiful
countryside. It is an unwelcoming industrial city with a population
of 180,000. It boasts some surprisingly modern additions
like an Olympic stadium, a concert hall and public swimming
pool. I rather liked the idea of the swimming pool and wondered
if we might be allowed to take groups of children for therapy and
exercise that would be fun too. Clouds of smoke and chemicals
from the factories settled over the buildings, making them seem
even more dismal than their architects had intended. The pollution
hung in the air, making all of us cough.
We were shown to the Hotel Dumbrava, a rather average
establishment, where we were told we would have to share until
enough rooms became free for us to have a room each. Initially
we would be in the old part of the hotel, which was meant for
locals, rather than the modern part where foreigners usually
stayed. In fact, the old part was much nicer, with old-fashioned
wooden floors and ornate carvings. I shared a room with Nellie;
our room had a little hallway with a double wardrobe. The main
room had twin beds, each with sheets and one blanket, and a
balcony. I was worried that someone would think I was a dollarrich
visitor and break into the room.
During the months to come drunken Russians would often
bang on our doors in the night, shouting demands that we couldn't
understand, so I always slept with the hall light on and my torch
handy in case of power cuts. It was at night that I missed John
most: someone to chat to; someone warm, to cuddle up to. Each
room had its own bathroom, although the water only worked at
certain times of the day, and there was a 'team room' where we
could all meet and make cups of tea or coffee. There were also a
great many cockroaches and we were warned not to leave anything
in the rooms because if the maids ever showed up they
would steal whatever they could find. One day, when I had
managed to get hold of a prized bottle of Fanta to take my blood
pressure pills with, I went to drink direct from the bottle on
getting back to the room and nearly gagged on the sudden smell
of garlic. I realised that the maid must have had a swig from this
precious bottle earlier and I couldn't face it any more.
We were now twenty kilometres from Ungerini and I couldn't
wait to get there, to meet the children and begin to help them.
44
ie waiting since that first day when I knew for sure I was coming
;med so prolonged that I couldn't bear the thought of any more
[ays now that we were so close.
45
CHAPTER FOUR
Making a Start
^
The
ie night after our initial visit to Ungerini I woke many times,
my head full of images of sad, empty eyes, suffocating smells and
blood-curdling sounds. Everything seemed grey and dark and I
couldn't imagine ever thinking in colour again. All life seemed to
me to have been drawn from the children we had seen. I could
only guess at the hardships they had had to suffer, the experiences
that had left them bedraggled, unwashed, unloved and seemingly
hopeless.
When I finally gave up trying to sleep and got up I felt a mixture
of dread and excitement. I couldn't wait to get working, but I
was terrified by the feeling of not knowing where to begin. What
could I possibly do amidst such scenes of despair? Jenny, who
was in charge of Salon One, had been out there for six weeks and
I was relieved to be working with her as she had been one of the
friendliest and most welcoming people the previous day. Without
a mentor I wouldn't have known where to start.
Breakfast at the hotel was erratic, with the food arriving in a
rather strange sequence, but there was plenty of it, with lots of
camomile tea, and I felt okay in myself as we set off once more
on the hour-long commute up the slippery mountains.
When we arrived. Jenny took me to the team room and showed
me the things we needed to take upstairs with us. She took some
Sudocrem for sores and rashes, and some rough, unscented talcum
powder to help keep the children dry once they had been cleaned
up a little. She also took a few toys.
'I lock them back in here at night,' she explained, 'otherwise
the women take them home and you never see them again.' I felt
like a new girl on my first day at school as I tagged along behind
46
her, watching everything she did, hanging on her every word, full
of naive, eager questions.
'I try to change and clean up all the children each morning,'
she told me, 'and get the ones that don't become hysterical at the
prospect out of their cots at some stage, although we don't always
have time to get to all of them.'
Lucia was on duty in the room again, dressed in the same thick
white coat with a white scarf tied around her head and under her
chin, giving her a rather Middle-Eastern look. I noticed that
she had the most appallingly worn footwear, with newspapers
covering the holes in her shoes. I wondered how far she had had
to walk in the snow like that in order to get to work. Lucia liked
to talk a lot, rabbiting away at us in Romanian, regardless of
whether we understood what she was saying, but she didn't seem
to be doing very much actual work.
'Please don't hesitate to tell me exactly what you want me to
do,' I told Jenny. 'I won't be at all offended because I have no
experience at this and I just want to make myself as useful as
possible.'
'Don't worry,' she said sweetly and comfortingly, 'whatever
you can do for these children will be good.'
We started work on cleaning up the ones Jenny pointed out to
me. I noticed that she was concentrating on the ones who were
the most advanced and the easiest to handle, but it was still taking
a long time to change and dress each child and I could soon see
that it would never be possible for her to get round to everyone.
I began to see how the weaker and more difficult children became
left further and further behind as the staff tried to share their
time and efforts around as best they could.
It was hard to dress them because there weren't many clothes
available. No child had anything of their own so we had to search
anew each day for everything, right down to socks - complete
pairs of which were a rare find at Ungerini. When you could find
some they never came with matching partners and were either
for babies or grandads, with nothing in between. It was all very
time-consuming and sometimes completely impossible. It was
vital to dress them properly because of the cold, which made
many of them permanently blue.
When I had first heard about the state of the Romanian orphans
who had been relegated to the 'madhouses' my naive dream had
been to get them outside into the fresh air; to have them up and
l 47
stimulated on day one; to give them some fun in life. That was
still my ultimate aim but before I could think about that I had to
work out how to get the children out of the cots and walking
about, and before I could do that I had to think of ways of getting
them to stand. But it was hard to make them feel enthusiastic
about doing anything as long as they were cold and hungry, so
the first priority had to be to make them more comfortable.
Then they might be willing to start expanding their sadly limited
horizons. My dream of taking a few children out to see the sky
for the first time in their lives was beginning to look more distant
every minute that I spent struggling alongside Jenny just to clean
them up a little and dress them.
I remember thinking that if we could just sort the laundry
system out, things would go more smoothly. As it was, the
children were constantly being dressed up in things that were far
too big or far too small for them. Often the washing came back
from downstairs still damp so they would be changing from one
set of wet clothes to another. Many of the children appeared to
be rheumatic in their joints and I began to think their constantly
damp state might be a major contributing factor.
Once I had done everything she asked me to. Jenny suggested
I just started to get to work on walking and talking with whichever
child I thought fit. She didn't give me any specific ideas about
what to do, just left it up to me. The best place to begin, I
reasoned, was to try to get them out of their cots onto my lap.
That way I would be able to give them a cuddle and a tickle to
get them used to being touched and try and stimulate a response.
I sang game songs like, 'Walking round the garden, like a teddy
bear,' or 'This little piggy', whilst doing all the appropriate
actions. I thought I might try putting the more placid ones on the
floor, push a toy or something to them in the hope that they might
then push it back. A few allowed me to lift them out of the cots
without complaint but did not look at me or change their deadpan
expressions. They just lay still and stared into space. It is hard to
know what to do with someone who shows no reactions or
responses at all, not even anger or frustration. They allowed me
to do what I wanted to them, remaining completely passive
throughout.
Those who did react to my efforts screamed horribly when I
tried to pick them up from their cots and at first I was terrified
of hurting them and was tempted to leave them where they were,
48
rocking aimlessly to and fro in their own little prisons. What was
the key which would unlock the doors to these children's minds?
I wanted to release them from their mental and physical shackles,
to show them what life could be like - but where did I start? I
realised that I would need to go more slowly with the screamers
and work with them inside the cots for a while before trying to
get them out. One little girl, Corrina, hid underneath her cot
every time I came near her that first day, sitting hunched over in
a sort of squatting position. She had no trousers on and constantly
rubbed her hands from the front of her bottom round to the
crease, ritualistically smelling and licking her fingers like a chimp.
Whatever the particular form of ritual behaviour, whatever the
reason behind it, the children were using it to retreat even further
into themselves and to shut the rest of the world out. Corrina's
was only one of many strange and inexplicable rituals I saw every
day.
As we went about our chores. Jenny told me as much as she
knew of the children's histories, which wasn't much since none
of them had any medical records to speak of. There were fifteen
children in Salon One, aged from three to fourteen. None of them
had ever been out of their cots until a few months before and
some of them still hadn't allowed themselves to be lifted out.
Until the revolution a few months before, and the sudden
exposure of the orphanages to the world's media, the children
had had their hands tied behind their heads and their legs tied up
against their chests to make them easier for the women workers
to manage. Lucia later told me that at one time one woman had
been in charge of forty children. If they were tied it was quicker
and easier to wipe their bottoms. If the children were tied to the
cots they wouldn't get out and cause trouble. She didn't explain
what she meant by trouble. Many of them were still in the same
foetal shapes, simply lying all day in the same positions in which
they had been tied. Their bonds might have been cut but their
muscles had atrophied and their joints had completely locked.
There were still not enough people in Ungerini with the physiotherapy
skills to help them gain the use of their wasted limbs so
there they lay, waiting to be fed.
The only food they received in most of the upstairs rooms was
a milky, semolina-like substance dispensed from the huge beer
bottles with teats which I had seen stacked on the kitchen floor
the day before.
Because the workers were still using the passive feeding method,
which did not require the children to exercise any sucking or
swallowing muscles, they were unable to take food from spoons
or to use their tongues. Perhaps it was due to the lack of properly
developed face and tongue muscles that they were unable to talk
beyond making low guttural meanings.
Some months before there had been a terrible fire in the room,
Jenny told me. All the children had still been tied up to the bars
of their cots. Corrina, and a boy called Maricel who had been
horribly burned, were the only two to survive out of twenty-two
children. As a result of the fire our room had been repainted
more recently than the others and had quite clean, whitewashed
walls.
A week after my arrival Jenny returned to England, leaving me
in charge of the room, which was a very daunting prospect indeed.
I was much more comfortable doing what I was told, rather than
sticking my neck out and taking decisions, but I was starting to
get a few ideas about what I would like to do - what I instinctively
thought would help the children. I wanted to move towards my
dream of walking the children out of their terrible prison into the
light. I felt excited at the prospect of putting my ideas into practice
and yet fearful that I wouldn't be able to cope.
There was a staff of 142 women carers in Ungerini, working
in shirts. In Salon One, we had Lucia and two Marias. One was
known as 'Grande' Maria due to her size and the other as Maria
'Frumos' (beautiful). Maria the Beautiful was much younger
than the other carers and very shy of me. At first she seemed surly
and unco-operative, seeing every innovation as more potential
work for her. The women were charged with keeping the children
alive and the rooms tidy, and that was the limit of their responsibilities.
They would be fined should any of the children die, and
I soon realised that they lived in fear of Madam Augustina who
would happily beat them if they didn't keep things up to her
standards.
One or two of the children under our care seemed so weak and
close to death that the only thing I could think of doing for them
was dropping milk onto their tongues from some little syringes I
had brought with me, hydrating them just enough to be able to
sustain life in the hope that we would be able to do more for
50
them later. I was working on instinct, wishing all the time that I
knew more about childcare.
Where do you start when there is so much that needs to be
done? One of the first things I had done, with Jenny's permission,
was to find out each child's name and write it up above their cot,
making each one a little sketch of some sort of animal in brightly
coloured felt-tips, even though I couldn't draw for toffee. It helped
me to learn their names as well as giving them a little bit of
individuality. I asked the helpers to try to put the children back
in the same cots each time. This would also be a great help for
those children receiving medication - ensuring that each got the
correct treatment.
Once Jenny had gone back to England, I decided that the next
priority was to get some light into the room, so I took down the
filthy nets which hung at the windows and set about washing the
grime off the glass to allow a little daylight through. The job was
made harder because there was only cold water and no soap, but
I kept going until I was satisfied. I noticed Lucia watching me
work so I motioned to her that perhaps we could do a window
each. Reluctantly, sighing deeply at the appalling way in which I
was squandering both our energies, she joined me. None of the
children gave any sign of noticing our endeavours.
I was determined to get a supply of hot water into the room so
that I could soothe some of the tenser children and wash them
more thoroughly at the same time. I went down to the kitchens
to ask if I could heat a pot on their range each morning. To begin
with the women working there shook their heads, jabbering at
me to go away. They seemed frightened that they would get into
trouble because I was in the kitchens at all. When I realised that
was the problem I went to Madam Augustina and asked her
permission, which she gave happily. Once the kitchen staff
realised they weren't going to get into trouble from her they
became more friendly, chatting away to me when I returned for
the vast cauldron of hot water. I would then get one of the big
girls to help me stagger upstairs with it, each holding one handle,
so that I could use it in the baby bath. After watching me labouring
away for a few days the kitchen workers started to wave me away
when I tried to lift the giant pot and took it off themselves,
carrying it upstairs for me single-handedly, with no apparent
effort. I never ceased to be amazed at the strength of these women.
Later, in a bout of high spirits, a woman who must have weighed
5i
considerably less than me lifted me up, tucked me under one arm
and ran the length of the corridor before setting me down again,
apparently not the least bit out of breath.
The carers kept the large ceramic kiln in the corner of Salon One
stoked with coal, just as they did in their homes. Some ladies
from a village in England had sent out some curtains, which I put
up. They were perfect, even though they were never drawn,
because they were bright, pretty colours. It didn't seem to impress
the locals but it raised my spirits and I felt sure that anything
which improved the atmosphere in the room must produce some
long-term benefits.
The posters which the producers of Blue Peter had asked me
to bring to Romania were supposed to have been collected by
someone from another orphanage in Bacau, but the contact never
materialised. I thought my children were just as deserving as any
others and since I had lugged the four huge parcels all the way to
Ungerini with me, I didn't want to see them go to waste. I stuck
some of the brightest and most glittery pictures around the walls
in another attempt to brighten the place up and give the children
something to look at. I then passed the rest of the posters to other
workers for their rooms. Just these few simple things changed the
feel of the room completely and made workers visiting from other
rooms exclaim with surprise and smile. Sadly, the children living
there still showed no sign of noticing any of the activities going
on around them. I attached the old net curtains to the ceiling,
hanging little toys and other brightly coloured objects in them so
that those still flat on their backs had something to look at too,
but their eyes remained blank and unfocused at first.
Every morning I would rush into the room, saying, 'Come on,
you lazy brats, rise and shine, upsy, upsy,' and go round kissing
them all, calling each one by their name and trying to liven them
up. Each day was a new start and I wanted to help them enjoy
life. To begin with, Lucia and the Marias used to look at me as if
I was insane and very possibly dangerous. After a couple of weeks
they began to lose their reserve and rush at me with massive bear
hugs, kisses on both cheeks and shrieked greetings. One day, after
I had been there for about a month, one of the translators told
me that the women said they really liked working in Salon One
with me as I treated them nicely and injected some life and fun
into the place.
52One girl in my room was up and walking. Monika was twelve,
but no bigger than my three-year-old niece in England. An educationalist,
paid for by the Star of David Organisation in Sweden,
came and took her out each afternoon for some exercise. It made
me feel hopeful that if Monika could do it others might follow. I
was determined to get as many of the children up to her standard
as I possibly could before I had to return to England, but many
of the more backward ones still wouldn't even let me lift them
out of their cots.
There was a little boy called Lazlo, whom I nicknamed 'Lazy
Lazlo', who did allow me to lift him out onto the floor, but he
would immediately become very bad tempered, demanding to go
back into the cot. The very fact that he had a temper made me
think that there must be a spark of life in his brain that we might
be able to fan into something more. So, I would push toys up his
jumper, to annoy him, making him pull them out and throw them
back at me, often with surprising accuracy. After a while he
started to enjoy this game and then gradually he began to play
with the toys he was given instead of throwing them and then
actively to seek them out for himself.
With Corrina, who had spent the first day hiding underneath
the cot, I started by getting her to sit on my lap while I stroked
and massaged her in order to win her confidence gradually.
I did a lot of gentle touching and stroking of their faces and
limbs with the less responsive children. I would start by doing it
in their cots to get them used to me, in the hope that they would
eventually trust me to lift them onto my lap and then eventually
to put them down on the floor. I would try to spend five minutes
with each child, getting round to each of them twice in the course
of a morning. With the very nervous ones I would start off by
just stroking their faces, although even this would make many of
them freeze with blank-eyed fear.
I found a chair downstairs in the basement where the rubbish
was thrown and asked Madam Augustina if I could have it. She
said yes and then screamed for a worker to come and carry it
upstairs for me. When a child had grown sufficiently relaxed
about me stroking them in the cot I would put the chair next to
the bars and lift him or her out onto my lap. To make them feel
more secure I wrapped them tightly in blankets, like newborn
babies. I reasoned that if they were warm and comfortable they
| would think that being out was a good thing and might even start
53
wanting it. I then stroked them some more and sang and ta
to them as if they understood every word I said, while they st
straight ahead of them, not moving a muscle. Often they w
empty their bowels and bladders onto me but Jenny had lef ;
her plastic apron so that only parts of my clothes became so in ci
I believe I was fortunate to go out as part of the second team of
volunteers because we had more time to plan what we wanted to
do. The existing team had established a routine of one British
person to each room, getting both the carers and the children
used to their presence. It must have been even harder for them to
know where to start when there was no structure at all, and their
valuable ground work allowed us to develop what we did in each
room.
I asked Madam Augustina if I could have the manic piped
music turned off, to give us a little peace and tranquillity. She
agreed and it was an enormous relief when it stopped, as if a
tremendous pressure had been lifted off my brain. I reckoned that
if the quiet made me feel calmer it must have an even greater
effect on the children. Although I thought that listening to music
was very good for them in principle, there should also be quiet
times. Eventually it was turned off in all the other rooms as well.
Other volunteers had paid visits to Salon One with their children,
to get them used to being out and about and to indulge themselves
in a bit of adult gossip. They could see how much easier it was
to talk to the children and soothe them without the music blaring
out and forcing everyone to shout in order to be heard.
Adina had spent nine years living in total darkness under her
dirty old blanket and became hysterical at the thought of coming
out. I tried to put myself in her position and imagine how frightening
the world must seem without the blanket around her. I
needed to find a way of keeping her feeling safe while allowing
her to see what was going on around her and to grow used to it.
I contacted John in England and asked him to send a cellulose
blanket that she could stay under while looking through the holes
and gaining enough self-confidence to be willing to enter the
outside world herself. The whole process took months.
For the first time out of their cot, I would hold a difficult child
for no more than a minute before putting them back and moving
on to the next one. I gradually increased the time that I kept them
on my lap while at the same time increasing the distance between
54
i-he chair and the cot and gradually unwrapping them from the
swaddling blankets, until eventually we were sitting over amongst
the more adventurous children. Even the most reluctant would
finally allow me to put them down on the mat - although it took
three months to lift one little girl from her cot - it felt truly
marvellous each and every time this happened.
The Norwegian arm of the Red Cross represented them in
Romania and in the mornings their trainee nurses worked with
the downstairs children and in some of the upstairs rooms,
although sadly not mine. Dr Kari, the woman who had smiled at
me across the dining room on my first night, and her team were
visiting and assessing all the institutes in the country, both adults'
and children's. They would come back to the hotel in the evenings,
their faces grey with fatigue.
'Do you know, Bevey,' Dr Kari told me one night, 'We think
we have seen the worst, then another one we visit is more terrible
than the last, what to do?'
After building up an overall picture, their task was then to
decide where to direct the Red Cross aid, and establish what
exactly was needed in each place. They found the decisions hard.
'We have to act like God himself,' another of the doctors confided
in me, 'deciding who shall have and who shall not. We can only
pray that we have got it right.'
It was still far too cold for me to contemplate taking the little
ones outside, but I began to feel more optimistic that by the time
Spring arrived I might have managed to get them sufficiently
confident for a trip out to at least be possible. The next step after
getting them to sit on the floor was to persuade them to come
out through the door of Salon One into the corridor, which was
as traumatic for many of them as getting out of the cots had
originally been. If I tried carrying them out the door they would
scream and cling painfully to me like demented little cats, trying
to clamber over my shoulders to get back into the familiar safety
of Salon One.
1 had to go through the same gradual process as before, sitting
each child on my lap on the chair and each day moving the chair
closer to the door, allowing them to see outside the room and
atch whoever might be passing by outside. Eventually, with the
raver ones, I would move my chair out into the corridor when
55
there wasn't anyone around. There was always a danger that one
of the inmates from the 'bad boys' room' might come out and
run at us screaming, which would terrify the child on my lap and
set us back weeks.
I discovered later that one of the side-effects ofmalnourishment
is that you don't want to be touched; you just want to be left
alone. Everyone becomes bad tempered when they are hungry and if hunger was a continuous state we would all start to
withdraw into ourselves as these children had done.
I spread out the one floor mat we had for the more able children
and tried to get them to sit on that. This terrified Lucia who was
afraid they would pee on it and get her into trouble with Madam
Augustina, so I went in search of some more potties. When I
arrived there had been two pots in the room which Jenny had
persuaded a couple of the brighter children to use.
'What do you do with the full pots?' I asked her on the first
day.
'Oh, one merely puts the wallahs outside the door for the
women and they just magically disappear,' she told me.
The system did indeed seem to work, and although I can't say
that they came back exactly clean at least they were empty!
I suggested to Lucia that we try to put all the children on pots
first thing each day before placing them on the mat. I soon realised
the impracticality of this since it took twenty minutes to get each
child up, leaving us no time to do anything with them once they
were on the floor. Perhaps it would be better to get them all out
of their cots at once, if they were willing to come. If they did pee
everywhere we would just have to clear it up, and we would try
to train them to use potties as we went along. Potty-training was
a priority for me, for selfish reasons as much as anything else. I
found the job of wiping them up in their cots without water, paper or rubber gloves fairly gross. Not having had to deal with
nappies for children of my own I had never been able to face
changing and wiping the bottoms of other people's, even my own
family's. The one time I had to do it for one of my nieces I could
be heard gagging and retching from outside the public loo that
we were operating in. It was only when I got the child back to
her mother that I was told she had been wiping herself for two
years! The incident remained a family joke from that day on even
more so when the news got out that I would be working
with incontinent children in Romania.
56
If simply Is11 ^o^ on the mat wlt!'1 toys ^e more advanced children wouldn't play with them - they would just sit, staring and rocking as they had been doing in their cots. So I got them
out in groups of six or so, whizzing from one to another like a
spinning plate act in a circus, tickling them and trying to stimulate
them in any way I could to get them to take an interest in
something outside themselves. I got them sitting on my lap on
the floor as much as possible because it occurred to me that no
one in the room had ever touched anyone else. They might not
even have looked at each other, and I wanted to break down
some of the barriers. They were like fifteen little separate units,
despite the fact they had spent most of their lives huggermugger
with others. Towards the end of each session on the floor, I would
line them all up next to one another and then roll them over my
legs into one another like parents do with normal children in
games of rough and tumble, to try to get them used to being with
one another and part of a social group.
I asked Diane, the Irish physiotherapist who had come out
with us as part of our team, to teach me some simple physiotherapy.
Because of the way the work had been allocated she was
in another room, doing the same menial jobs as me, which was a
shame because she could have done so much more if she had been
able to concentrate on physio. She was an excellent teacher and
could have made a much greater difference to the children's lives
if she had been allowed to concentrate on training the volunteers
and women carers in some elementary techniques.
At midday the women carers would disappear for half an hour
into another room where they would chatter away to one another,
ladling the milky substance the children lived on into the beer
bottles from a dirty-looking old bucket. The children would begin
to become agitated, knowing that feeding time was approaching.
The women would then return as we went for our lunch and would
give the bottles to the children. The children's tiny, frail hands were
barely able to support the weight of the heavy glass bottles as the
slushy mixture poured directly down their throats, creating the
curious side-effect that none of them ever had wind. Those who
were unable to hold onto the bottles at all went without.
Sometimes I would return from my lunch-break to find that a ew ^"dren hadn't been given anything - normally it was the
Sypsy children, like Maria and Szulita, who were considered to e the ^west of the low by all the Romanians.
57
'But, Bevey/i^,' Lucia would protest when I wanted to know what
was happeningWng, 'they are gypsies; they have AIDS.'
'They don't^'t have AIDS,' I would explain patiently, through
whichever traD^nslator I could find. 'They just look like that because
they are so hulCungry and malnourished.'
Despite all o ^ our efforts there were some traditions at Ungerini
it seemed were»<re never likely to change - like shaving the children's
heads every fe-^ew weeks with cut-throat razors, which always left
them scarred s - and bleeding and looking even more hideous than
before. The chfchildren were so used to this sort of treatment that
they seldom rr^nade a sound during the ritual, even when they were
cut painfully. ^. Sometimes Valentina would come round brandishing
a pair ^r of scissors and cut the smaller ones' hair, which I
thought was v/ very unsafe. I have never seen anyone who kicked
as hard and vic'^iciously as she did when she was angry, and trusting
her with a sha^arp implement so close to the eyes of other children
seemed very u:»unwise to me.
I felt it was v^very important to get on well with Lucia and the
other women. --* Without their co-operation anything we achieved
with the childt-dren would be useless because they would simply
revert to the o^old routines once we had left. When we arrived all
they cared abo^out was keeping the children alive and the rooms
tidy. They did kd not want to do anything for the children beyond
giving them th'Aeir bottles and wiping up their excreta. If the rooms
were not clearf^ned to her satisfaction. Madam Augustina would
beat them witrlth a stick. They did not talk to the children, get them
out of their co'^ts or seek to stimulate or comfort them in any way.
When I intr^roduced some of the toys which I'd brought with
me from Engls^-land into the room Lucia had been horrified because
she said they nftnade the floor untidy. Everything possible was done
to minimise tfc^'he amount of work which these women had to do
and they were^e very afraid that our methods would create more
work for them^ti. Why waste your energies doing things for children
who didn't arflppear to appreciate it? It was all very well, they
reasoned, to st^timulate the children and get them up, but who was
going to have rf to control them once we went home? I had to admit
they had a pc?'»oint but I was sure that overall we could make
their jobs easier by making the children more able to look after
themselves.
I thought w^ve would also encourage the children to be more
58
n-ooerative by making them more comfortable and happy. If they
had exercise, for instance, they would stay healthier and sleep
better which would make the women's lives easier. If we could
nottv-train them there would be less mess to clear up. I put a lot
of effort into explaining all this to Lucia and the two Marias but
they were very sceptical. I could tell that they often thought I was
stupid and they were just humouring me. They were completely
mystified as to why we were there at all.
'Why do you want to come to a place like this from England?'
they wanted to know. 'Who pays you to do this work?' When we
told them we were not paid they would shake their heads in
disbelief. They were very curious about me, John and Russell,
and surprised that any husband would let his wife come out to
work in another country for several months. A married Romanian
woman would not even attend a social function alone because it
would be a direct insult to her partner and construed as being
'up to no good', they told me.
I simply had to get the Romanians carers' co-operation if I was
going to make any long-term difference to these children's lives.
They had to see that they would also benefit from the changes, if
there was to be any chance they would carry on the work after
we had gone. One of the first things I needed to do was learn
some basic words in Romanian, just so that I could communicate
with them and show that I was trying my best to integrate, even
if my attempts at conversation didn't get much further than
'Hallo', 'How are you?' and 'Hasn't the weather improved?' Once
I could greet them I moved on to asking about their families and
their lives at home.
Lucia, being a little older than the other helpers in Salon One,
had quite a lot of influence, so she was my first target to convert
to any new practice which I wanted them to start following. Like
all the women, she was very resistant to any new ideas or changes.
when I started to do a little physiotherapy with the children she
was sure I was wasting my time. 'Oh, Bevey, Bevey,' she would
say, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. 'These children
will never walk.'
Probably not, Lucia,' I would agree, 'but please could you try
and ""P "^e. I know I'm a crazy Englishwoman but let's try
j^cause it might just help some of them a little.' Then she would
umour me and do a little work with them but I knew that she
Y ever did it while I was watching and she and the other
women would tell each other in wonder how ridiculous I >v as I
felt that it was better to have her laughing at me than resentine
me. She was quite a jolly personality but very strong and determined
about what she would and wouldn't do. I found that when
I got Dana, the interpreter, to come in and help me to talk to her
asking her advice and help, offering to be her assistant in the
room, making suggestions rather than telling her what to do, she
began to respond much better to me. I could then start to suggest
to her things I would like to do, such as cutting down the amount
of faeces the children did around the place.
As I got to know her better I found that she had quite a
good sense of humour, particularly when it came to sexual and
lavatorial matters! She and the other women were always joking
about the size of their men's private parts and mocking their
amorous Saturday night performances, wanting to know if men's
willies were different in Britain. There was one boy in Ungerini
who had a very long one: 'Like a horse, Bevey,' they joked in
Romanian, 'like a horse,' and one of them galloped around the room while another one put her arm between her legs to make a
giant erection as they laughed, showing mouths full of rotten and
missing teeth. If Dana or one of the other managers came in they
would sober up immediately, like naughty schoolchildren caught
playing up a student teacher. I felt pleased that they were willing
to relax enough to share their jokes with me.
A boy called Nichusorui, from downstairs, did an enormous
'blow' one day. Grande Maria, shaking with giggles, asked me
what it was called in English. Putting on my poshest voice and
exaggerated face movements I told her, 'Fart'. From then on every
time someone came in I would have to point to Maria and say,
'Sponi, Maria' and she would reply, in a voice so upper class it
sounded almost bored, 'Fart'. We would then all become weak
with hysterics, like naughty schoolgirls. I sometimes wondered if
we were all going mad. We certainly used to crack up at the
silliest things but it was probably just a way of coping with stress.
I had to try to do something about the children's diets, too,
because I was sure that they would never thrive or progress as
long as they were living solely on the bottled gloop. I tried to
think through the feeding process for normal children in England
and I realised that we actually needed to wean them onto solid
foods, just like the babies they resembled. The first step seemed
to be to try to give them something a little thicker in the bottles.
60
pti
t nnv had explained to me that the children were frightened of
rine from spoons because they associated them with having
pdicines like paracetamol rammed down their throats - one
hplner pinching their noses and another holding their mouths
open with both hands. (The other way they dispensed medicine
was up the children's backsides, forcing their legs right over their
heads which must have been equally, if not more, painful.) Not
knowing how to use spoons, the children would throw their
heads right back, as they did with their bottles, and I realised it
was because they had never learnt how to pass food from the
front of their tongues to the back of their throats.
After checking with the nurse who was in charge of the British
team that it would be all right, I started by putting a teaspoon of
powdered milk from the team room into each bottle, not wanting
to overdo it in case the sudden shock to their digestive systems
was too much. They seemed to be all right, despite the dire
predictions that Lucia doled out when she found out what I was
doing.
Initially all my efforts in Salon One were met with looks of
blank puzzlement and open hostility both from the children and
the Romanian helpers, but I kept going and I found that my
confidence started to grow.
When Jenny got back to England she wrote me a very sweet
letter telling me how brave she thought I was for coming to a
place like Ungerini without any medical training or experience.
She was sure she had seen a difference in the children I had been
helping, even in the first week. I felt very pleased because no one
else had given me any encouragement or advice at that stage and
I had no idea if I was doing the right things. Many of the
other volunteers who had excellent professional credentials and
experience in dealing with children like these seemed to be as
sceptical about my methods as Lucia, but they didn't offer me
any alternatives so I kept going. It was important to keep trying
and for these children any attention was better than being ignored. ^dependence was the greatest gift I could give them - to be able
to wash and dress themselves, or to go to the toilet, were simple
ut vital steps in a normal child's progress, but how do you each them to fourteen-year-olds? I could clearly see the women's
ci^l")"^"1 t^at k was mucn qu^ker to do everything for the 3 lldren Yourself and, indeed, the children were so used to this
so very tired all the time that they were happy for it to
61
continue. I knew, though, that they would never get out of their
own personal prisons if we didn't battle on.
I believed that there must be places with better facilities than
Ungerini, and if the children could walk and be independent
perhaps we could talk to Madam Augustina about transferring
some of them. I imagined there must be places where they could
receive some practical training or useful occupation which would
keep them out of the local adult institute which the Norwegians
had told us was similar to Ungerini, only more terrible. If we
could get the younger ones up and running maybe they could go
to school, or perhaps their families might have them back.
Everything I did seemed so basic and obvious and natural. I
was becoming very fond of the children and even proud of them
when they achieved even the slightest improvement. My goals
were little things but for the children each was the equivalent of
climbing Mount Everest.
The grumpier Lucia and the women were to me the nicer I was
back to them. Some of the other British workers were treating
the women like servants, ordering them around and being very
unpleasant, rather as I imagine the British behaved in Victorian
times when they went out to the colonies, convinced that the
natives were inferior to them in virtually every respect. I couldn't
see how that attitude could be anything but destructive. Surely, I
reasoned, we were there to assist them not to rule them. Most of
the women carers were kind and warm people, just a bit lazy and
badly guided.
Maria Grande came from a very large family. She herself was
in her thirties and had older brothers and sisters in their forties
as well as brothers and sisters who were younger than her own
children. This was a fairly common situation since Romanian
women marry young and continue having children right into their
fifties. She told me that her family would have been even bigger
if some hadn't died of things like flu and measles. Although health
care was meant to be totally free, I was informed that it was
always necessary to bring gifts to the doctors if you wished to
receive their full attention. (Even when the doctors prescribed
suitable drugs they were rarely available and small infections
often progressed quickly and ended in amputations or death.)
At Ungerini there were no wheelchairs. Any child who could
not walk had to shuffle on his or her bottom or not move at all.
62.
I suppose it did not occur to the authorities that anyone would
wish to take the handicapped out. We never saw any wheelchairs
in the streets so perhaps there were none in the country.
As part of my attempts to befriend them, I taught the women
at Ungerini how to belly dance - a sight worth seeing! It had been
a hobby of mine in England which had always surprised people
who thought I was too demure, and certainly the wrong shape,
for such things. ('Does it make you hot?' some men at work had
teased me when they found out about my hobby - and in my
innocence I had assumed they meant did I work up a sweat!)
Some of the other workers in the orphanage asked for a demonstration
and the Romanian women were watching, laughing
and clapping their hands, begging me to show them how to do
it. Before long they were all sashaying around after me, undulating
their ample curves. Some of the children started to copy as well.
Grande Maria was like an ironing board when she danced but
how we all laughed. From then on, whenever I passed the women
in the corridors they would laugh and dance. A translator called
lonel told me that the women could not believe that an Englishwoman
could move like this as they thought us all to be rather
'rigid', or was it 'frigid'?
lonel was a young man of about twenty who had arrived at
the hotel one evening with a box of apples for the children. He
had just been discharged from the army and didn't have a job to
go to. He spoke very good English and asked if he could come
up to Ungerini to help. Some of the established British team said
no, but I pleaded his case. I thought that he would be a brilliant
addition to the troops for a number of reasons. Firstly we needed
all the help we could get, but we specifically needed more men to
help with the boys because there were very few male role models
for them. Secondly, I thought it was great that a Romanian was
coming forward and volunteering and I thought it was possible
he might bring some of his friends along as well in due course.
The fact that he spoke English made him doubly valuable. Even
if all he did was to speak to the children in Romanian, this was
surely to be encouraged - they met few enough adults who wanted
to befriend them.
I felt surprised at my boldness. I must have been becoming
more assertive by then because I was amazed to find that the
others gave in and agreed to try him out.
lonel helped me a great deal in Salon One - while making sure
63
he put in time in other rooms as well so that no one would feel I
was monopolising him - and proved to be a real ally.
Day after day I worked away at coaxing the children out of their
cots and stimulating them; massaging them, singing and dancing
with them, playing with and tickling them, getting them used to
being touched and showing them that although becoming upright
might be frightening to start with, it would be better in many
different ways once they had mastered it, getting them to focus
and concentrate on things, to try new experiences like blowing
and bursting bubbles. I managed to find a rusting old table and
chairs in the basement which I carted up to the room for them to
sit at, just to get them off the floor and closer to normality.
Once I had persuaded Madam Augustina to turn off the ghastly
piped music we were able to use individual cassette recorders in
each of the rooms so that we could control when we wanted
music and when we wanted quiet times. I played nursery rhymes
and other more gentle music. Strauss waltzes were a firm favourite
with children and carers. I would put the music on and get
everyone sitting around the table. I would clap my hands and
then I would clap their hands. I would give Lazy Lazlo something
that he could bang the table with, which he enjoyed. He and a
couple of the others always hated sitting at the table and would
constantly get down and crawl back to the mat, but I figured that
at least they were getting some exercise and it showed they
were beginning to demonstrate some initiative. It was always a
challenge to find things that would catch the children's interest.
I shook rattles, and bells on shapes, and the other simple
musical instruments that I had brought out with me from
England, in front of their fixed, staring eyes. Eventually some of
the children started wanting to have a go themselves, but they
were never that interested in doing things unless I coaxed them.
I sometimes felt a pang of conscience and asked myself whether
I was being fair in forcing them to do these things if they didn't
want to. But any doubts were outweighed by the conviction that
if I could make them more active they stood a chance of being
transferred to a better place at a later date.
As the first step in my grand plan of getting every child onto
its feet, I tried to encourage them to stand in their cots, holding
their hands to begin with and then showing them how to support
themselves by gripping the sides. I would hold my hands under
64
their bottoms to support them, encouraging them all the time,
'Good girl, isn't this good, look how much you can see now.' I
wanted them to feel secure up in the air and to experience how
much more interesting life would be for them if they were upright.
I had some wind-up toys which I would set going to give them
something to watch and to provide a reason for them to persevere,
otherwise they would give up and sit down as soon as I let go of
their bottoms. I was watching the weather warm up and the
snows begin to melt and I wanted to be ready to get at least some
of them outside by the time the air was warm and the ground
was dry.
I was very careful to explain every one of my plans to Madam
Augustina, because I didn't want her to think I was doing anything
without consulting her and I wanted to give her time to get used
to the ideas so that she wouldn't dismiss them. She was a woman
who didn't like to have her powers threatened and I made sure
that she never thought I was trying to push her into doing anything
she didn't approve of. She was very amenable about the idea of
taking the children out, although she did ask me not to do it
while there was still a lot of mud around because the children
would bring it all back indoors and create extra work for the
staff, a point I was willing to accept. She still used to come up
with strange little rules, though, even once we started to venture
out. One day she announced that no one was to go outside
without a baby bonnet on. So Roger wore a rather fetching pink
bonnet with a bobble on the top all afternoon. Even Madam
Augustina smiled. 'Oh, Roger, pardon,' she laughed, 'I didn't
mean you.'
To keep Lucia and the other women in the room keen, I drew
up a series of diagrams of ways to handle the children and asked
lonel to write explanations in Romanian as to why it was good
to do things like talk to the children, get them up and help them
to help themselves. I also illustrated them as it occurred to me
that not all of the carers might be able readers. I wanted to be
able to leave something in the room after I had gone to guide the
next people who came out to replace us. I've never forgotten how
completely lost I had felt on my first day.
Once the children were standing in their cots I would then start
to lift them out and keep them upright on the floor by playing
games with them, just like babies, dancing around to the music
or holding onto their hands and getting them to sway backwards
65
and forwards, telling them to, 'Go away ... Come here ... Go
away ... Come here,' making them smile and turning their exercise
routines into fun. Lazy Lazlo was the first immobile child we
actually got walking and it made a huge difference to the morale
of Lucia and the Marias - it was the first time they really appreciated
what was possible. It had taken eight weeks or more of
constant encouragement. Suddenly they had a rush of enthusiasm
and wanted to get more of the children walking. They even started
taking initiatives, sometimes getting the children up and onto the
potties before I arrived in the morning, looking mighty proud of
themselves and the children. They began to show off to other
women in the orphanage.
'Isn't that Lazy Lazlo walking?' I heard a women from another
room asking Lucia.
'Yes,' Lucia replied proudly. 'I have been giving him gymnastica,
and now we are working on the others.'
The job of helping these children seemed so enormous and
awe-inspiring I didn't stop to think about it. I just did what my
instincts told me day by day and, to my amazement, I found that
it worked. We were beginning to get a very happy atmosphere in
the room and achieving some stunning results. Some of the children
were beginning to react and smile when I came in, making
little noises and coming towards me. I noticed that if I was
working with a child in one corner of the room, perhaps reading
to them, as if they understood, or just talking to them, I would
find the others would also start to move across the room towards
me. It felt marvellous; they were beginning to show an interest,
not only in me, but in life! Some of the other volunteers laughed
at me for talking to the children in English most of the time, but
it seemed to me that all the children needed to hear was the sound
of a human voice, and since they didn't speak Romanian either
it didn't much matter what language I used.
Children who had been written off as never likely to do anything
began to get up and walk. Other workers and carers would
come to Salon One to visit us during the day, and word spread.
The Norwegian Red Cross, seeing me in the corridor outside with
a child that they had tried to work with and had given up on,
asked if they could come into Salon One and do some filming,
which gave Lucia a chance to flash her gold teeth and ostentatiously
cuddle the children for the cameras, and why shouldn't
she?
66
The Red Cross workers were very constructive and encouraging
to me and pointed out that my main problem now that I had
encouraged the children to come out of themselves was in making
sure the stronger characters didn't monopolise my time. They
explained that I would have to learn how to show the more
demanding ones that they would have to share me, teaching them
that they would get their allotted time with me just like the others,
but when it was someone else's turn they couldn't have my
attention. I hated having to reject any child when I had spent so
much time encouraging them to communicate but I could see that
the Red Cross people were right and I simply didn't have enough
time to do everything. If I didn't control the situation the stronger
children would push the weaker ones aside. Corrina, who had
spent the whole of the first day hiding from me, became one of
the most demanding, so I now had to spend a lot of my time
peeling her off and saying, 'No', which was horrible.
Lucia and the Marias could tell that some of the jobs, like
cleaning up excrement, made me retch, and once I had won their
confidence they would laugh and take over from me when the
most disgusting jobs had to be done. 'Bon lav - are you ill -
Bevey?' they would enquire and I would reply, 'No, it's just the
kaka.' I had no hesitation in letting them see my fallibilities. I
wanted to show them that I didn't have any special skills, that
anything I was doing they could do too. I needed to know that
the children would continue to be cared for after I had gone.
The cough I'd arrived with grew gradually worse with the pollution
and bad living conditions and many of the women would
bring me in herbal teas and other remedies to try to help, like
goose fat to rub on my chest. Illeana Grande, one of the kitchen
workers, used to brew me up some real throat-grabbing concoctions.
It amused the other staff no end to see me holding my
nose as I swallowed things, trying to stifle a retch afterwards. I
think they were amazed and amused to see that we were just like
them.
I would respond to their concern and kindness by finding
them paracetamol tablets when they had bad period pains, or
antibiotics for the abscesses which caused their whole faces to
swell up. Other volunteers said that I shouldn't waste the supplies
which were meant for the children on the women, but I believed
that we should be helping the whole community and that if we
67
made the carers' lives more comfortable they would be kinder to
the children in the long run.
I was constantly surprised by the level of superstition amongst
all the Romanians working at Ungerini, management and carers
alike. They believed, for instance, that cold air would make the
children ill. When I tried to get some fresh air into the room by
opening the windows and the door they all became hysterical,
crying, 'Current!' (draught!), certain that I was going to kill their
charges off with pneumonia. They had been happy to leave them
malnourished and sitting in their own excrement for days on
end but were terrified of them catching a chill from an open
window.
I had seen a British health visitor bringing some water into a
room for the children to play with which looked like a good idea,
letting them get their hands wet and learning about different
textures. I had brought lots of bubble bath with me from England
because I had seen from my own experience of entertaining nieces
and nephews that all children love to play with bubbles. So I
found an old baby bath down in the team room and filled it up
to do some water play with them. Madam Augustina happened
to come into the room that morning and was horrified, certain
that the children would catch their deaths of cold.
'No, no,' I assured her earnestly. 'It is a scientific thing that we
do in Britain; it encourages the measuring capacity of the brain.'
Baffled but impressed she withdrew her objections and insisted
every room upstairs was to have water play from then on.
I found that once I had won Madam Augustina's confidence
she was quite open to my suggestions and as helpful as she
could be, given the pressures of being permanently afraid of the
'authorities'. The whole system in Romania seemed based on fear.
The children were afraid of the women workers, the women
workers of the management and the managers of the government
authorities. No doubt the officials that terrorised institutions like
Ungerini had others above them wielding even bigger sticks.
Ultimately everyone was responsible to the Minister of Sanitation,
a title which, more than anything, demonstrated to me the
national attitude to people with mental and physical handicaps.
Just as the children were beginning to respond to me I discovered
that one woman was beating and scratching the children
at night when I was not there. The carers worked on a threeshifts
per day rota, and I saw two women a day - not always
68
Lucia, Maria 'Grande' or Maria 'Frumos'. At first I didn't know
where the cuts and bruises on the children were coming from. I
was certain that they weren't doing it to themselves because they
rarely came out of their cots unless I was there, and I also noticed
that some had started to withdraw back into themselves again,
cringing away when I went to get them up.
Lucia and the Marias took me to one side and begged me not
to believe that it was them hurting the children, telling me that it
was one other woman. They seemed as upset as me that all our
good work was being spoiled. It nearly broke my heart to think
that just as the children were learning to trust people someone
was doing this to them. I went to Madam Augustina and explained
that we were trying to boost the children's confidence and this
ill-treatment undermined all our efforts.
'No one at Ungerini is hurting the children,' she insisted and
by now I knew better than to argue. She had taken in what I was
saying and would act on it in her own good time, leaving a long
enough gap between my complaint and her response so that she
didn't lose any face. A couple of weeks later the woman concerned
was moved to a room with much more active children. Knowing,
however, that it would take some time before anything was done,
and being unwilling to allow the children to be subjected to
another minute of abuse if it was within my powers to stop it, I
confronted the woman myself.
She swore that she had done nothing and that she knew nothing
about it, but it was obvious that her conscience was heavy. She
kept crossing herself at the very suggestion that she would be
such a monster, but I was not in a mood to pull any punches.
'Oh, no,' I shouted at her. 'It's no good starting all that. You
are not going to heaven. You will go to hell for this!'
When she realised that she was not going to convince me of
her innocence she started to tell me about the horrors of her own
life, how her man beat her about and how she had a child but no
husband and how she was pregnant again now. I felt myself
softening a little. 'That is very sad,' I agreed, 'but it is no reason
to hurt the children here.'
'But, Bevey,' she protested, 'they are just the handicapped.'
'Then you must be kinder to them, not unkinder.'
I'm fairly certain she did not lay hands on them again in the
next two weeks and once she had been transferred out of the
room we got back onto quite good terms. I could understand
69
exactly why she might feel so much frustration about her own
situation and why she would see no reason not to take it out on
children who seemed not to know what was going on and who
could prove to be so frustrating themselves, but it didn't mean
that I could allow it to happen.
One of the older girls living at Ungerini was called Illeana. She
was a pleasant and attractive girl whose only reason for living
there seemed to be that she had very severe squints in both eyes,
which made her alarming to look at. She was close friends with
a boy called Gabriel who had tight, dark curls and velvety brown
eyes which didn't work very well. He pushed his face disconcertingly
close to yours when he spoke to you.
One day I came into the dining room to find the normally
gentle Illeana giving Gabriel a terrible pasting and throwing chairs
at him as he crashed and bumped into the tables. She was being
cheered on by the kitchen staff.
'What is happening?' I wanted to know.
'She caught him kissing Valentina,' one of the women told me.
'Valentina has run away, but Gabriel is not so quick.'
A few days later I noticed a large white van parked at the front
of the building and heard Gabriel's fearful waitings long before
he appeared. He was dragged out by two large men and flung
into the van. Several of us ran down to find out what was
happening.
'He's being taken to the Adult Institute,' we were told, 'before
he makes one of our girls pregnant.'
As we stood helplessly by, watching this distressing scene,
Illeana rushed out of the building, hysterical with despair. Neither
of them had been told what was to happen; Gabriel had just been
grabbed and hauled out, given no opportunity to say goodbye to
Illeana or to have a last few words. As the van drew away we
could see his face at the window, tears streaming down it as he
tried, unsuccessfully, to get a last glimpse of his friend. Illeana
fell to the ground, screaming in uncontrollable grief and I felt the
tears coming to my eyes at such a pitiful sight. She mourned for
many weeks after that, a grief so real and deep that you could
almost see her heart breaking. When you have nothing - no
possessions, no clothes of your own, no space, no cupboard, no
bag, then friendship must seem very precious indeed. Used to
being treated with disdain and harshness by all, Illeana had
actually found someone who thought she was worthy of their
70
love; someone who wanted her despite the fact that she was a
gypsy with terrible squints. To have that person torn away from
her without warning must have seemed like the end of the world.
In the days following Gabriel's departure, she developed a stoop,
her head down and shoulders rounded as she walked. Dark rings
formed under her eyes. She stopped eating and shuffled about
like a haunted zombie.
Eventually Illeana collapsed onto my lap one day, sobbing her
heart out, and lonel translated for me. She told us that several of
the British workers whom she had thought to be kind had promH
ised to take her to see Gabriel but they never had. She said they
I had also promised to get her an apartment in Bacau so that she
^ and Gabriel could be re-united, but of course nothing had been
done about it.
'I hate you British!' she spat. 'You promise to find my family,
but you don't. I hate you. Go away and leave us alone!' She
sobbed and wailed, her emaciated body shaking in my arms, her
tears drenching both of us. 'And they promised me a piece of
soap and a pair of knickers so I could be clean - nothing, nothing,
nothing!'
Illeana had been told she had no family and was an orphan. I
queried this as she had told me a lot about her family and that
she had come to Ungerini as an older child. I was told many of
the children imagined things like this, and everything possible
had been done to trace her family. Taking this to be the truth was
to be a decision I very much regretted later on.
I worried so much about what would happen to her once I too
left. Illeana was an attractive girl and was bound to attract the
attention of the men, if she hadn't already. Illeana spent much of
her time sitting in the corner of Salon One, to the annoyance of
Lucia and the Marias, who didn't like any breaks in their routine.
Others of the bigger children used to help me, especially at meal
times. They did tend to take six spoonfuls themselves for every
one that went into the little ones' mouths, but I thought on
balance that it was good for the little ones to see how the more
capable children handled spoons and bowls - they might learn to
copy them.
Giving up hope that any of us would ever help her, Illeana
eventually escaped to the local village where she was found trying
^ to catch a bus to see Gabriel by a kindly worker. Fortunately
Illeana's conversational skills weren't up to explaining what she
7i
wanted to do. She didn't have any money and the bus was going
in the wrong direction anyway.
She then tried to send Gabriel a note, asking one of the workers
to write it for her, hoping that a member of staff at the Adult
Institute would read it to him. She wrapped it round a sweet and
asked one of our team to give it to him when they next visited
the Institute. She later found the note discarded inside Ungerini's
gates. This was the final straw. She withdrew to her bed and
looked as if she would never speak to us again. I began to wonder
if, for all our good intentions, we might actually be making some
things worse for some of the children by bringing hopes that we
could never manage to bring to fruition.
At about this time I noticed that there was a door opposite
Salon One that was always kept padlocked. On one occasion
someone forgot to lock it and I decided to do some investigating.
I pushed my way in and found myself in an Aladdin's Cave of
blankets, sheets, clothes, soap, soap powder, cream and shampoo.
I couldn't believe my eyes and immediately shot downstairs to
have a word with Madam Augustina.
'Would it be possible to use some of these supplies and improve
the laundry system?' I asked politely.
To begin with she came up with a list of excuses about how
the things would be spoiled, soiled and stolen, but eventually she
relented and let me have some more blankets. I also tackled her
on the subject of giving the children some zips and buttons to
protect their modesty. It was very hard, I pointed out, to teach a
child to walk when you were trying to hold both their hands and
then hitch their trousers up at the same time.
'But the children cut them out and steal them!' she protested.
'How do the children cut them out?' I demanded. 'Do they
have knives? If they are stealing them where are they hiding them?
They have nowhere to hide them. It can't be the children, it must
be the women in the laundry rooms.
'When the girls menstruate you do not even give them anything
to pad themselves with - the blood is just dripping down their
legs. Would you allow children of your own to walk around like
this?' I asked. She shook her head and I pressed my advantage.
'Then why should we expect them to?' I had a horrible feeling I
had gone too far but she seemed to be agreeing with me. I even
suggested that we get some Velcro sent out from England as that
might be a less desirable commodity to steal than buttons and
72
zips. She promised to look into it but I could tell there wasn't
much she could do about it in the short term.
I also used to ask the carers, especially the women in charge of
the bigger children downstairs, 'Would you let your son go around
with his dick hanging out or your daughter with her fanny
showing?' This usually brought hoots of laughter as they were
shocked that I knew and would use such words. Their reply was
invariably the same old, 'But, Bev, they are handicapped.'
'All the more reason for you to protect them since they cannot
protect themselves,' I answered. 'Pull them up! Let's get some
string around them!'
In a phone call home to John, I explained the problem and he
duly sent out an enormous ball of string so that I could create
some makeshift belts to keep us going. Each morning I would tie
everyone's trousers up, but by the next day all the pieces of string
had disappeared because the women had taken them home. I
took the ball back to the hotel with me every night in case the
team room was broken into and that was stolen as well.
'Bevey,' Madam Augustina said, in the course of one such talk,
'You know you need only call me Augustina, that is my first
name.' I felt rather foolish, having always assumed that I had
been addressing her correctly by her surname. From then on I
tried to address her just as Augustina, but I never quite managed
to think of her as anything other than Madam Augustina.
I would spend my mornings in Salon One and in the afternoons
I worked downstairs with the bigger children, which gave me a
chance to start fulfilling my ambition of getting some of the
children outside into the fresh air. I must admit it wasn't just for
their sakes. I was as keen as anyone to escape from the horrible,
damp, dark rooms into the beautiful countryside surrounding the
orphanage.
I wanted the children to feel the breeze on their faces and hear
the birds singing for the first time in their lives; to see the blue
sky, to watch clouds go racing by, to smell their first flowers. On
our first ventures outside I felt like Julie Andrews running around
in the mountains singing. I used to get Mark or lonel to come
with me because they were better sprinters than me and if one of
the children ran off they could go after them. Not that any of the
children had enough stamina to be able to go very far or very
fast, but many of them had a turn of speed I did not.
To begin with they were terrified of everything they saw.
73
Patrika, a big, fat, unset jelly of a boy whom I had often had to
stop from dominating other weaker children, was particularly
upset when we came to a lane where a horse or ox cart had left
a trail of clods of earth. There was one lump, about the size of a
small melon, which he refused to go past. Never having seen
anything like it before he just stood staring at it and jibbering
with fear. I spent ages coaxing him to put his foot on it to show
that it was harmless and that he wouldn't fall off the edge of the
world if it crumbled beneath him. When we got him to the top
of a hill, which was a battle in itself, Patrika had a panic attack
about coming back down. He was practically an adult but had
never walked on anything but flat concrete floors. It took two of
us, one on each side, to gradually bring him back down, step
by step as he hung onto us, quivering and moaning, 'Bevey,
Bevey.'
Trips out meant we always had to ensure that there were
enough adults to control our charges - there were potential
dangers everywhere we went. On our way to see the orphanage
pigs one day we came across four enormous open pits where the
workers used to dump sewage. Because everywhere at Ungerini
smelt bad, we hadn't realised that all the human waste was being
dumped in unfenced holes so close to the building. Nothing had
been done to ensure that the children couldn't fall into these cess
pits.
There was also a chance that they might fall down the wells
which we stopped at in order to draw drinking water. Some of
the villagers we came across during our walks were kind to the
children, although they were always puzzled as to who we might
be. Others became angry and seemed frightened that our charges
would bring diseases to the area, polluting their drinking water
with their madness, and would chase us off. I soon realised that
this attitude towards the handicapped is widespread in Romania
and is one of the main barriers to progress in this area of health
care. I suggested that rather than leaving the local carers in the
rooms when we went out we should take them with us. That way
we could take more children along and communicate more easily
with curious locals and perhaps allay some of their fears. I thought
it might be nice for the women to get some fresh air as well and
to talk to the children in Romanian, encouraging them to learn
their own language.
On one outing we found a little stream which we dammed and
74
I showed the children how to float twigs in the current. One of
the Florins was with us (it's a common name), a gentle smiling
lad with dimples, who held my hand, blushing profusely, and
liked to hear stories about my cats and dogs in Britain. He loved
the water and rushed about screaming as his twig boat began to
float downstream. Doina, a ten-year-old who was known as
'Doina the face slapper' because of her habit of dealing unsuspecting
volunteers stinging, welt-inducing blows to the face, was
with us too that day and for the first time I saw her give a small,
exploratory smile, as if practising a new-found skill.
Later we discovered a pond which had thousands of frogs in
it, so we got everyone out to look at that, whole roomfuls of
them. Other British helpers worked desperately to keep their
children clean when outside, laying out blankets for them to sit
on, but I wanted them to touch and feel everything, to dig their
fingers into the earth if they wanted to, or pull up handfuls of
grass. The saddest thing was having to take the kids back inside
once they had got used to going out. On one occasion a beautiful
blond-haired boy called Mihai wept and begged to be allowed to
stay outside. We had to drag him back and I felt so sorry for him
that I cried too, knowing that he might not be able to get out
again for a whole week.
I longed for the day when I would be able to take some of the
little ones from Salon One out for the first time. I imagined the
awe on their faces when they saw the brightness of the sky and
felt the breeze on their skin. When the weather was finally dry
and warm enough, we started to ferry them downstairs in small
groups. Instead of the wonder and awe which I had imagined,
they were all terrified, clinging to our legs and skirts. I would
take them downstairs a few at a time, leaving them hanging onto
Lucia or one of the Marias while I went back up for more,
wondering if I was doing the right thing or if I was simply
indulging my own fantasy. But gradually, day by day, they became
less scared and would sit calmly on the grass with us in the
sunshine, tolerating the fresh air and awesome space all around
them, but they still didn't have the initiative to play independently,
and they didn't show any interest in their surroundings. One day
it rained and this caused all the children to panic for they had
not seen or felt anything like it before. The sound of birds or even
the wind in the trees was a disconcerting experience for all the
children at first, too.
75
I was shocked by how rarely I ever saw a family come to visit
their child in the home, for they weren't all orphans despite
Ungerini's title. One day, however, while the children were eating,
two workers rushed in and grabbed a very handicapped but gentle
boy called Ciprien. He had skin covered in sores, and bite marks
on his ears and nose, almost certainly inflicted by some of the
bigger boys in his room who were known to pick on him. Thick
snot always ran down his upper lip and he was usually dribbling
as well. The workers quickly washed him and put him into the
best clothes available. When I came out into the corridor a
little later I saw two elderly, proud-looking peasants sitting with
Ciprien on their laps as a never-ending parade of screaming people
passed by, pushing and shoving and staring at them aggressively.
They were feeding him little bits and pieces of food which they
had brought with them. The father was sitting bolt upright with
a Cossack hat on his head, and when he took it off and gently
put it on Ciprien, the boy gave an excited shout. Ciprien's mother
was weeping silently and as I watched I saw two big tears run
down the old man's cheeks. I felt a bit of a wobbler coming on
myself at this and went outside, not wanting to intrude on their
privacy. I remembered that when we had taken Ciprien out one
day he had run over to a peasant's cottage and we'd had to pull
him away as he fought to get in the gate. I wondered if it had
been because it reminded him of his home.
The old couple were going to have to get back to Bacau to the
big Auto Gara bus station that evening and Mark asked if any of
us minded him squeezing them into the van for our trip back to
the hotel. lonel was also with us so we were able to talk to them
during the journey.
'We have only just been able to get here,' they explained,
'because we had to wait for the snows to melt on the Carpathians
before we could get across.' They told us Ciprien was sixteen.
'The authorities took him from us when he was nine, so that he
could be rehabilitated in a better place. We can only come twice
a year because of the distance and the cost.'
When the time came to part. Mark and I pressed whatever lei
we had into the old lady's hand. She looked at the money and
kissed my fingers. I felt very humble.
'How much would the return trip cost them?' I asked lonel
once they had gone.
'About thirty pence in your money,' lonel answered. It seemed
76
so little and yet for them was probably more than they had to
spare.
My admiration for the Norwegian Red Cross people grew with
every day as I watched them at work. They seemed so professional
and they never allowed their own egos or personal problems to
get in the way of doing their best for the children. Even though I
had no experience at all they often asked my opinion and listened
to what I had to say, which I found very surprising but flattering
all the same - perhaps I was doing all right after all? They were
extremely happy that the children were progressing under my
care and I felt I had been given a vote of confidence that I was
very grateful for. I so desperately wanted to do something tangible
for the children and give them skills that would help them after I
had gone home. The Norwegians' encouragement was a boost to
my belief that there is no such thing as a hopeless case, that
everyone deserves a chance - even if the chance comes to nothing.
They never tried to put me down just because I was untrained,
saying that they were intrigued by the good results I was getting
and were pleased to see the children in Salon One coming out of
their prisons.
Dr Kari was in her seventies and Norway's foremost expert in
mental illness and welfare, a world leader in her field. She was
petite with slightly wavy grey hair, twinkling blue mischievous
eyes and a lovely smile. I watched her fix many a violent child
with those eyes, smilingly saying, 'No, now vee don't want to do
zat, do vee?' and they were always instantly calmed.
One of the things the Red Cross asked my advice on was the
way in which the older children were fed in the dining room.
They said they would like to have my help at mealtimes because
I was 'non-confrontational' with the children. Having seen the
mess left after lunch that first day I was shown round Ungerini, I
knew that it was a problem which needed fixing. All the big
children, about ninety of them, were herded into the dining room
to be fed at the same time. The food was dished out into big
bowls, though there were nowhere near enough bowls to go
round. When the kids were released into the room there was a
mad, screaming free-for-all, with food ending up on the floor
while desperate children scrabbled around on all fours trying to
scrape it up, fighting each other and tearing at the few loaves left
out for them. They even forced food out of the mouths of smaller,
I'
\
77
weaker children. They ripped at each other's ears, scratched at
mouths, grabbing bread out of hamster-like cheeks and quickly
stuffing it into their own. The noise was deafening; women shrieking,
children frenzied and hysterical because they were so hungry,
terrified that the others would get to a scrap before they did. It
was a sight so bestial and savage that I will never forget it. The
best of the meagre meals went to the strongest, fastest and most
ruthless children, who would become screaming, fighting, greed
machines. I saw Patrika take hold of a smaller child and force his
hand into his mouth, grabbing the bread and anything else he
could scoop out and immediately transferring it into his own
mouth before going on to his next victim. It wasn't so much the
act of a bully as that of a boy desperate for food. Within a few
minutes of arriving the carers were chivvying the children along,
hurrying them to finish and get out so that they could clear up.
The children would then go back to their rooms, covered in food
debris.
Having watched this chaotic spectacle a second time, 'Why the
hurry?' I wanted to know. 'They're not going anywhere except
back to their rooms.'
'The shifts are about to change and the staff want to be ready
to leave,' the Red Cross people explained.
'Why don't we bring the mealtime forward a bit to give them
more time?' I suggested.
It took us a while to persuade the helpers in the rooms not to
let all the children out to lunch at once, but to divide them up
into groups of ten to fifteen at a time, washing their hands and
faces first.
One day, when they had failed to do this and nearly a hundred
children were thundering down the corridor together, I found
Roger fairly hysterical and as beautifully if crudely articulate as
ever, screaming at the women: 'If I threw one brain amongst you
all,' he yelled, 'it would be f...... lonely! Oh, only ninety-six
children in for lunch at once? Oh, definitely not nearly enough!
Quick! Take the keys, drive to the villages, round up the children
and drag them here by the hundred! Then we can have a real
f...... luncheon party!'
I led him quietly outside, put a cup of coffee in one hand, lit
him a cigarette for the other and went back an hour later to find
him a bit more like his usual self!
Once there were groups of more manageable numbers we were
78
also able to find sufficient old tables and chairs and individual
bowls and spoons. We then set about showing the children,
despite much protesting, that if they sat down and used the
spoons they would actually get more to eat. To begin with they
leapt onto the tables and on top of us, screaming because they
thought they weren't going to get anything to eat this way but
we persisted.
I was trying to think how we train children at home when they
first want to feed themselves with solid food. The big difference
here was that these were starving teenagers who most definitely
did not want to wait long enough for satisfaction to feed themselves
with spoons. Where on earth should we begin?
Each of the volunteers would take one table and would stand
behind the children, guiding the spoons up to their mouths in
their hands until it became an automatic reaction which they did
for themselves. I took the table with the maddest boys because I
seemed to have a soothing influence on them. Some of the other
workers tended to get into confrontations and then the children
would start hurling things at them. Everyone got pretty good at
ducking bowls of steaming food as they whizzed by. One time I
did not duck quickly enough and a whole bowl of very hot beans
landed on my head, dripping down my hair and into my ears.
There was a stunned silence. It was such a shock I thought I was
going to cry. Everyone was staring. I was so embarrassed all I
could think of saying was, 'Do I take it the beans were not to
your liking, sir?' Whereupon the English team all relaxed into
helpless laughter. The Romanians hesitated momentarily and then
they laughed too as they helped de-bean my hair.
Some staff wanted to separate the most violent children off
from the others but the rest of us talked them out of it - we felt
they all had to learn to live and hence eat with one another on a
daily basis. The food was always far too hot to begin with,
scalding the children's mouths and making them wild with frustration.
I asked Madam Augustina if the kitchen staff could turn
the heat off earlier, so that the children could eat it straight away.
It was also suggested that it would be better if the bones were
removed from any meat dish before the food came to the children
because they tended to throw them at one another and some of
them received quite bad head cuts as a result. In the past the
women had always served the soup from the top, where it was
thinnest, so that all the goodness and the vegetables which had
79
sunk to the bottom were thrown to the pigs with the dregs. We
taught them to scoop from the bottom so that the children
received more nutrition per bowlful.
Adding to the general air of mayhem, the Romanian helpers
always seemed to be shouting and screaming at one another.
This agitated the children and made them nervous, so I tried to
encourage them to be calm, quiet and a bit more gentle. It seemed
to work. I also suggested the kitchen staff should slice the bread
in advance so that the loaves weren't torn to pieces in a feeding
frenzy. 'Oh, no,' they told me. 'We don't have time.'
'Okay,' I smiled sweetly. 'I'll come in early and do it.'
It took me about half an hour each morning and I would then
leave the bread covered in paper to protect it from the flies. I only
had to do that a few times before they saw that I wasn't asking
them to do anything too difficult and they relented. 'Don't worry,
Bevey,' one of the cooks told me, tapping her fingers above her
ample chest, 'I will do that for you.' She was much faster at the
job, being more experienced with knives and much less cackhanded
than me. To begin with the children would grab as many
slices as they could, cramming them inside their clothes, their
eyes darting protectively from side to side, then, when they
realised they could have as much as they wanted, they became
calmer and were willing to accept one slice at a time. They still
tended to shove it into their mouths, leaving only the smallest
gap to suck the soup through, and there were one or two who
would always dive head first into the pig bucket, sucking up the
slops, if you didn't hold onto them.
After a while the children began to eat fairly well, quite calmly,
and they actually started to look better. Their skins were clearer
and they had a little more weight on their bones. They even
seemed to enjoy mealtimes. We used to stay with them and talk
and began to put cups of water alongside the food. The children
were always thirsty because the women generally tried to dissuade
them from drinking from the buckets in the rooms in order to
cut down the amount of pee they had to clear up. I noticed that
Roger had started to sit down at the children's level so as not to
loom over them, and I began to do the same. Even after we had
got them sitting down at a table to eat there were still a lot of
loud troughing noises. Most of the kids were still liable to scoop
everything up from their bowls and stuff it into their faces with
their fingers rather than using the spoons and when finished would
80
immediately turn their attention to whatever their neighbours had
in their bowls. The contents of their noses were usually streaming
into the food but they still kept on shovelling it into their mouths.
Sometimes, in their haste to get everything in before it was stolen
from them, they would gag and throw up into the bowls and then
quickly wolf everything back down again before it could be taken
away from them. It was quite hard to hold your own food down
with all this going on around you.
There were more than a few things the cooks produced in the
kitchens which were quite edible: the soup, which had been boiled
for so long you could be fairly confident it was safe, and mashed
potatoes with cheese added. They really did their best with the
limited resources available, and it is only fair to note that the
children were often eating better than the kitchen staff and their
families did at home.
For some of the children the highlight of mealtimes was having
their hands and faces washed again - although the floor cloth
would be used for the job if you didn't watch out - while others
put up the most awful struggle. As time went on the women
began to see that if things were done in an orderly fashion there
was less work for them because they didn't have to clean food
off the walls, ceiling and floor, and the children's clothes weren't
quite as plastered in food either. After only four weeks we were
really beginning to make some visible progress.
And I was happy to see improvement, not only because the
children's eating habits were now more socially acceptable, but
it showed they were enjoying their food and mealtimes. Already
the children were adapting to new routines and their general
health was benefiting.
81
CHAPTER FIVE
Making Friends
^
Wh
hen I first arrived at Ungerini everything seemed very black
and white. I could only see the terrible plight of the children and
couldn't understand how the adults could allow it to continue.
Gradually, as I came to know more about the home lives of
ordinary Romanians, I began to see things very differently.
As volunteers, our main contact with the Romanian people
was through the staff at Ungerini, those who befriended us and
those who came to us for help. Many of the women carers were
distracted from their work by concern for their own children. If
the child of a poor family fell sick there were not many people
who would be willing or able to help. When they saw what I was
doing for the children in Salon One, some of the local carers
started to ask me to tend to their sick relatives. I had little or no
idea what to do medically, but I decided that even if I did no
more than just visit it might make them feel better because at
least it would demonstrate that someone cared. Once John started
to get parcels through to me I used to be able to take a few bits
and pieces to the local village children and give some to the carers
for their families.
The first to ask for my help was Maria the Beautiful. She used
to wrap up carefully whatever I gave her and after a while I
discovered that she always took it home to her mother. One day
she very coyly asked if I would visit her mother. She wanted me
to bring a medical kit along, although I couldn't work out quite
what was wrong from Maria's descriptions. Mark, the young
man I had seen working in one of the rooms on our first tour of
the home and who had become a good friend, drove Maria and
me out to her simple cottage during our lunch hour. This was the
8z
first time I had actually been inside one of the villagers' homes.
All the houses had dogs outside and I already knew not to go
near unless they were chained up. Dogs were only used for
hunting or to guard properties, never kept as pets. They were
accustomed to being stoned and kicked if they came too close to
humans. (There were a number of dogs that we used to see
skulking around outside the buildings at Ungerini, searching for
scraps or hidden carcasses. At one time they had been allowed to
roam around inside the rooms, savaging the children in the
process. A French team who slept inside Ungerini told us that on
nights when the children became very agitated, for instance if
there were thunderstorms outside, the carers brought dogs in to
frighten and subdue them into silence. It was later confirmed that
many of the scars on the children came from dog bites.)
Mark stayed outside Maria's house for a smoke. As my eyes
became accustomed to the gloom inside, I saw the bar of soap I
had given Maria proudly displayed on the only shelf alongside a
tiny bottle of shampoo - neither had been touched. The house
was bitterly cold, its floors just hardened mud, and Maria's
mother had only a few old rags on the bed to cover her.
In the dark kitchen two wooden beds were pushed close to a
little stove. There was a terrible, sickly smell of putrid flesh in the
air. In the next room I could see another bed, a wooden chair and
table. On the walls there were faded hand-woven rugs in the
traditional Moldavian patterns that had obviously once been very
beautiful. News of my arrival spread rapidly through the village
and within a few minutes there were at least twenty relatives and
neighbours crowded into the two tiny rooms. Even with my
extremely limited medical knowledge I could see that Maria's
mother was suffering from advanced breast cancer. She had no
dressings and her clothes were stuck to her open wounds and to
bed sores so big I could have fitted my hand inside them. She had
nothing to alleviate the pain of her condition.
Nausea stirred in my stomach but I forced myself not to think
about it. All these people were expecting me to do something
special. Pots of water were put on to boil and a few of the people
asked to leave so that we could give the old woman a bed bath.
Luckily I had brought some fresh clothes with me, kindly donated
by Jacqui and Diane since mine would have been much too big,
which we were able to put Maria's mother in after I had gently
dressed the cancers and sores, applying soothing antiseptic creams
83
and gauze. The pain from even my most gentle touch must have
been excruciating, but she gritted her teeth and did not cry out.
A few tears fell from her eyes as she squeezed my hand, whispering
'Multumesc,' - thank you. I could feel her pain as I worked and
I was told she had been ill for five years, steadily going downhill
until finally she was bedridden. She apologised that she could not
get up to make me a 'chai' - tea.
The next time I visited we took the old scarf off her head and
washed her hair. The poor woman was so grateful she kept
wanting to kiss my hands to say thank you. I gave her the ring
with the wooden cross on it that I had been given by Janet Stevens
at Abbey National in England. I felt very humbled because I had
done so little and I wished I could have done more. Later I
managed to get hold of some paracetamol that Maria could crush
up in camomile tea, giving her mother a little respite from pain.
Maria's mother was terrified that she would die without
candles. In the Romanian Orthodox Church it is believed that
the dying must have a candle at each of the four corners of their
beds to light their way to heaven. John was able to send some
out from England and they brought her immense relief. I went
back to see her every couple of days after that and she finally
died just before I was to due to leave Romania. The family insisted
that I come in to see her, which worried me a little as I had never
seen a dead body. They pushed all the poor, ancient relatives out
of the way so that I could sit right by her head. I was surprised
she looked so much better, very peaceful; her skin was wrinklefree
and had a sort of glow to it. There appeared to be a slight
smile on her lips. I joined in with their prayers and Maria indicated
that she wanted me to kiss her mother on the lips. I was frightened
to do this but realised that it meant a lot to Maria. On contact
she seemed cold to the touch but most definitely at peace.
I was able discreetly to give Maria enough money for the
funeral - a few pounds in our money but from her response you
would have thought I had made her a millionairess; it meant so
much to her that she could bury her mother with dignity. I
discovered that the poor old woman I thought I had been helping
to die peacefully was actually five years younger than me.
Another of the women carers, Maricica, brought her sick,
seven-year-old son all the way to the hotel in Bacau. It was a very
brave action for someone like that to walk into a hotel, and she
received a very poor reception from the staff there who tried to
84
shoo her away. But Maricica was determined and just kept asking
for me until they were forced to call up to my room. The boy
was feverish and I couldn't immediately tell what was wrong with
him, so I asked one of the Norwegian Red Cross doctors to come
I down and take a look at him but he didn't have many ideas either.
I I asked Maricica to wait while I went back up to my room and
packed up a food parcel of chocolate, biscuits and a Fanta for
their return journey; it was all I had but the best I could do. I also
gave her the bus fare back and some vitamin pills as it looked to
me as though the boy was badly malnourished. I made sure she
understood that 'more was not better', and just to give him one
at a time. The hotel staff wouldn't let me give her the parcel in
reception so we had to go outside. I felt very frustrated and
helpless because there was nothing else I could do and she had
come with such great hope. Maricica was relieved when her son
did eventually get over his fever, but we never found out what
had caused it. I couldn't help but imagine how John and I would
have felt had Russell fallen ill without good health-care services
to rely on to make him well.
One of the interpreters, a lovely woman called Betty who was
good with the older children and very interested in us, really
caring and worrying about us as if we were family, took us one
Sunday to visit her mother-in-law's home. It was a beautiful
wooden house with a carved verandah, vines and fruit bushes
outside and hand-painted wallpaper inside. The interior was very
dark with net curtains at the small windows. The wooden floors
and walls were covered with rugs and carpets in gaudy reds, blues
and purples. There was always a lot of red around in Romanian
homes because they consider it lucky. They tie red bows into the
manes of their horses for luck. The old lady of the house had to
draw all her water from a sixty-foot well a short walk away.
Betty's mother-in-law prepared a feast of eggs, lamb and garlic
for us. It was a beautiful day and we played football in the garden.
The old lady then took us on a long walk to a reservoir set in
spectacular scenery. We were practically mountaineering but she
was as agile as a goat in her thick stockings, leggings, woven
skirt, jumper, headscarf, sheepskin waistcoat and boots. At one
point she took my arm to help me up a particularly steep hill. She
said she liked me because I smiled a lot. She insisted on sitting
next to me during the meal, continually touching my face, holding
my hand and thanking me for coming to Romania to look after
85
the children. She asked Betty to ask me what my husband thought
about me doing this sort of work. Like many of those I told of
John's unselfish attitude, I don't think she believed me when I
said he supported me. I remember thinking how nice it would be
if we could bring the children to an idyllic place like this. I had
suggested at one point that we take them on outings to Bacau,
but was told that this would not be allowed as the children might
'try to escape'. Since none of them had much energy, a full set of
clothes or a pair of matching shoes with laces, and the majority
could barely walk or speak, I thought the risk of escapes was
minimal but the authorities were adamant.
We saw another side of local life altogether when we visited
Dana, the interpreter we had met on the first day, at her flat in
town. Each week she would generously prepare a meal for us all,
a vegetarian feast. Finding all the ingredients for such a big meal
must have been a major job for her. As well as being a vegetarian,
she was also into alternative pastimes like yoga and mysticism. I
have never seen such a good selection of English language versions
of the classics as she had in her flat. She was one of the most well
read people I have ever met and had a great awareness of world
affairs. She was in her twenties, married with a small child, and
had a local girl living in to look after the boy while she was at
work. The girl used to sleep on the sofa in the lounge and had
filled Dana's sitting room with Catholic paraphernalia, which
Dana wasn't too happy about. Whenever we were visiting she
would play loud music because she was worried about the neighbours
listening in to our conversations and reporting her to the
authorities. I couldn't tell if her fears were well founded or
whether that sort of thing had gone with the Ceaucescus. They
were wonderful evenings when we all let our hair down and
forgot the problems we had been dealing with all day. Dana made
great efforts to show us the more positive side of her country,
and many of her friends were eager to invite us to their homes to
make sure we were eating enough and to tell us about their
history and culture. I used to go to the concert hall every Thursday
with Dr Irina Tiron, a paediatric consultant from Bacau Hospital.
The Bacau Orchestra was splendid, good enough to tour the
major concert halls of Europe.
It was such a strange contrast to my daytime activities, to be
part of an audience of educated Romanians. What would our
children have made of it I wonder? It was so far removed from
86
their experience yet took place almost on their doorstep.
Life was hard for the Romanian middle classes as well as the
peasants, albeit on a very different level. There were shortages in
the shops to deal with and water was constantly being cut off
during the day without warning. Wise householders would always
keep the bath full and a bucket beside the toilet for the many
hours when the pipes were silent and dry. We learnt to use water
very sparingly. If we could get enough for a bath we would wash
ourselves and then climb out and put soap powder in for our
clothes. Roger used to roll up his trouser legs and climb in on top
of his washing, treading it like grapes.
Although I grew to understand why the women carers behaved
as they did towards the children, given the hardships they had to
endure, I still became angry with them on occasions. I had taken
musical instruments out with me - things like chime bars, triangles
and drums (no wind instruments because of the dangers of
exchanging mouth fluids) - and one day they all disappeared. I
had only been out of the room for five minutes. The women
swore blind that they hadn't taken them.
'All right,' I challenged them, lonel interpreting my every word,
'all of you jump on the spot.' As they reluctantly began to jog up
and down there was a series of clanks, clatters and clangs as my
precious instruments cascaded out of their hiding places. I was
so upset. 'You bloody bitches,' I screamed. 'I've sincerely tried to
help you, to be nice, coming to visit your families and helping to
nurse your sick, and this is how you repay me!' I ranted on for
ages until their eyes were watering up with shame and they were
crossing themselves and begging forgiveness to try to calm me
down.
'Oh dear,' I said to lonel once they had gone, 'I'm afraid I went
rather over the top.'
'Not at all, Bev,' he assured me. 'Before they loved you, now
they will respect you as well.'
When I stopped to reflect I could quite see why toys were
routinely stolen, and why everything else that wasn't locked up
or nailed down disappeared. Having seen the conditions the locals
were living in I can't honestly say that I wouldn't have behaved
in the same way. If I had a child with no toys and saw things
being given to children who appeared not to appreciate them and
very often smashed them to bits, I would be more than tempted
87
to take those things to my own child, who I could be sure would
enjoy them. When I first arrived at Ungerini I had thought the
carers were monsters, but I gradually realised that their lives, too,
were unimaginably hard and that more often than not it was
ignorance not unkindness that made them behave the way they
did. But just because I understood the reasons for their behaviour,
I didn't believe it was justified.
As the weeks passed, several of the children too showed themselves
to be true friends to me. Szuzannah was a gypsy of about
fourteen, with horribly crippled legs. She had lovely, flashing
black eyes and used to look up at me from the floor like a sad,
faithful old dog. She was always desperate for attention, love and
approval. When some of the more articulate children shouted
abuse at me, like, 'Old cow,' Szuzannah would spring to my
defence saying, 'No, Bevey beautiful.'
One afternoon in early March I was working with some of the
larger lads when Szuzannah crawled in to see what we were doing.
A particularly unpredictable boy, Bordisan, suddenly became very
agitated, started howling like a wolf and then charged across
the room intent on hitting me. I froze, unable to move as he
approached. Szuzannah grabbed hold of the end of the bed and
pulled herself up onto her twisted legs, putting her frail body
between Bordisan and me, taking the full impact of his fist which
knocked her backwards. Through her tears she told him to 'leave
my Bevey alone'. For a second I felt relieved at having been spared
the blow and then guilt that she had been hurt while saving me.
Two other girls, teenagers called Simona and Loridana, also
used to come to my rescue, telling the more energetic children,
'Be gentle with Bevey; you will all get turns.' They both made
tremendous efforts to keep themselves clean, despite having no
warm water, soap or shampoo, and both obviously had severe
problems with their legs, walking with strange gaits. They loved
nothing better than having one of the helpers bring in some nail
varnish and paint their nails for them. Although Simona sounded
gruff and bossy, she had a very well established sense of right and
wrong. She loved to touch my hair, making a strange, catlike
moaning sound as she stroked it. When I gave her my shoulder
bag with black cats on it she wept for joy. I came to look on
many of these older children as close friends.
88
CHAPTER SIX
Slow Progress
^
1 here were a great many heart-breaking set-backs at Ungerini,
like the day when Lazy Lazlo seemed even more miserablelooking
than usual when I came in singing my usual 'rise and
shine' message. He just lay there, looking very yellow, particularly
the whites of his eyes. My first thought was that he had contracted
hepatitis, or jaundice as it used to be known. He felt hot to the
touch and seemed too disinterested in life even to be grumpy with
me. Adelina, the 'Chief Nurse', came as soon as I asked. Luckily
we had some antibiotics in our team room and she started to give
him these, even though they weren't prescribed for his condition.
For two weeks he was too weak even to whimper. I couldn't help
thinking of all the drugs available in Britain and other Western
countries and which couldn't be got out to the children who
needed them most in the world and it saddened me to my very
core. It was weeks before Lazy Lazlo was well enough for us to
resume our efforts to get him to stand up.
Incidents like this made some of the other members of the
team think we were getting nowhere, but I found that we were
progressing a tiny bit day by day, giving the children more and
more to live for, slowly making their lives more comfortable.
To any newcomer the situation would still have seemed almost
unbearably bleak, but working closely with the children it was
possible to see little breakthroughs every day; a child smiling for
the first time or looking you in the eye, moving outside Salon
One without screaming for the first time or starting to show
interest in a toy unprompted.
I was beginning to see the children as individuals with very
distinct personalities, rather than as categories or degrees of
infirmity. There were a few volunteers who were willing, like me,
to spend their afternoons with the big children downstairs. Many
of the others found that even half a day at Ungerini was as much
as they could stand and they would return to the hotel after
lunch. Since I was there I thought I might as well do whatever I
could to help. There was never anything much to go back to the
hotel for.
The difficulty with the big children was always finding things for
them to do that they would enjoy but which wouldn't get out of
hand. Their, expressionless faces were like those white masks they
use in Japanese Kabuki theatre, registering no emotion other than
blank disinterest or stark fear. If the children looked at you at all it
was with haunted, frightened eyes. I felt a great sense of achievement
the day I persuaded twelve-year-old Monika to smile at me
with her mouth and her eyes both at the same time.
I tried them with things like the colouring books I had brought
out from England with me, but they weren't really up to the
required level of manual skill. How do you get someone to colour
in a picture of a beach ball if they have never seen one? They
liked to blow bubbles, but you can't do that every day and we
had to be careful they didn't snatch at the liquid and spill it, so
we would hold the bottles and wands and they would puff away.
I believed the blowing motion would help them to develop their
muscles and put some life into their blank faces, but I don't know
if there was any truth in this. With some of the more aware ones
I would try to encourage them to do facial exercises like sticking
their tongues out, simply to get their muscles working.
In most cases just the fact that we were there at all cheered
them up. I used to play a game where they would pretend to be
asleep and I would have to wake them up. They would then sit
bolt upright and open their eyes very wide, like dolls do. It was
the same little charade every time and always made them scream
with laughter. Sitting the children on my lap like giant ventriloquists'
dummies, I tickled their faces with paint brushes,
feathers and silk and put hot and cold things against their skins
so that they could feel the different sensations - anything to make
them less introverted and more interested in whatever was going
on around them.
Jill, an older lady who had been a nurse and was part of the
first team to go out to Ungerini, was very kind and helpful to me
at the beginning. We got to know her the first weekend we were
90
in Bacau. The rest of her team had decided they needed a break
as soon as we arrived and had gone to Bucharest for a few days.
On the Friday evening, when we got back to the hotel, it was
bitterly cold. The British Army had sent out loads of rations
which were stored in the team room and Jacqui and Diane decided
to cook us all a delicious chicken curry and rice. My job was to
lay the coffee table. I found some old champagne bottles into
which I put some even older candles, while Roger went off and
bought some rough old wine and champagne. I put on a tape of
Strauss waltzes and the mood was set.
Suddenly we heard a little voice say, 'Oh, it's you!' and we saw
Jill's head disappear out of the room and off down the corridor.
I raced after her and invited her to join us. She was a little
reluctant at first and explained that she guessed she hadn't been
invited on the Bucharest trip because she was so much older than
the other team members.
We found an extra plate and each donated a portion of our
meal. Roger poured her a glass of champagne and we all squeezed
up. We had a hilarious evening, swaying in time to the music just
like they must have done in the beer halls of Vienna, and getting
quite squiffy since some of us were not used to drinking such
strong stuff. Jill was amazed that none of us could waltz and was
persuaded to try to teach Diane. Diane, tall, slim and with cascades
of beautiful, curly, honey-blonde hair and sparkling green
eyes, waltzed around the candle lit room with her shorter, very
pretty, but slightly plumper partner. The next day Jill quietly told
me that it was the first time she had been included in anything
since she had arrived two months before.
I enjoyed working with Jill. We all came to respect her dedication
to the children, and we knew she would be a loss to the
team when the time came for her to leave. Jill and Mark used to
have a sparring kind of fondness for one another. If he was driving
the van she had a habit of shrieking 'Stop!', forcing him to screech
to a skidding halt and enquire as to what it was that Jill had seen.
'There's a peasant in the road!' she would offer.
On her last morning Mark, Jacqui, Roger and I went to the
station to see her off and as the train pulled out Mark shouted,
'Stop!' Jill screamed back, 'What is it?' Mark mischievously held
up a passport, calling back, 'Passport!'
Jill looked flustered for a couple of seconds, then brought out
her own passport, waved it gaily and hooted with laughter.
i 9i
whenever he became anxious. The doll had lost all its clothes and
most of its face, but its eyes still stared fixedly out at us. Mihai
did wonderful imitations of us all, just like a parrot. The children
all thought it was hysterical that I made them say 'please' and
'thank you' for things because they aren't words Romanians use
very often and Mihai used to squawk them back at me, his
imitation impeccable.
I could see from their faces that some of the other volunteers
thought I looked ridiculous waltzing or disco dancing around
with these children who spent a lot of their time falling over, or
cuddling and rocking boys who were as tall as me, but they didn't
seem to have any better ideas. They would sometimes ask me,
'Do you really think that's beneficial?' their faces telling me
exactly what they thought. When directly challenged like that I
would flounder for answers because I didn't know for sure. But
I kept doing it. As long as the children were happy and laughing
I must be getting something right. It seemed vital to gain their
trust and make them feel comfortable with me, getting them to
lose their fear and relax sufficiently so that we could begin a more
specific programme of rehabilitation.
The women carers seemed to be becoming kinder with exposure
to good examples ... The cooks would sometimes come round
the rooms in the afternoons bringing special treats like slices of
apple. Many of the children didn't know what to do with such
luxuries, either throwing them at one another or chewing them
up and spitting them out, but many were grateful for these little
gifts.
Mark, the blond chap I had watched at work the first time I
came to Ungerini, started to bring his ghetto blaster into the
rooms when he helped me in the afternoons and the children
loved it. He and Jacqui were both very keen to help and sometimes
we would put two lots of children together. Although every room
looked virtually identical, moving from one to another made the
children feel that they were going on some sort of outing and
they would become very excited.
The only problem with this physical activity was that the
rooms became very hot as the weather warmed up and the bigger
children would develop the most terrible body odour as they
pranced and leapt about. By the end of the afternoon the pong
would be almost enough to knock you out. Mark and I had the
idea of moving the whole thing outside into the sunshine and
94
organising discos for all twice a week. There was an almost secure
courtyard out back and we decided to ask Madam Augustina if
we could use it. I was getting more and more confident about
asking for things now and although she was doubtful about it at
first I wasn't going to be discouraged. Madam Augustina was
worried that the authorities might make a surprise visit and want
to know why all the children weren't sitting in neat lines on the
beds as usual. I told her that it would make the children sleep
better and fight less if they were given some exercise during
the afternoon. This gave her the excuse she needed should her
superiors challenge her and she agreed to let us try.
Mark and I had to give Madam and the other staff the
impression that we knew what we were doing, which or course
we didn't. At our first disco we let all ninety children out at once
and the stronger ones thundered dangerously over the weaker
ones in their eagerness, so the next time we asked the women to
bring the kids out one room at a time. We were learning as we
went along and thankfully no one suffered too badly as a result
of our ignorance.
Mark was a heavy-metal fan and had brought some Status
Quo tapes from England with him which the children loved -
head-banging suited the repetitive, rhythmical movements so
many of them made all the time. 'Whatever you want, thump
thump, whatever you need, thump thump', or, 'You're in the
army now, thump thump,' was perfect for them!
Mark put the cassette player up on a shed roof out of reach
because it would have been all too easy for someone to smash it
in a moment of madness. To begin with they grew excited at
their newfound freedom and did things like throw stones at one
another, but we threatened to send them back to their rooms if
they didn't stop and none of them wanted that; they all wanted
to stay outside where the music was. It was physio that was fun,
a relief to all. One boy used to dance with me very sweetly and
then excuse himself and dance for a while with an imaginary
friend, before returning.
At first the local helpers just stood on the sidelines and watched
us making fools of ourselves, but one by one I managed to coax
them to join us and they began to let their inhibitions go, folk
dancing with the fastest footwork imaginable. It was astonishing
to see these huge, muscular peasant women, who normally moved
at the speed of snails, flying around the dance floor. Madam
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Augustina declared the disco a great success and even allowed
some of the smaller but more mobile children from upstairs to
join in as well.
What Mark and I really needed if we were going to supervise
the crowd safely was more manpower and I finally managed to
persuade some of our more reluctant team members to come and
assist. There were some surprising grumbles along the lines of:
'The children can't just have music all the time,' and they agreed
to help only on the condition that we played some local Romanian
music rather than just imposing British rock on them. I could see
some sense in their argument and Mark duly put on a Romanian
folk tape. All ninety children immediately stopped dancing, the
music more than likely re-awakening their memories of the dreadful
piped racket that they had been forced to listen to inside their
rooms for all those years, and they began to spit.
'What shall I do, Bev?' Mark asked.
'Put Quo back on. Mark, quickly!'
Some of the big boys were very good at spitting. I had seen one
of them hit Madam Augustina on the back with a spitball from
a distance of about twenty yards. She didn't even know it had
happened - real skill. The same boy got me once when I came
round a corner unexpectedly. I chased him all over the orphanage,
pretending to be crosser than I was. He stopped eventually
and gave a low, theatrical bow. 'Pardon Bevey,' he said. 'I
thought you were another person. I was dismayed to find it was
you!'
It was a great relief to be outside and it was wonderful to see
the children having such a good time. The carers were, quite
rightly, rather nervous of having so many of the children in one
place and one of them forced all her children to sit in line, with
the help of her 'boss' child, in exactly the same formation as in
the room, but even they gradually became more confident and
relaxed. Several of the rooms had 'boss' children, the most able,
who would be put in charge if the women had to leave the rooms
for any reason. They would be left with the sticks and lumps of
wood to help them keep order. It was not something which any
of us liked. Madam Augustina used to be furious if she found
any of the women out of their rooms as they were supposed to
stay there throughout their shifts. It was because all the carers
had been in one room, smoking, drinking and gossiping, that so
many children had died on the night of the fire in Salon One. I
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could quite understand why they did it. I was always pleased to
get a visit from another of the volunteers when I was alone in
Salon One.
These privileged children were always easy to recognise because
they were better dressed than the others and could often be seen
holding hands with the carers. They were also generally fatter
and healthier because they were better fed. Patrika had grown fat
because he was strong and had managed to get the lion's share
of any food on offer. Because he was also a favourite of the staff
assigned to his room they would ensure he got what he wanted.
Because they believed big people needed more food than thin
people they became very worried when I started to lose weight
and were always trying to feed me up with pancakes and gogoshi a
sort of doughnut that they made in the kitchens. Patrika was
very aggressive about getting his way, screaming and shouting
for everything. And the disco was no exception. He started to
slap and push people and I stopped him immediately, certain that
if he was allowed to continue he would gradually exert more and
more force until someone was seriously hurt. I asked him, in my
simple Romanian, 'Do you wish to return to bed or stay on?' subdued
he stayed!
Several of us had noticed that both Patrika and a girl called
Vassila had recently become much more aggressive. Some of the
helpers suggested that it was because the two of them had been
made to sleep together. This bore out stories we had heard from
a French team who had come to install a proper plumbing system
and slept inside the orphanage. A few of the women thought it
was good sport to get the children into bed with one another, but
those who disapproved were becoming braver about speaking up
and telling us what was going on. There were also terrible stories
of savage heatings and screams in the night. I went to Madam
Augustina and told her our suspicions.
'No one here would do anything like that,' she assured me,
and I knew that if I left the matter with her it would be dealt
with without any individual loss of face. Sure enough, we heard
nothing more about the children being exploited in this way.
The French plumbing team spent many months at Ungerini,
moving tanks around and trying to improve the water supplies
throughout the building, but without much success. There were
endless disagreements between the Ungerini Orphanage Trust (a
British charity that had grown out of the Romanian Orphanage
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Trust) and the French over exactly whose fault it was, but in the
end they left with things only very marginally improved. Some
new toilets were installed but they were porcelain and stainlesssteel
fitments would have been better suited to withstand the
likely level of wear and tear. It remained a mystery to me that
something so fundamental to the health and well-being of everyone
living and working at Ungerini couldn't be rapidly sorted
out, and it illustrated how complicated solving simple problems
could become and how hard it was to make any lasting improvements.
I was surprised to find that people become amazingly
parochial when undertaking charitable works and it seemed to
me in my innocence a very silly, negative and wasteful way to
behave.
Each volunteer reacted to the pressures of life at Ungerini in
different ways, and sometimes we behaved like naughty school
children in an effort to release the tensions. On i April, Mark
challenged Jacqui to a potato-throwing competition in the hotel
corridor - first one to drop one had to cook supper. The battle
commenced and Mark started baiting Jacqui by shouting out
'Wee spuddy' in a mocking Irish accent. Suddenly he let out a
blood-curdling yell. Jacqui had substituted an egg and it had
exploded all over him when he caught it. He chased her, screaming,
all over the hotel until a large and aggressive man came to
his door and shouted abuse at Jacqui. Pulling herself up to her
full five feet, Jacqui showed him the spare egg she was carrying
and indicated that she would gladly break it over the top of his
head. He rapidly retreated back into his room.
For a change, we would sometimes take a group of children on
an outing in one of the vans. One particular day Roger, Diane,
Jacqui and I had crammed a van far too full with children - all
of them looking even more barmy than usual because Madam
Augustina had insisted on them wearing baby bonnets to keep
out the cold - and we broke down in a little village that didn't
look as if it had changed since the Middle Ages. The only one
of us who spoke more than a few words of Romanian was a
schizophrenic boy, called Nichusorui, who was sporting a rather
fetching pink bonnet with a bobble on top and a fine-looking
embroidered coat sent from France. He immediately took control,
strutting around the van sounding off at the few bemused villagers
who came to see if we needed help. The two Romanian words I
used almost constantly with the children seemed to be 'Injet'
which meant 'slowly, gently' and 'Gata' which meant 'stop'.
When it came to explaining why I was parked in the middle of
nowhere with a van full of nutters I was a bit stumped.
Eventually we managed to get the van started again and set
off, only to find one of the children, a seventeen-year-old called
Radu, starting to projectile-vomit within minutes of our departure.
He reminded me of one of those wooden dolls on a stall at
the fair, their mouths permanently open in fixed grins, ready for
us to throw a ball in. He turned, mouth wide open, and a cascade
of evil smelling vomit gushed out. He did it four times in all and
managed to hit Roger every time. Wherever Roger moved to, the
vomit seemed to follow, with Radu smiling benignly between
bouts. For Roger it was the final straw, his patience had been
tested to the full and found wanting.
'I don't f...... believe it!' he exploded. 'I come all the way out
from England to help these people and all they do is vomit over
me!' At which point he was hit with another full frontal stream.
Jacqui, Diane and I couldn't look at each other - slowly, like a
volcano getting up steam to erupt, we began to lose control and
laugh. It started with sniggers, but soon we were shrieking and
howling, shoving each other and falling off our seats, carefully
avoiding the sick, clutching each other helplessly as we fell out
of the van. I had to walk cross-legged in an effort not to wet
myself. Every time one of us stopped the other would look - and
then it would start all over again. Our sides ached and our tears
flowed until we were exhausted.
Poor Roger, he could not understand why we were laughing
and I couldn't either really, for it was unkind and by now his
normally dry and acidic wit had disappeared altogether. The more
serious he became the more our mirth was fuelled.
The more we laughed the angrier Roger became. 'And then,'
he stormed, 'apart from orphans puking over me at every f......
opportunity, bird-brained bimbos find it f...... amusing - go on,
laugh! What shall I do for an encore? Dive head first into at......
pile of horse-shit? No? Not funny enough? Shall I sever an artery,
would that suit?'
'I'm so sorry,' I started, but I couldn't finish the sentence because
I was hysterical again.
I learnt so much from Roger. He was highly intelligent and
academic and our rather mundane daily routines must have
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seemed very tedious, but he was gentle and kind with the children,
always treating them with respect. However, he did not suffer
fools on the team gladly. There was a sort of local bar in the
village and one afternoon he decided to take some of the more
mobile lads for a pint! I was just coming back from a walk when
I saw them sitting round a table in their bedraggled, torn and illfitting
clothes and unmatched shoes, with Roger dispensing the
little glasses of beer. He was always encouraging the children to
enjoy themselves and to learn to live fuller lives and would become
infuriated with any pettiness or unnecessary rule-making. Taking
the lads on such an unorthodox trip was just his style! He refused
to waste any time on 'in-team' fighting, when there was such
enjoyable work to be done.
There were many wonderful volunteers working out in
Romania at that time. As well as the Norwegian Red Cross
workers I had come across in the home, I was particularly impressed
by the VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas) workers. There
did, however, seem to be some volunteers who had come for
reasons I couldn't fathom. Perhaps it was some sort of ego
trip, or just something to do, but rather than inspiring the local
workers in the orphanages, by showing them what was possible
and helping them to find new ways of doing things, they were as
uncaring as the local women had been, and tried to get away
with as little work as possible.
I always admired people who realised quickly that they couldn't
cope and went back home, making room for someone else to
come out and try. I completely understood that actually coping
with the children on a day to day basis was not everyone's cup
of tea. One man told me he felt very ashamed that he couldn't
bring himself to touch some of the children because they looked
so grotesque. I told him he mustn't feel bad about that, that we
all had different things we could and couldn't do. Those people
who admitted they had made a mistake were more honest than
those who simply stayed on, trying to get out of doing anything
unpleasant by taking days off or arranging day-long meetings
with local politicians. I guess I was there with my own needs just
like everyone else and I know that the work was often very
stressful, but I was happy. I learned to overcome my fears and to
help others to do the same. It didn't happen overnight but after
several weeks I realised that although I was still aware of the
dangers I wasn't quaking in my boots any more. I had chosen the
100
path which was right for me but I certainly didn't expect it to be
right for everyone.
One evening Mark told me he really enjoyed my company.
'Oh, do you. Mark?' I replied, somewhat sceptically. 'That's
nice.'
'I've been invited by one of the carers to lunch on Sunday,' he
continued casually. 'Would you like to come?'
'I've got quite a lot to do,' I said vaguely. I had been hoping to
catch up on both my letter writing and my sleep that weekend.
'Oh, please come. I don't fancy the drive on my own. It'll be
fun and the family really want to meet you,' he went on.
There was a desperate edge to his voice, almost as if his life
depended on my accompanying him, so eventually I gave in and
we set off. The carer, who was an extremely attractive young
lady, looked as if she had sucked on a lemon when she saw me
arriving in the van. She had prepared a delicious Sunday lunch for
two! I could have thrashed Mark - it was obvious that the
girl concerned was not at all happy to have this middle-aged old
bat cramping her style. The day seemed to last for ever and there
was nowhere for me to disappear tactfully. When it was finally
time to leave we drove away with her gazing lovingly at Mark
and sending invisible daggers into my back.
It wasn't the last time that he conned me into playing gooseberry
when some rampant female was after him. Several times he
arrived breathlessly at the door of my hotel room, inviting me up
to listen to some music. After the first few times he gave up
pretending it was because he enjoyed my scintillating company.
Towards the end of April I was passing one of the rooms downstairs
when Marius, the boy who had punched me on my first
day and I had since befriended, called me in. There were no other
workers around and I hesitated for a second at going, but decided
it was time to show him some trust. I sat down on a bed and he
climbed up onto my knee. Paladin, another large and rather mad
boy who I did not know as well, climbed onto my other knee.
Paladin used to chatter away to us all day, asking so many
questions that we had thought he must be one of the normal
children. It was only when lonel joined us that we discovered he
spoke complete rubbish and we realised that he wasn't quite with
it.
For a while the boys enjoyed cuddling and being cuddled then,
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without looking at each other or appearing to exchange any sign,
both of them grabbed my hair from each side in an apparently
synchronised movement and threw me savagely back onto the
bed, pulling great tufts of hair out. I was terrified and managed
to fight my way free of them, furious with Marius for his betrayal
of my friendship. Paladin was really beyond understanding that
he had done wrong, but I punished Marius by refusing to take
him outside for a walk I had promised him later. He was very
apologetic and didn't know why he had acted as he did. Incidents
like this reminded me that these children could be physically
dangerous, particularly the ones who were virtually full grown,
and that I should never allow myself to become overconfident.
Some of the other volunteers used to become quite annoyed
with me for always being so cheerful. I suppose that's what caused
them to think I must be stupid. 'Bev is to intellectualism what
Saddam Hussein is to peace,' the leader of the project once
quipped. In Romania we had a Team Leader, Operations Director
and Operations Field Director - all British and provided by the
Ungerini Orphanage Trust. I was never sure what claims to
exceptional intelligence he had given such a tasteless remark, but
was hurt none the less to think that I gave the impression of being
so dim. They behaved as if they thought they were showing their
respect for the plight of these people by always moaning on about
how terrible everything was. At one stage I innocently announced
that I was planning to keep a diary during my time in Romania.
I suddenly received a lot of very earnest visits from people anxious
to find out what I actually planned to record. As it was I couldn't
find the time to write and have relied on my memory.
When we first arrived I had been very worried by the difficulties
which the different teams of volunteers had in gelling. The existing
team had obviously been through a lot together and some of them
seemed to feel that we, the newcomers, were there to usurp them.
So, instead of giving us guidance on how to set about helping the
children, they tended to ignore us as much as possible. I felt rather
at a loss as to how to deal with this and badly needed to do what
I would always do if such a situation arose in England - talk to
John. I had not counted on just how hard it would be to get
through to the UK. It took a week to book my first telephone
call home and I was very relieved to hear his voice on the other
end and to be able to pour out my woes down the line.
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'Just carry on being yourself,' he advised wisely. 'Don't take
any of it personally and get on with the job you are there to do,
working with the children. If your presence there worries anyone
it's their problem, not yours.'
I did, and it worked. However, I determined that I would
welcome any new team members and give them as much help as
they wanted. It was vital that there should be a person who was
interested enough to listen and help if needed.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
The Arrival of the Sisters
*
J ust before I arrived at Ungerini, Mother Teresa of Calcutta
had visited Romania and was so appalled by the state of the
orphanages that she immediately set about opening four of her
homes in the area - two in Bucharest, one in Bacau and one in
Transylvania. In February 1991 two Sisters came to visit Ungerini,
surrounded by the senior workers from our British team who
escorted them from room to room and didn't let us volunteers
near them. They stayed for quite a while in Salon One observing
me at work with the children and since no one introduced us I
just kept going as if they weren't there. I watched the way they
talked to the children and I was impressed by how gentle and
unassuming these fragile-looking women were. The children were
unafraid of them as they stood there, quietly smiling in their
beautiful white saris with the thin blue lines around the edges,
their eyes sparkling behind their spectacles. There were several
of these visits. We were then told that the Sisters were opening a
home in Bacau and would be taking three children from each
room. I was asked to select three children from Salon One.
'This is very good news for the children,' one of the Norwegian
Red Cross workers told me. 'The Sisters run wonderful homes;
the children will be much better cared for and will also receive a
good education.'
I felt very happy at the announcement but worried about who
I should put forward for transfer. At my level of experience there
was no scientific or fair way of selecting which of the children
should receive this opportunity for a better life. I worked on
emotional grounds. I chose the children I thought had the most
to gain and the potential to achieve it and which most desperately
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needed help. It was heartbreaking to deny any child the chance
on any grounds, and once I had made my three choices I found I
couldn't bear the thought that despite my careful deliberations
little Maria, who was so horribly deformed and crippled, was
not going.
The children I eventually settled on were Szulita, Monika and
lonuts, two girls and a boy, all aged six. Szulita weighed only a
few pounds, no more than four bags of sugar, and each day she
seemed to become more frail. Feeding her regularly throughout
the morning with syringes of milk was having no effect on the
sad and very visible decline of her emaciated body. One of our
nurses declared her days, if not hours, from death. I believed
Szulita's only hope was to go to the Sisters; perhaps they would
be able to save her ... If not, at least she would die surrounded
by love and warmth.
Monika was a very gentle and sweet child and I thought her
disability was to have one leg shorter than the other (it turned
out to be hip dysplasia when properly diagnosed). Monika desperately
wanted to get up and walk and was almost there, as was
lonuts. I was certain that once with the Sisters they would soon
be walking, talking and independent.
Maria was an extremely malnourished, waif-like child of
twelve, so small I used to hold her in the crook of my arm like a
small baby. Her knees were permanently pulled up to her chest
and her arm was so curved that her hand was cupped round her
ear the whole time. She had black eyes and hair, and skin so thin
I could see the blood coursing through her veins. It was terrifying
to lift her out of her cot because she would usually scream and I
could never be sure if it was from pain or fear.
Of course my choice of Maria was totally illogical. We were
told that she would never walk, talk or be independent, and she
was probably much too old to be able to change now. She was
so fragile, terrified, vulnerable - I couldn't honestly say whether
she would progress much beyond her current capabilities, but I
was sure she would be happier with the Sisters - could I deny her
that just because she was older than the others?
After several nights of tossing and turning I plucked up the
courage to ask Sister Jane, a beautiful Indian woman. Sister
Superior in Bacau, if Maria might be included as a special case.
When I was told that they would take her too I felt an overwhelming
sensation of joy. I wrapped her up in her filthy, smelly
105
rags and ran out into the corridor to take her to Diane's room so
that I could share the good news. I had tears pouring down my
cheeks and I was talking away to her as we went in a mixture of
English and Romanian.
'You are going somewhere beautiful, to live with a proper
family. The Sisters are going to be your Aunties. I'll miss you. I
love you.' To my horror I realised that I had walked into a couple
of the Norwegian Red Cross team, who were wandering around
with a video camera, filming. If the corridor hadn't been so dark they would have seen how brightly I blushed at being caught
making such an exhibition of myself.
'That was beautiful, Bev,' they smiled understandingly. 'Could
you do it again for the camera?'
'Oh, no,' I protested, 'I couldn't.' I didn't think I could reenact
something so emotional, despite my earlier ambitions to be an
actress. I did think to myself, 'I'm British; I can't do this in front
of people,' but the sheer joy I felt for Maria and her new life
overcame any inhibitions I had. I suspect that if I ever saw the
footage it would be one of the most embarrassing experiences
possible but at that moment I was so happy I didn't care what I
did. I just began to tell Maria where she was going and tears of
joy cascaded naturally down my cheeks.
A few days later I bumped into the Sisters unaccompanied by
their usual entourage of charity workers and plucked up the
courage to ask some questions about the home, eager to know
what sort of place my children would be going to.
'You must come and visit,' they said sweetly.
'Oh, could I?' I blurted. I was very surprised by how warm and
friendly and open they were. 'When would be the best time?'
'Come any time you like,' they assured me. 'We would be
delighted to see you.'
I was very excited at the prospect and made the mistake of
telling the rest of the team about the invitation. The senior
workers seemed to stiffen at the news that I had actually spoken
to the Sisters myself. 'We would rather you didn't do that Bev,'
they said. 'We will arrange for everyone to go together at a later
date.'
I didn't dare to ask them why this was and just accepted the
decision, assuming that they knew best. For a week I waited for
this arrangement to be made but, when no one mentioned it
106
again, Diane and I decided to take our courage in both hands
and go round one evening on our own.
'I would like to give them some notes on the children from
Salon One,' I said. In my vanity I thought I was now the only one
who properly understood the children in my room. Over the
previous few weeks I had got to know these children very well
and I was anxious to pass on everything I knew to the Sisters so
that they could settle them as quickly as possible. I wanted to tell
them about each child's likes and dislikes and the different ways
they preferred to be comforted when they cried. When Maria was
on the floor, for instance, she would look for things to pull round
her for protection. It was always best to sit her with her back to
a cot so the other children could only approach her from the
front, because they made her nervous. She liked to sit on my lap
and have her face stroked while I sang, 'What are we going to do
about Maria?' but became agitated if you touched her legs for
any reason. Each child had toys and music that they especially
liked and I wanted the Sisters to know all this. I was also very
curious to find out more about the Sisters themselves. I'd once
read a book about Mother Teresa and her order, written by
Malcolm Muggeridge, and what it said had seemed almost too
good to be true.
Without telling anyone else what we were doing, Diane and I
set off on our own into the back streets of Bacau late one evening.
The home was in a gypsy ghetto, which was by far the poorest
part of town that I had seen. There were four Sisters setting up
home in a very simple house. The walls were painted in pale,
pastel colours; the cots were white and there were Z-beds waiting
for the bigger children. There were few toys or other luxuries
around, but what we noticed immediately was the wonderfully
warm atmosphere which enveloped us the moment we walked
in. The Sisters had made sure that they had the basics, hot and
cold running water etc, they needed to keep the children and
home clean and to operate a system of modern lavatories, before
they opened their doors to the children.
Sister Jane told us this had all been brought out to Bacau by a
co-worker of Mother Teresa, George Bushell, and a team of
workers from Britain. They had been helped by local workmen
who had been glad of employment and to learn new techniques.
We explained that we had come to give them the children's
notes but they seemed overjoyed that we had come to see them
107
at all. They proudly showed us their home and asked us about
ourselves and what we had done before coming out to Romania.
Sister Jane took the notes from me and sat down to read them.
Afterwards I learned she had been very moved and had said to
her sisters, 'How come this woman, who is just a secretary, can
write such sensitive and beautiful notes about these children in
her care?' I almost cried with pride on hearing this, but also felt
rather puzzled as I hadn't imagined I was doing anything out of
the ordinary. It was an obvious thing to do in the circumstances.
'Tell me, Bevey,' Sister Jane said after we had been talking for
a while, 'Why is it that so few of the British volunteers at Ungerini
are actually working with the children?'
I didn't know the answer and said something about there being
a lot of administration and liaison to be done by the senior
workers, but I could see that the Sisters were genuinely puzzled.
Many weeks passed and I was still very worried about Illeana
who did not seem to be recovering her spirits after losing Gabriel
and being let down so badly by the British volunteers. I thought
that she would benefit from the more intimate atmosphere - more
like a large family home - that the Sisters were trying to create
and wondered if they could be persuaded to take her in. I decided
to chance my luck once more. One evening, at about nine o'clock,
I went back to the Sisters in Bacau. I could hear excited chatter
and laughter coming from inside. I hesitated to knock, frightened
to intrude. Sister Jane came to the door and invited me into their
little parlour. She listened patiently as I recounted Illeana's story.
I told her how helpful she was to me and that perhaps they could
take her on as a junior worker.
'She must be saved. Sister,' I ended my special pleading.
'We are really planning to take younger and more handicapped
children,' she told me, 'but if we did take Illeana it would have
to be as a child not as a worker. We would want to educate her
for a better life. Education is a very high priority for our children
and those we help. I will think about it.'
The next day I caught sight of the now familiar white sari from
my window in Salon One. Sister Jane had found Illeana and was
talking to her. Had I not been an atheist I could have dropped on
my knees and prayed at that moment. Later I was told that Sister
Jane had been to see Madam Augustina and the Romanians
were reluctant for the older children to go to Mother Teresa's,
108
frightened they would be used as slaves. Sister Jane told Illeana
not to give up hope, that they would try to help her, but I had a
horrible feeling that once again her hopes were going to be raised,
only to be ultimately disappointed. I only hoped it wouldn't be
the final straw for her.
By the time I returned to England at the end of May, I had been
able to persuade the Sisters to take five more children from Salon
One. That meant nine in all from my room and fifty-two in all
from Ungerini. The Norwegian Red Cross also asked them to
take some very needy children from Gemesh, a smaller institute
in the Transylvanian part of Romania. Although I was happy for
those nine children, I hated having to be judge and jury, writing
down the names of those who would be given a chance of a new
life, deciding to omit other names and thereby damning them to
a life of almost certain misery. Not a day passed when I didn't
agonise over whether I had made the right or wrong choices. I will
never know and it is something which will be on my conscience for
the rest of my life.
On the day the Sisters came to collect the first children I was
asked to travel with them, as a familiar presence that would help
calm their fears. It was the first time the four children from
Salon One had been outside the building - they were the most
handicapped - and they were all terrified. Maria sat on my lap,
her twisted little body uncomfortable no matter what I did, and
screamed deafeningly all the way down the mountain. We sang
throughout the twenty-mile journey to try to distract the children
from their terrors, but it was impossible to drown out the noise.
Although they were on their way to somewhere far nicer than
anything they had ever experienced, we had no way of letting
them know it. They only knew that something strange and frightening
was happening to them and they were all very unsettled by
the time we got to Bacau.
Sister Jane asked me to stay for a while and try to calm some
of the older ones, particularly a boy called Lucien, who was going
berserk. There were piles of new clean clothes already laid out
and waiting and I thought I would give him a bath to settle him
down. All eight of the big children then decided they wanted to
have baths too, their first ever experience of hot water, shampoo
and soft, white, scented baby powder. Bathtime at Ungerini had
always been an ordeal, entailing being flung into a bath of icecold
water (two baths to cater for 186 children, with the water
109
unchanged between bathers until our arrival). There had been no
washing and no soap, just a sluice down with cold water and
then sitting or lying on the cold concrete to drip dry.
Once safely in the bathroom with me, the children became
ecstatic with joy at these simple, physical pleasures. Getting
Lucien, who was then fifteen years old but only three feet tall,
into the bath was hard because his legs always went all over the
place, his feet pointing forwards, backwards or sideways. I was
frightened of hurting him and didn't quite know where to hold
him because his chest and arms were deformed too. As I gently
lowered him into the tub, the bubbles rising up over his grotesque
little body, he put his thumb up: 'Foarte bine, Bevey!' ('Very
good'.) All the children had learned to put their thumbs up to
signify something good; what a legacy I have left them! Once he
was in, Lucien made me wash his shaved scalp with shampoo
over and over again. Each time I had to smell his head and
say, 'Oh, Lucien, foarte frumos' ('very beautiful') with great
exaggeration and he would crow with happiness.
By the time the American Sister, called Sister Shanti, popped
her head round the door she could barely make us out in the
clouds of powder and steam. 'Do you think the children might
be ready for bed now, Bev?' she enquired.
'Certainly,' I replied. 'What's the time?'
'Eleven-thirty!'
I couldn't believe it; we had been in there for hours.
One of the rituals which all the children enjoyed was the 'Indian'
or 'Mother Teresa' bath. They would stand in the bath and have
jugs of warm water poured over their bodies. They would then
be soaped up by hand and rubbed all over, then more warm water
was poured over them, the Sister using her hands to rinse them.
They just loved the caresses and undivided attention.
One of the smallest children to come to the Sisters was called
lonel. I had not come across him often because he had been in
Salon Eight at Ungerini, and he had spent most of the time in his
cot. He was very tiny and needed nursing night and day by Sister
Ida. He was not expected to live long because of chronic bronchial
problems and general ill health. The Sisters were determined that
his last few days would be as loving and happy as possible, and
that he should die with dignity. My initial impressions of this
poor little scrap were very negative. He showed no signs of life
no
apart from permanently whinging. Very few people seemed to
like lonel but Sister Ida was dedicated to him, staying with him
all the time. Despite expectations, his health appeared to improve
a little in the first few weeks, although he was still a long way
from joining in with anything that went on around him.
lonel had been born in hospital. His mother, who was not
married to his father, had not been able to keep him and he was
sent straight to a state orphanage. At some time he had contracted
polio, although we didn't discover that until some time after his
arrival at the Sisters'. When it came to the three-year test he failed
and was sent to Ungerini. Many of the physically handicapped
children there became mentally handicapped simply because they
were starved of affection, exercise, stimulation and nutritious
food. By the time we got to them, however, it was hard to tell
which children were genuinely mentally handicapped and which
had become so through deprivation. lonel was one of these
unknown quantities but it was generally agreed that due to his
perilous health he was probably a hopeless case.
Like the others, he had been tied up in his cot all day with his
emaciated arms behind his head and his knees in his chest, lying
on lino, cold, filthy and uncared-for. There were cigarette burns
on his chest and on his body were bite marks from the stray dogs
which used to roam the orphanage freely before the revolution.
On the way to Mother Teresa's he hadn't had the strength to
scream - he had just lain in Sister Ida's arms and stared blankly
into space, struggling to breathe.
Within a few weeks it became obvious that lonel was not going
to die after all, and he started to eat at a tremendous rate. Because
he couldn't move about this led to him putting on weight and he
began to look like a fat little old man. The Sisters were fond of
giving their children nicknames. There was one little girl called
Lachrymora who had the most beautiful blonde hair and blue
eyes, just like Sister Shanti, so she was renamed Shanti. As he put
on weight, lonel began to bear a strong resemblance to Dom
Patreascu, the elderly night watchman, a burly man who was
almost as wide as he was tall. So the Sisters started to call lonel
'Patreascu Mic' ('small Patreascu'), and the name stuck.
Once she was more confident he wouldn't die. Sister Ida started
to be firm with her charge, as well as encouraging. She was
frequently heard to shriek, 'Immediarte Patreascu!'
in
('immediately!'), which seemed to work. As a result he absolutely
adored her and was soon able to eat by himself, very cleanly and
nicely, and he loved to try to say his prayers before meals and at
Mass, although he still had no speech. He had achieved far more
than I had ever thought possible when we first took the tiny little
wretch into the home but he was still the most irritating whinger
and everyone but Sister Ida found it hard to warm to him. I went
off him even more when I was sitting on the scruffy old sofa
which they had in the hallway one day, trying to avoid the pee
stains, with a pile of children climbing around me, and he decided
to gnaw his way up my leg as if it were corn on the cob.
Despite not liking him very much, I did notice, as the weeks
passed, that Patreascu Mic showed a fairly adventurous spirit. As
soon as he was strong enough to come out of his cot he used to
find ways of escaping even when we didn't want him to. He learnt
how to lift the edge of the mattress and wriggle out between the
bars and, when he grew too portly for that, he would trampoline
up and down on his slightly better leg until he was going high
enough to land with his stomach across the top of the bars. He
would then vault out surprisingly athletically. Because he didn't
have the muscles to support his back he had to sit propped up in
a baby seat, but whenever he was set free he would try to crawl
through to a room with bigger children in it. I also noticed that
when a tape finished in the tape recorder he was able to work
out how to turn it round and start the other side. Daniel, who
was very intelligent but confined to a wheelchair, would stand
guard over the machine and if Patreascu came anywhere near he
would smack him on the hand with a ruler. Patreascu would go
off screaming but would soon be back to try again. I began to
suspect that there was more to this little chap than we had initially
thought, but still didn't feel myself warming to him.
The Sisters were always keen to get the children eating from
spoons so that they could vary their diet more effectively. The
problem was that the children's experience of spoons was confined
to the medicine spoons rammed down their throats by uncaring
helpers and they were consequently terrified of them and the pain
they had brought. It took a lot of work to coax them into trying
again. Patreascu was quite naughty about throwing his food
around and Sister Ida used to smack his hand with a wooden
spoon. Sister Ida's rule was that the hand which threw the food
was the hand which received the smack from the wooden spoon.
nz
It worked. After a while he began to take the spoon off her and
smack himself!
Quite soon after the Sisters had started to take children from
Ungerini we had some new children brought into Salon One from
another orphanage where they had failed the three-year tests.
They arrived in the most beautiful travelling clothes, which were
immediately ripped off them and never seen again. One of the
children was a little boy called Costel who had cerebral palsy and
was horribly bent and crippled. He was also blind and had the
sorest, reddest bottom I have ever seen. He looked like a little
baboon. The medical staff came and gave him an injection,
stabbing the needle into his bottom in the customary brutal
manner. Although they must have received some medical training
after school, these workers had never been taught how to give
injections gently. Often two staff members would hold a child
down and the third would jab the needle in without any preparation
of the site. It must have been extra painful when they
were so thin and scrawny. Poor Costel was in no position to put
up a struggle.
Adelina, the Chief Nurse at Ungerini, was a very attractive,
green-eyed woman in her late thirties. She was kind and always
tried to be helpful. If she was approached in a professional way
she would listen to new ideas, and would pass them on to her
staff. Perhaps my view of her was rather biased by the fact that
after I had been there a couple of weeks she allowed me the
glorious privilege of using the only flushing European loo in the
whole orphanage! By then I was coughing so badly and frequently
that I needed to spend pennies fairly regularly. When John heard
my cough down the phone line he said I sounded like a Charing
Cross tramp after a rough night.
By the time Costel arrived in early April, I had persuaded the
kitchen staff to boil water for me and I started work on him by
giving him a warm bath to try to relax his muscles, ease his
pain and soothe his poor, raw bottom. I then put on Sudocrem,
something we used an awful lot of and had to keep locked away
in the team room to prevent it disappearing, and the rough,
odourless talcum powder which we were supplied with. To try to
get him to relax his hands I would massage his palms until Diane
told me that this would have the opposite effect and that I should
massage the back of the hands to make the muscles flex and
the hand come open. The children with cerebral palsy were often
113
locked into position so that when the helpers tried to straighten
them out in their rough and ready way they would simply snap
their little limbs. If the children didn't straighten out, the women
didn't think to wash in the creases between their stomachs and their
legs and they developed the most horrible, foul-smelling sores.
I told the Sisters about Costel and what a pitiful little thing he
was and they said they had to have him. When Sister Jane went
to see Madam Augustina she was told that it would take several
months to prepare the right paperwork for the transfer.
'Oh dear,' Sister Jane said. 'What a shame. Tell me, Madame
Augustina, that powdered milk you asked for, when were you
hoping to get it?'
'As soon as possible, please, Sister.'
'Oh dear,' Sister Jane averted her eyes, 'I'm afraid it might take
me a few months to arrange that.'
Madam Augustina thought for a few moments. 'If I was to get
the paperwork for Costel this afternoon, would that be helpful?'
The Sisters were learning fast...
Within a couple of days it was arranged that Costel would be
transferred to Bacau along with Marian, a boy with club feet and
hydrocephalus, a condition whereby enormous amounts of fluid
make the head swell and compress the brain. Marian was being
transferred because his head was so heavy everyone was frightened
that his neck might snap if he was knocked over by one of
the bigger boys in his room.
It was a beautiful sunny day; a little snow was still clinging to
the trees and the mountain flowers were coming into bloom. I
felt so happy that Costel was escaping from Ungerini I couldn't
stop weeping. Months later Sister Jane told me that my pitiful
snivelling had struck her as so comical she had told Sister Ida to
travel in the van with me and she would follow in the car because
she was afraid she would laugh.
When we arrived at the Sisters' home they treated Costel like
visiting royalty, taking him off for a warm bath and to change
into a whole new set of clothes. They put Marian into a cot with
Lucien, because they had been in the same room together at
Ungerini. Marian had no speech and Lucien only used foul language
but the two of them just kept touching each other, smiling
and hugging. It was such a touching reunion that even the Sisters
ended up with tears in their eyes.
Poor Costel continued to suffer the most terrible pain and
114
would cry at night when the other children were asleep. The old
night watchman, Dom Patreascu, was supposed to patrol the
building but, very sensibly, seldom went outside, spending most
of the night comfortably settled on the old settee in the hallway.
When he heard Costel crying he used to get him up, wrap him in
his coat and cuddle him on the sofa until both of them finally
dropped off. He was a kind, gentle man.
One night I went into Sister Ida's room to kiss all the children
goodnight before the Sisters went round to deliver their nightly
blessings and the mobile children started trampolining out of
their cots. There was total chaos. As soon as I got one back in
their cot another child got out. What could I do? I know, call for
Dom Patreascu. He surveyed the scene and laughed, clapped his
hands and spoke a few gentle words and they all went back to
their beds without a murmur. I bowed to a superior talent.
I used to work at Ungerini during the day and then go to help
the Sisters in the evenings. The van taking us back to the hotel
would drop me, and whoever else was coming, at a nearby
crossroads so we could walk down to the home. Mark often used
to come to see the children who had been transferred from his
room, but most of the others were too tired after a day at Ungerini.
Jill was very worried that I would wear myself out, but I preferred
being with the children and the Sisters to sitting around the hotel
listening to people complain. To begin with I used to talk a lot
about what the Sisters were doing, wanting to share with the
others the joy of seeing the children change so much - sometimes
from one day to the next. But I soon realised that the others
thought that by praising the Sisters I was somehow criticising
their own efforts, so I shut up. There were some people who
thought that the Sisters were just creating an 'oasis' for a few
children which did little to help the overall situation. I never
thought that accusation fair as the Sisters did a considerable
amount of medical work in the surrounding areas, helping the
poor, the elderly, the handicapped and anyone else who needed
them. Sister Jane held a dispensary every Friday and the poor
used to queue in freezing temperatures, sometimes from two in
the morning, in order to attend. They also helped at the hospital,
which had no bandages or medicines, and dispensed soup and
bread each day to people who would get no other meal.
But even if this accusation had been true I still couldn't
understand why people should think it a bad thing. Sometimes a
115
task seems so huge that people are intimidated into doing
nothing about it. But if you only help one child amongst tens
of thousands it must still be better than doing nothing. And if
enough people create enough small oases eventually they will
add up to something greater. Each small improvement in
conditions showed the way forward and gave the ordinary
Romanian people hope.
At about nine o'clock most nights the Sisters would make me
a little supper and I would sit eating with Dom Patreascu and
then either he or their English volunteer, Ashley, would drive me
the short distance back to the hotel so that I didn't have to walk
on my own at night.
I had explained to the Sisters that I was an atheist, in case they
didn't want me around, but they just laughed and said that I
could be a Buddhist, Moslem or Jew for all they cared, I would
still be warmly welcomed. They never made any attempts to
convert anyone to Catholicism, believing, I think, that they would
be more likely to bring people to God by their example than by
preaching. They were far too busy anyway with their work. They
used to disappear off to Mass and to their Adorations and I used
to think what a bore it must be, to have to spend so much time
praying. I was very happy to be left out, although I did hear some
wonderful singing sometimes. Mark brought his ghetto blaster
down some evenings, so the children could have the music they
had loved at Ungerini. After a while I realised that we were
playing it at full blast while the Sisters were trying to do their
Adorations. I apologised to Sister Jane. 'Don't worry, Bevey,' she
smiled sweetly. 'Only those who want to be distracted will be.'
Back in England, John and my friends at the Abbey National had
been working hard to fill a lorry with toys, medical supplies and
everything else that I thought was desperately needed for the
orphanage and the Royal Mail had offered to bring it out for
them. When I brought this to the attention of the Team Leader
the people at the Ungerini Orphanage Trust told me that they did
not need anything to be sent to Ungerini because they had their
own sources of aid. This surprised me as on the ground there still
seemed to be a shortage of virtually everything, but the Sisters
had no such reservations so I asked John to direct the Royal Mail
to the home in Bacau.
I was on a walk in the mountains around Ungerini with some
116
of the bigger children when Mark came searching for me and
shouted across the hills, 'Bev, the Royal Mail's in Bacau!' He
drove me down to help with the unloading. John had told me
how hard all the people in the post room at Abbey National had
worked, and the security staff and porters who helped with the
loading. They all came in at the weekends to get the job done
and I could see why. There was a mountain of stuff and the Sisters
could hardly believe their luck. A little of it they kept for the
children in the home, but most was distributed to proud but
destitute local families. I have to confess to being disappointed
that they did not keep more for the children, but decided it was
given freely to them by me and therefore it was their decision
what to do with it. They probably knew best anyway.
During the first few weeks with the Sisters I could see an
enormous transformation in the children under their care. They
began to smile, to take notice, to be happy and to grow. Some of
the ones who we had been told would never walk, slowly struggled
to their feet and took their first faltering steps. Their behaviour
was still wild and unpredictable at times, but they were
certainly looking healthier. I was desperate to try and work out
what the Sisters' secrets were so that I could go back to Ungerini
and apply them to the children who were left behind. It wasn't
that we were doing badly at Ungerini - some tremendous steps
forward had been achieved; it was just that they were doing much
better. There didn't seem to be any mystery or miracles involved;
the Sisters simply appeared to do it with love, fun, happiness and
hard work. The children would hear them laugh and hear them
row and shout as well, just like in a real family. They even had a
cat and a dog. I was very pleasantly surprised to discover that
nuns didn't walk around with their heads bowed, praying all day
long - they were human beings like the rest of us, and such
wonderful human beings, too. There were only four Sisters and
four Romanian staff, including Dom Patreascu, and I don't know
how they managed the workload. They cooked on a single gas
ring and had very little in the way of bowls or even food. What
they did have was an abundance of enthusiasm and jubilation. In
this atmosphere of love and security, the children visibly thrived.
I worried when I heard that Mother Teresa's were thinking
of taking on Valentina, because I knew her as very wild and
unpredictable. She had been known to steal at the workers'
request. The first time I gave her a colouring book she ran off
"7
with it and I didn't see her for two days. After that I gave her one
sheet at a time. I reluctantly expressed my fears to Sister Jane.
'Oh, Bevey,' she ticked me off. 'You must try to find it in your
heart not to judge people. Can you honestly say you would be
any different had you lived as she lived, had you endured and
seen what she did? You'll see ... with love, warmth and security
she will come to change.' I felt very small at this reprimand and
when Valentina arrived she immediately became a vital part of
the community.
Valentina did have parents, and had always dreamed that they
would one day come to fetch her. She so desperately wanted
contact with them that the Sisters decided to trace them for her.
Sadly, her family wanted nothing to do with her, which was
dreadful for Valentina, but freed her of the fantasy that she would
one day go home and she was able to concentrate on becoming
a real part of the Sisters' family in Bacau.
'I can't understand how you do this work, Bev,' Sister Shanti,
the American, said to me one day.
'But you do it,' I said, surprised by her words.
'But I was always brought up a Catholic. It is my religion and
it is in my blood. You have no religion.'
'You don't have to have religion,' I said, 'to want to help
people.' I did, however, see that having a strong sense of belief
and faith could help in some situations.
'Do you know what, Bev?' Jill had said to me one day when I
was quietly singing the praises of the Sisters to her, 'I think you'll
end up joining those nuns.'
'Good Lord, no, Jill.' I was shocked that she even suggested it.
'To begin with I love it when family and friends call me and
would need to have the telephone surgically removed from my
hand if I became a nun - I'd look like a marquee in a white sari,
I'm married, I couldn't get up that early in the morning (4.30),
and anyway I'm an atheist and I would never be good enough to
do their wonderful work or have their unselfish commitment.'
She just smiled enigmatically and went on with her work.
118
CHAPTER EIGHT
Coming Home
*
2ls I approached the end of my three-month stint in Romania I
asked if I might be allowed to stay for another month. In my
arrogance I was beginning to believe that the children really
needed not just anyone, but me, and I thought that in another
month I would be able to make real headway.
I was enjoying the work enormously now, sharing in the children's
joy at their new-found freedoms. Many of them were
beginning to show little glimmers of independence, wanting to
get up, wanting to join in things, putting their arms up to try and
help when getting dressed. Small things, but they were huge steps
forward for these kids. They were dragging themselves out of
their mental and physical prisons, breaking free of their chains,
awakening from their dark, isolated lives and seeing the light.
One day Lazy Lazlo had a fight with a boy called lulian over a
toy and I was just about to stop them when I thought, 'What am
I doing? This is what I have been working for all these months normal
childlike behaviour!' It was wonderful that they were
both sufficiently interested in a toy to want to fight over it. But
there was so much more to be done and I wanted to stay on and
continue what I had started. I felt I was abandoning them when
they needed me most. I was worried about them regressing just
as their lives were beginning to have meaning. I felt so much part
of a team alongside Lucia and the Marias that I didn't want to
be parted from them either.
Not only that, I was very worried about coming home to
England. I had been happy before I came out, but I now believed
that my life in Milton Keynes had been purposeless. I had discovered
I was good at something and it had opened up the world
119
to me. I have to admit that by that time I felt I was on something
of a mission. It was a lovely feeling to discover such a talent so
late in life. I didn't believe I was the only one who could do the
work, but I had come to realise that I did have a gift for it. Dr
Darmady had been right to accept my application after all.
My interest in news from England had begun to diminish over
the weeks. Whereas I had been desperate to get letters from home
in the beginning, I now just glanced at them, never bothering to
re-read them as I had done at first. The idea of being free of
family ties and able to continue concentrating on helping other
people seemed very tempting. How could I go back to my old,
humdrum life after all I had experienced? How could I listen
patiently to the petty problems and moans of my colleagues and
family as I used to after witnessing so much real suffering? "Would
I ever be able to get back into the mundane routine of office and
housework again? Would it ever seem worthwhile? How could
I bring myself to leave the children whom I had grown so fond
of?
All these questions kept spinning through my head. I wasn't
even sure that I could face going back to John, much as I loved
him. I had experienced so much on my own that I couldn't
imagine how I would ever be able to make him understand my feelings, share my experiences. He had been wonderful, keeping
things going in England without complaining, and ringing regularly
to see how I was getting on. The funny thing was I had
begun to feel irritated by his calls, not able to think what to say
to him or how to bridge the gulf which had opened up between
our lives.
In the beginning it had felt wonderful to hear his familiar,
friendly voice down the line. It was a terrible problem for me to
get calls through to Britain and as John often got through very
easily, I think he began to doubt if I was trying hard enough.
Perhaps he sensed my not really wanting to speak to him. I tried
hard to be pleased when he rang, to sound interested, but it was
becoming more and more of an effort. I ran out of questions to
ask as I began to forget about home and to only think of what
was happening in Bacau and Ungerini. Often the calls I booked
would come through in the early hours of the morning, jerking
us both out of deep sleep and leaving us stranded on the line trying
to think of things to say that the other would find interesting.
John actually complained once or twice that I didn't seem to be
izo
interested in what was happening at home any more, which
shocked me because I had thought I was covering up my indifference
very well. I denied it but I doubt if I sounded the least bit
convincing.
I seriously considered leaving him and coming back to Romania
to work, a thought that filled me with guilt as John had always
been so supportive of me and had given me absolutely no reason
to hurt him. I felt very confused as the date for my return
drew closer, wondering how I could break the news to him that
although he was a lovely man and I had loved being married to
him, I had now found something bigger and more important
which I wanted to do with my life. I knew he would not understand,
how could he? These children, so dreadfully handicapped,
the workers, all of them were at that moment more important to
me than him. No words could explain it.
I confided some of my fears to Sister Jane one evening in the
parlour outside the chapel. She very wisely cautioned me not to
make any decisions yet, but to see how things worked out. She
was very understanding and supportive, but firm, and told me I must return, that my marriage was important and it would be
unfair to let John down. Things would seem different, she assured
me, after a little settling-in time. At that moment I couldn't believe
that I would ever readjust. I just kept meditating and asking
anyone who was listening to give me an indication of what I
should do.
The thought of saying goodbye to all the children that I had
come to love so much made me terribly sad, as did the knowledge
that I was leaving so much work unfinished. We had barely
scratched the surface for these children and I had to leave them.
I couldn't imagine a day going by when I wouldn't lift them from
their cots, hug them. The thought that I might never see them
again was abhorrent to me. With so much still to be done, where
was the point in going home?
Two weeks before we were due to return in late May, we were
told at a meeting that a team of eight people were coming out to
build an outside playground at Ungerini. The whole thing had
been organised, and the funds raised, by an energetic lady called
Jenny Marsh. The people in charge of our team disapproved
of the project, believing it to be a complete waste of time and
money.
'This Jenny Marsh is bringing a very grand group with her,'
IZI
our Operations Director told us, 'all ex-public schoolboys from
places like Eton and Harrow. You mustn't feel intimidated by
them or their conversation.'
'Sure,' Jacqui's dark eyes flashed, 'just so long as they take their
turn at making the f...... tea and washing up they'll get along
fine with me.'
When they arrived, we discovered they were a wonderful group,
full of fun and energy and willing to work from early morning to
late evening with a joy and enthusiasm which was an inspiration
to see. They got on famously with the children, involving them
as much as possible in the work. In the evenings they liked to
relax and party and they made our last week much less painful.
I felt enriched to have met them, particularly Will and Tommy
Leigh-Pemberton, sons of the then Governor of the Bank of
England. Tommy had ridden his motorbike out from Britain and
Will had driven the huge lorry. I was saddened to read about
Tommy's death some time later in Africa and I count myself lucky
to have met such a free-spirited and generous soul.
The playground was ready two days before we were due to
leave. The skies were sunny, the wind was warm and the ground
was now firm and dry. It was glorious to watch the children, still
shaven-headed and dressed in rags, getting used to the sensations
of swings and slides, behaving almost like normal kids. Nichusorui
used to delight in getting his swing as high as possible,
ecstatic with the additional range this gave his spitting!
The night before our departure we had a big party at the hotel
with lots of Romanian guests. I was making an effort to be
sociable but felt real dread at the thought of boarding the train
next morning. lonel had brought some local brandy which he
insisted I try. It tasted like medicine and burnt like firewater, but
a wonderful red glow came over me, taking away some of the
pain.
As the evening wore on lonel came and sat very close to me,
taking my hand. 'Bevey,' he murmured, gazing into my eyes, 'I
am so happy to have got to know you. You have helped me in so
many ways. The tireless work you have done with the children is
remarkable. If I could think of the best possible woman in the
whole world; if I could go to every country in search of the
greatest; if I could choose who I wanted from the whole world
...' I could see Jacqui looking across the room at us with an
alarmed expression as the tears fell down lonel's face. Clinging
12.2.
to my hand he went on,'... to be my mother, it would be you.' I
was both honoured and relieved!
From that moment on I sort of flowed along until I was lying
happily under the table. Various gallant, and suitably strong,
team members offered to winch me up but I was very happy to
stay there for a while.
We arrived at the station the next morning after two hours' sleep
and with only minutes to spare. The others were ecstatic to be
returning home, but Jacqui and I just wanted to be away from
their happy chatter to sort out our thoughts. I think some people
thought me very off-hand but it was nothing personal and I
suspect I did such a good job of covering up with a sickly grin
and a 'hey I'm cool' attitude that most of them hadn't realised
the inner turmoil I was in.
I couldn't imagine a time would ever come when I wouldn't be
thinking about the children whom I now loved so dearly. At the
same time, how could I consider abandoning John and Russell
and our families for a bunch of children I had only known for
four months? How could I contemplate hurting John so much
after eighteen years together?
I clambered onto the train for Bucharest dressed in Bacau's
finest nightwear, a brushed cotton nightdress the size and shape
of a bell tent. It was covered in divine pink roses and was a
parting gift from Jacqui, intended to liven up John's and my first
night back together. I wasn't sure it was up to the task, given my
state of mind.
Despite my confusion the major concern at that moment was
physically getting on the train since there was no platform. Roger
had quietly reassured me that no task was too big and that he
would put his shoulder down, Mark would haul me up, he would
push Benny Hill-style and between the three of us I would make
it onto the train. However, my fears were unfounded and pulling
my considerable weight up onto the four-foot high train step,
huffing and puffing and climbing over chickens, children and the
luggage of the peasants, I heard someone shouting that I had a
visitor. I pushed my way back down to the door and found Sister
Jane holding the hand of Maria, whom the doctors had said
would never walk. She was standing beside Sister Jane on her
tiny crippled legs and even managed a shy, gentle little wave.
. iz3
I saw Sister Jane looking at my nightie as I climbed down. 'I've
joined this bizarre religious cult,' I explained.
'Oh,' she said, with a glint in her eye, 'a bit like us, then.'
We stood looking at each other and I felt the tears which I had
been suppressing for so long well up. I had kept myself busy
counselling everyone else in the last few weeks but finally it was
here, the real thing. I was going home.
Sister Jane knew the torment I was in. She took both my hands
and looked deeply into my eyes. Standing very close she squeezed
my hands hard and said, 'We will pray for you. God will be your
guide; he will not forget you and you will not be alone.' She
pressed a little black prayer book into my hands. 'Read this.
Learn to pray from it. Many answers are there,'
I suddenly pulled my hands away and, not knowing if it was
allowed or not, hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. 'Don't
forget our children,' she whispered. 'Poor Bevey...'
I choked back the tears as best I could, said goodbye and got
back onto the train, struggling my way through to my compartment,
pushing past the people to get to a window for one
last glimpse of Maria.
As the train drew out Jacqui and I pulled out the footrests and
pretended to doze so that we could avoid conversation. I was
now feeling sick, as well as miserable, wondering how I would
break the news to John that I wanted to abandon him. The plane
journey was no better and I still felt horribly ill. People were
talking to me and it was as if it was all a dream. I was answering
but not really aware of what I was saying. I felt so guilty because
I knew that John was looking forward to my return and had
missed me lots. His sister. Joy, and some friends from Abbey
National were all taking the day off work to meet me at the airport.
When we landed at Heathrow I had an idea: maybe I could
resurrect some humour to mask my true feelings. I decided to
give John a real shock. He had warned me not to return home
with a baby or a toddler, so I asked the others to take my luggage
for me after going through customs, knowing that John would
be waiting to collect me on the other side. Taking Tough Ted, my
faithful teddy bear, I wrapped him up in Jacqui's brushed cotton
nightie, which looked a lot like a cot sheet, and cradled him in
my arms like a baby - as I came through the gate John wasn't
there. I couldn't believe it. He had never been late for anything
124
in his life. In fact, I had on several occasions in the past rather
unkindly told him it was like being married to an alarm clock.
Yet he was late to meet me after we had been apart for the longest
time ever. Despite all my doubts about returning I felt let down
by this anticlimax.
He turned up three quarters of an hour later, having been given
the wrong time for the arrival of the plane by the airline. As I
went towards him with the bundle cradled in my arms, his face
was a picture of horror. He turned to Joy, white-faced, 'Oh, my
God,' he said, 'What has the silly bitch done now?' Relief fairly
flooded into his face when he realised the little bundle was Tough
Ted and we all laughed together. It was a relief to have something to laugh about, to break the awkward silence I had dreaded.
I said a sad goodbye to Roger. 'I'll miss your witty and intellectually
stimulating conversation,' he teased.
'I'll send you a tape,' I promised in return.
And then came a very extended goodbye to Jacqui, neither of
us wanting to be the first to go. I could tell that John and my
welcoming group were getting impatient. Finally we vowed to
stay in touch and she left.
Our friends had wanted to organise a 'welcome home' party,
but John had vetoed it. They had all been very disappointed and
told me later they thought John was wrong. 'We know how jolly
you are, ' they told me, 'and how you enjoy a bit of fun.' True,
but not if I was to be the centre of attention, and John knew it.
They were all round me, asking questions, tugging at me,
insisting I went for a meal and disappointed that all I really
fancied was a banana, a yoghurt and a cup of tea. Everyone was
chattering and laughing and I felt like I was drowning. We sat
down in the restaurant at Heathrow, the questions still flying
around me. I felt as if I was sinking, being dragged under the
water. My head and eyes hurt from tiredness and, more than
likely, the after-effects of lonel's brandy. It all seemed so bright,
so colourful, so noisy and so final. I was back.
I thought the journey to Milton Keynes and the questions
would never end. I began to feel travel-sick. The house had been
festooned with balloons and banners. It looked grand but I felt
like I was being nailed into a coffin. Moss and Misty came
rushing out to greet me, leaping up, licking me, knocking me
over, barking, whining and slobbering. I was waiting to feel happy
to be home, but it wasn't happening. The phone was ringing and
12.5
everyone wanted to talk to me at once - there seemed no escape.
I was exhausted and wanted none of it.
John had prepared a huge meal. I managed to eat some of it
but I could see that my lack of appetite hurt his feelings. He had
imagined I would be starving.
'I'll take the dogs out,' I said, trying to make my escape.
'Oh, no. Mum,' Russ said kindly, 'I'll do that for you.'
I sat down on the couch while John went to get a coffee. I
pulled my boots off and curled my legs up into a foetal position,
pretending to be asleep.
'Oh,' John said as he came in, 'I thought we could go over and
see your Dad. He and Margaret are so looking forward to seeing
you. My dad is waiting to see you too, oh and Rob and Margaret
want to come this evening...'
After a few minutes I genuinely fell asleep. John put a quilt
over me and I slept through the night, there on the couch.
The next morning was Saturday. I dragged myself upstairs for a
shower. I felt a deep excitement; hot running water, on tap! I
wandered around the bedroom, poking into things. It seemed so
strange to see a drawer full of socks when I had been so used to
them being a rarity. I opened my wardrobe and was amazed to
see how many clothes I had, remembering my friends in rags in
Romania. The kitchen was the same, stocked full of food. When
I went to take the dogs out I found I had five coats. Did all my
friends have that many? I wondered. Perhaps I'd be able to
persuade them to part with one or two so we could send them to
the Sisters for distribution...
The house seemed stiflingly hot, or was it that I felt so tired? I
could hardly breathe. John went shopping and I continued to
look around the house. I felt irritated and trapped. I went out
into our lovely garden and felt annoyed to find John hadn't done
the weeding.
When John returned he was smiling. 'Oh, not unpacked yet,
then?' he said innocently. I felt infuriated but didn't know why. I
had returned with just one small bag, having given all my clothes
to various Romanian friends and workers at Ungerini.
It was a dull day and we had some lights on. Everything seemed
so bright after the low wattage bulbs in Ungerini and Bacau. The
phone went on ringing and people were being so kind. I kept up
a pretence but underneath I was panicking. How long could I
12.6
keep this up? John knew something was wrong. Everything he
tried to do was wrong, every thoughtful gesture, every hug he
tried to give me was brushed off. I just wanted to have some
space, to have time to settle back in. I asked him to tell people
who rang that I was out.
'That's not fair,' he protested. 'They're ringing because they
care; you can't be so rude as not to talk to them.'
'Oh, cut out the moralising and lecturing - who are you, my
headmistress?' I thought, but I held my peace.
Jacqui rang. She was having similar problems and we talked
for hours. John kept hovering around and saying things like,
'Haven't you finished yet?' I knew I should finish but we felt so
comfortable talking to one another. Poor John and Russell, what
a homecoming. At nights I found that the very things I had missed
so desperately about John when I was all alone in the hotel room
now annoyed me. The warmth of his body and his arm around
me seemed suffocating. His snoring and even the way he turned
over infuriated me. I couldn't sleep. I just dozed lightly and the
slightest thing would instantly wake me.
John was very tolerant. He wanted to hear about Romania, to
find out what I had been doing and why it was so important. He
wanted to understand what was going on, but I didn't want to
talk about it. I had turned into a tired-out, irritable old hag.
Nothing I could do seemed to resurrect my normal high spirits. I
really tried to appear enthusiastic and to most people I probably
seemed like the same old Bev, but John knew. If only I had had
the courage to talk to him about it, but I kept it all bottled up
and suppressed. This was my fault, my doing; no one, I believed,
could possibly understand the torture I was going through. I felt
split in two - one minute I planned to return to Romania within
days, the next minute this seemed like an act of extreme folly.
What to do? Where to go? There wasn't a minute in the day when
I didn't think of the children, of Lucia and the Marias, of the
Sisters.
I went back to work at the Abbey National two days after my
return, which was much too soon, and the adjustment to normal
working life was just as hard as I had feared. At lunchtime on
my first day back, on my way to the canteen I was directed to the
executive dining room and found thirty Abbey National friends
waiting for me, having arranged a special luncheon. They all
izy
clapped and I had to really force a smile onto my face and look
as if I was about to enjoy myself. The catering department had
made a beautiful welcome-home cake in the shape of a belly
dancer and it was all so lovely and special that I couldn't understand
why I wasn't enjoying any of it. I felt I was being very
ungrateful but I am a very low-key person, much happier beavering
away behind the scenes than being up on stage in the glare
of the spotlight. I made a supreme effort to put on a show of
having a good time. It was the least I could do after all their kind
efforts.
I was desperate to keep up my contact with the friends I had
made in Romania, like Jacqui and Diane, and I spent hours on
the phone to them and to Sister Jane, endlessly talking about the
children. It must have driven John mad. I approached Dr
Darmady who had set up the Ungerini Orphanage Trust and
asked if I could help with fundraising or the organising of relief
lorries for Ungerini, but she said no thank you because she had
plenty of professionals to do that sort of thing. I was a little hurt
because I felt that I really wanted to continue helping the children
and had proved my worth to them over the past months. The
others who had come back with me all received similar rejections.
I guess we had done our time and were now surplus to requirements;
it was someone else's turn. The Trust had a committee of
friends and colleagues who were handling the British end of the
operation, and they were already winding down the number of
people they wanted at Ungerini. They no longer had the funds to
pay for things like the volunteers' airfares.
I frequently rang Felicity MacPherson, who was no longer
connected to the Trust, and she listened to me very sweetly as I
poured out my woes. Later, when I had recovered from the culture
shock of my return home, I rang her to apologise for having been
such a nuisance, but she very kindly told me she had been flattered
that I had felt I could talk things out with her.
I was surprised by how many people knew I had been out to
Romania. Dave Metcalf and Peter Lazard, who I worked for,
were very tolerant about the constant stream of people who came
to my desk, asking questions. I could see that many people were
disappointed that I had no horror stories to tell them, but I simply
didn't want to talk about an experience which I was still trying
to come to terms with and get into perspective. I did, however,
12.8
give an interview to the company magazine in which I was
able to thank everyone who helped with the sending out of the
supplies.
For weeks I kept thinking of Salon One, glancing at the clock,
hoping someone would be getting the children up or feeding
them, depending on the time of day. The Abbey National had
moved to its new building and it was like starting a new job that
I didn't really want. I couldn't remember any of my computer
codes or people's phone numbers and sometimes I couldn't even
remember their names. Everything seemed so tiresome and futile
and I just wanted to go straight back to Romania and get on with
some real work. Gloria, the temp who had been covering for
me, was wonderfully supportive and I could not have survived
without her.
Having had my offer of help turned away by the Ungerini
Orphanage Trust, I was determined not to let the whole thing just
fizzle away and I set about helping the Sisters instead, organising
lorries of clothes, food and medical supplies. I asked everyone I
knew to give me spare coats, shoes and clothes. I spoke to the
catering department at work who promised to ask their suppliers
about making donations. As the parcels began to arrive, Denise
Harris in the post room persuaded her boss, Don O'Connell, to
let her store them until I found somewhere more suitable. My
next problem was getting the stuff out to Romania. I contacted
Relief Fund for Romania and spoke to Jessica Hellings, a volunteer,
who sent me a list of the people planning to take lorries
out, all of whom had to approach the Fund for validation letters.
I started phoning these groups and persuaded them to take hundreds
of boxes. I had no money to offer, so I was completely reliant
on their goodwill. The Abbey National porters and security men
were a terrific help too, because by now the parcels were coming
in by the hundred.
About five minutes from the office I found a village hall that
we could use as a distribution base. Various friends and colleagues
started coming to the hall and helped me sort, bag up, box up
and label, and soon we had an impressive pile of goods. I was
desperate to get it out to Bacau. I knew all this activity was only
a stop-gap for me, but at least it was a beginning.
One lunch hour a forty-foot lorry arrived at reception. I had
already assembled a team of ten fit young men and we all hurried
12.9
out. We formed a chain, passing the heavy boxes along like rugby
balls. The Abbey National were very tolerant of my moonlighting
and encouraging others!
By now I was also writing to other companies, asking them for
throw-outs, seconds, wrongly labelled goods or anything else
they could spare. I received soap, shampoo, candles, biscuits,
sewing machines, wool - the list was endless. People seemed so
happy to give; to know exactly where things were going; to think
that they were making a difference.
Mother Teresa will never allow people to raise funds or get
publicity using her name or the names of her children, believing
that people should be willing to give of their own volition - that
their work should speak for itself - but I was able to campaign
for Romania in general and direct whatever was donated or
sacrificed towards the Sisters. They would then distribute the
goods to the needy in the locality, taking the minimum required
for their own children's needs.
John was patient with me and was an enormous help. Though
I returned from work one day to find he had put a large painted
sign on our garage, which was bulging as usual with clothes and
other goods, saying, 'Forward Transit Camp for Mother Teresa's,
Romania'. The only time I saw him get really cross was when we
came home one day and found we couldn't get into the house
because someone had piled so much stuff onto the front doorstep.
A number of people came to me saying that they would like to
do the same as I had and would I put them in touch with the
Ungerini Orphanage Trust? One by one they were all turned away
and so I put them in touch with Sister Jane who was always
happy to welcome them to Bacau. Janet Stevens, the management
trainer who had given me the wooden cross ring all those months
ago, was one of the first. People were quick to point out that she
had no experience or training in working with physically and
mentally handicapped children. 'Well, I have trained the Directors
and Senior Managers at Abbey National for many years; there
can't be that much difference, can there?' she said. When she was
rejected by Ungerini she was initially reluctant to go to the Sisters
because she felt the children there were better off and not so
much in need of help. I assured her, as I had to assure all the
others, that just because they were slightly better off didn't mean
that they didn't still have enormous needs. I also felt that if we
130
could help the Sisters they, in turn, would be helping the children
at Ungerini whenever they could. I typed a helpful little package
of everything you needed to know about voluntary work in
Romania - how to get there, inoculation, money, etc.
In October 1991, while walking the dogs in the woods, I met
a man who told me that his daughters had just finished college
and were thinking of doing something like VSO. When he found
out where I had been he asked if they could come and talk to me.
One of them, Gillian, who had been at art school, came round
& the same evening and ended up travelling out with Janet.
After an exhausting journey, weighed down with urgently
needed supplies, they eventually arrived at Mother Teresa's. Sister
Jane gave them one of her most glittering smiles, saying, 'Oh, so
happy to have your help - you have arrived just in time for tea!'
Oh, great, thought Janet, feeling parched and in definite need
of a pick-me-up. Sister Jane thrust bowls and spoons into their
hands and gave them a child each to feed. Some time later Janet,
plastered in food from Andrei who still liked to blow raspberries
even with his mouth full, began to wonder what she had done to
upset me enough for me to send her to this place.
When I heard from Sister Jane how well Gillian and Janet were
doing and how much the children loved them I felt a distinct
pang of jealousy and had to speak to myself very firmly. I was
afraid that the children would forget me and would love others
more. Then I thought how beautiful that would be, that they
could love and trust other people, not be dependent on me alone.
I felt shame at my original jealousy and realised how silly it was.
Perhaps now I was finally coming to terms with being back home.
'£ Initially Sister Jane was horrified by the mess which the children
| got into when doing art with Gillian but she soon realised that
they were concentrating, becoming totally absorbed. Above all,
the children were occupied! Both Janet and Gillian wrote to me
telling me all the news and Gill complained about 'an awful little
boy called Patreascu who is always whinging'. She said that he
did the most horrible dark paintings of black tunnels but, in his
favour, he was always the keenest to help her tidy up the room
and wash the brushes afterwards. 'The Sisters asked me to make
some decorations by cutting up coloured tissue paper and sticking
it onto card,' she said, 'and he was the only one who was actually
able to help me with it.'
» » »
131
About four weeks after I returned to England I received a phone
call from Romania. It was Sister Jane. 'Bevey,' she said, 'I have
someone who wishes to talk to you.' Who's that I wondered?
Perhaps Sister Ida?
'Bevey,' another voice came on the line, 'It is Illeana. I live with
the Sisters now!' My heart stood still. It took a few seconds for
the news to sink in. Sister Jane came back on to help translate
for us. 'I have my own bed,' Illeana babbled happily, 'some clothes
and knickers. I have a toothbrush and handkerchief and I am
allowed to have a bath and wash my hair with shampoo. Nobody
hits us! Oh, and we have food at a clean table, and Sister Jane
says I will go to school, and learn to read and write!'
She chattered on as I tried to take in everything she said,
listening to her voice, happy and animated in a way it hadn't
been since Gabriel had gone to Gsteni. She was soon to discover
that she was wrong about the 'no smacking' rule. Sister Jane told
me a few weeks later that one day when she had visitors, Illeana
stripped off and deliberately walked completely naked past the
little parlour in an effort to attract attention to herself. This
happened twice more and on the third occasion Sister Jane gave
her a good whack across the buttocks with a wooden spoon.
Illeana did not do it again.
Edward Parry and Jessica Hellings of the Relief Fund for Romania
set up a mobile medical unit to establish health programmes at the
village level. It was a wonderful idea, welcomed by the Romanian
medical authorities and, of course, the people, and they asked the
Sisters for somewhere secure to store their caravan and drugs. It
was the start of a very fruitful co-operation. A British GP and
nurse and a Romanian translator, worked closely with Romanian
doctors. This is definitely the way forward.
Helen was the daughter of a health visitor who had been out
at Ungerini as a volunteer. She had come for a week to visit her
mother and had helped instead of holidaying. Helen wanted to
go back to Ungerini as a volunteer herself but the Trust wouldn't
accept her because she had no qualifications - it was a shame
since she had already proved she was great with the children. I
persuaded her to write and ask Sister Jane if they needed help.
They did. Helen had cascades of gloriously wild hair, wore Doc
Martens, lime-green leopardskin leggings and was quite a sight
for the unworldly townspeople of Bacau. Sisters, workers and
132
children all adored her. One Sunday afternoon, as she prepared
to go out, one of the Sisters asked her where she was going.
'To the footie,' she replied, 'to see Bacau United.'
The Sisters were alarmed as the football stadium was a hotbed
for drinking, fighting and bottle-smashing and they thought she
might attract unwanted attention with her eccentric appearance.
They tried to dissuade her.
'Now look here, girls,' she purred. 'You have your religion,
and it is God - I have mine and it is football, okay?' And off she
went. Needless to say, she came to no harm.
Before long I had helped around thirty people to go out to
Bacau as volunteers. I became quite experienced at picking those
people who wanted to go for the right reasons - people who
would be able to make positive contributions to the work of the
Sisters. Sometimes they settled in immediately and loved the
work, the children and the Sisters. Other times it took them
longer to adjust, but the Sisters were always patient and understanding
and most volunteers came to enjoy themselves. When
Janet first went out she told everyone out there that she worked
for 'the Abbey', not realising that our employer's fame had not
spread quite that far; she found herself being treated with extreme
reverence. They must have thought she was a nun travelling in
plain clothes.
My stepson Russell went to Bacau several times. I told the
Sisters that they mustn't give him any preferential treatment, and
that if he upset them they were not to complain to me but must
deal with him direct. During one of his many visits I was talking
to Sister Jane on the phone and she told me that Russell had
turned up two hours late for an appointment. 'I was chasing
prodigal son all through orphanage with largest wooden spoon,'
she said in her heavy Indian accent, 'Through every crook and
nanny, beating buttocks wherever I could catch him. With all the
children running after me screaming and laughing and saying,
"Go on, Sister, catch him".' Needless to say, Russell was on time
thereafter. The Sisters also noticed that whenever Russell arrived
all the levels of the local girls' skirts appeared to rise a couple of
inches and they seemed to find a lot of excuses to walk past the
orphanage whenever he was outside painting.
Not all the volunteers were happy with the way the Sisters ran
their home, feeling that perhaps they were too regimented and
set in their ways. There were so few staff and so much work for
133
everyone to do that it was necessary to have strict systems. Had
these people seen the chaos and misery that resulted from a lack
of any sort of order, or short- or long-term planning, at Ungerini
they might have felt differently. At Ungerini there were 186
children and 142 staff, plus the British and other volunteers. In
Bacau there were four Sisters, six staff and fifty-two children,
plus the dispensary to run, the elderly and handicapped to be
visited, and the distribution of goods to the villages to be organised.
The Sisters also found time to visit the prison regularly, the
adult institute and Ungerini. It would be impossible to achieve
all that without rotas and strict routines. There simply isn't any
other way to do it and the very regularity of it all makes the
children feel more secure. I used to think that if they didn't stop
for prayers so often they could fit a bit more in, or take a wellearned
break, but I came to realise that it was prayer which gave
them the strength to carry on, re-charging their batteries.
A couple of the volunteers commented on the firmness with
which Sister Jane treated her Romanian helpers. I had learnt that
there was a limit to how much you could let the women get away
with before they started to think you were a joke and lost respect
for you, and explained why it was necessary. Sister Jane feels very
strongly that all the children should have their own toothbrushes
and used to become incensed when she found the women using
one brush for all of them. Since the women probably didn't even
possess brushes of their own it was not surprising that they didn't
grasp the importance of oral hygiene. She also became furious
and disappointed when they stole things because they were always
free to approach the Sisters if they needed anything for themselves
or their families. Sadly the workers don't always understand or
remember this. But working for the Sisters has its plusses - since
none of the workers has running water at home they are all
allowed to take showers and wash their uniforms at work, which
has been a great boost to them. To see the delight when they
emerge, hair, bodies and clothes clean, is a joy. The Sisters also
allow them one week's paid holiday a year and organise outings
for them and their families.
I saw plenty of examples of their working practice in my visits
and so did the volunteers I sent out. Remembering how I had felt
when I returned from Romania the first time, I always contacted
volunteers when they got back to the UK. It was good to hear all
the news and their observations on life in Bacau. I was able to
i34
adapt my information pack for volunteers in the light of these
updates and avoid possible future problems. I still didn't know
the Sisters, or their ways, that well, but I was getting there!
Once a year each of the Sisters has a feast day and they all go
off together. They take a simple picnic and might play tennis or
climb trees or just be silly and play football, throw snowballs or
have water fights. On one occasion I heard that they even tried
out Russell's idea of using big stainless-steel trays as toboggans
and came cascading down the hills screaming with joy. One time
they returned from one of these day trips to find that all the
children's toys had disappeared. 'Where are the toys?' Sister Jane
demanded, stretching herself to her full four feet ten inches.
'Sister Jane,' the women crossed themselves and looked distraught,
'the children simply handed them out to passersby.'
'You let them do that?' Sister Jane obviously didn't believe a
word of it.
'There was nothing we could do. They insisted on giving them
away.'
'And if people had wanted to take the children, would you
have let them have them too?' she wanted to know.
'Our backs were only turned for a second and everything was
gone.'
'Never mind,' Sister Jane turned to go, 'it is not a problem we
will buy new things with your wages.'
Some of the volunteers who witnessed the exchange thought
this was an excessively harsh punishment for such poor women
and then a 'miracle' happened. Those poor, mentally handicapped
children were able to remember exactly who they had given the
toys to, and even knew where these people lived. All the missing
toys reappeared and the wages were paid as usual.
The Sisters, although very fond of the gypsies in the area, were
aware that some of them believed the home to have endless
supplies. Whenever the Sisters went in to Mass they would ask
me or another volunteer to stand guard over the washing so that
the gypsy women, or anyone else passing, wouldn't take it. I once
made the mistake of holding the sick child of a gypsy woman
who had come to ask for medicine. The Sisters very quickly made
me give it back. 'Never hold the babies,' they warned me, 'or the
women will run off and leave them.' While they were always
happy to take in children who needed them, they believed that
i35
their first duty was to try to make it easier for parents to keen
their own children and bring them up as part of normal familv
units. The Sisters believe that no matter how good their homes
are there is no substitute for the family home.
When I returned to England I had intended to write to each
child on birthdays and Christmas and maybe in between. I soon
realised that with fifty or more of them it wasn't going to be
possible, so I asked family and friends, people I knew would keep
it up once started, to write to a specific child and send little gifts.
I would then dispatch them all to Romania in one package. When
the first parcel arrived I apologised to the Sisters for not sending
anything for them. 'Bevey,' they said, 'the pleasure of seeing the
excitement and joy of children opening presents for the first time
in their lives was gift enough for us!' They told me the children
were all sleeping with their presents under their pillows.
When Christmas came round we sent five hundred boxes of
desperately needed basic foods such as cheese, fresh fruit and
vegetables, powdered milk for the babies, sweets, chocolates and
biscuits for the children's Christmas party, as well as a present
for each child, a Christmas tree and loads of decorations.
The shipment arrived a week and a half late, the night before
Christmas Eve. We had planned to get it there two weeks before
Christmas, giving the Sisters time to get organised. They stayed
up all night unpacking the boxes and putting up the tree with its
lights, which also played carols over and over. Helen, who was
there at the time, said that she would happily have nuked them
just to save her sanity. Her every waking moment was taken up
trying to think of ways to destroy those jingling tormentors.
They hung glittering decorations and balloons everywhere so
that it was all ready for the children when they woke on Christmas
morning. One of the two Luciens, who became known as 'Tractor
Lucien' because he could only get around by sitting on a child s
tractor, sat under the tree all day long, just gazing up and keeping
the other children from stripping it of its finery. He was most
upset when Sister Jane wouldn't move his bed there too.
For Christmas Eve the Sisters had organised a nativity play
with all fifty of the children taking part in full costume. Local
government officials were invited to attend, plus as many loca
people as they could cram into the small home. The audience was
astounded that these children, whom they had previously though
incapable of anything other than lying immobile in cots, we
136
faking par1 in a P^Y- ^t ^ Christmas party afterwards Santa Flaus appeared with a huge sack and one present for each child.
Helen reported that the Sisters wept with joy as they watched the
smiling faces of the children, who less than a year before had
come to them screaming with fear, as they each received their
present.
The Sisters were very keen to build a school within the grounds
of the home that local handicapped children could attend alongside
their own handicapped ones. They felt that if they could
support those families with handicapped children at home (not
all were living in orphanages) it would stop further children being
sent to institutions. In some cases families managed to escape
the Government's policy of putting all handicapped children in
institutes - perhaps by having a family member too old to work,
who could stay home and care for the child, or perhaps by simply
keeping the child out of sight. The effort of looking after a
handicapped child with no wheelchairs, lifting aids or zimmer
frames was a terrible burden for families who had done their best
to manage and they welcomed any support the Sisters could give
them.
They also wanted to build a small playground to encourage
the children to exercise their twisted limbs in the fresh air, to help
their physical progress and their interaction with one another.
Eye and body contact are vital to build confidence and to produce
normal development and behaviour, and most of the children had
rarely been outside before coming to the Sisters, being too badly
handicapped to Join me on my outings since I could only carry
one at a time. The idea grew and grew and I was convinced that
I had to do all I could to aid the struggle to help children who
might be able to stay with their families and prevent them having
to go to Ungerini.
I approached the Board at Abbey National to see if they would
donate some money towards the school project. Although they
couldn't donate anything from company funds, they said that I
could use the branches as collection points. I got together with
the public relations people and we came up with a simple photograph
of a Romanian child on a poster, saying, 'This child is ^'ai-m and well fed - what he needs now is an education.' People
sacrificed many things and gave enough to build a simple school,
washing and drying room and a desperately needed dispensary or the ^ole area, somewhere where the poorest of the poor
137
people could come to be treated. The money came from all son
of people from pensioners to children giving up their sweet or
comic money. Some members of the Abbey's staff gave up their
lunches and donated that money. The two-week campaign
brought great joy to both staff and clients because they could
actually see what they were helping to achieve and I gladly wrote
them little progress reports once the work began.
Once Abbey National realised the size of the project we were
undertaking, they suggested to the Sisters that a London-based
member of staff, more experienced in money management, should
take control of the project. I think they thought that I would not
know what best to spend the money on and that the Sisters were
bound to be too unworldly for such a task. The Sisters, however
were not to be railroaded and insisted I should continue to look
after everything as I was 'knowing their ways and the needs of
their poor and children'. To combat any doubts the Abbey may
have had about this, I was very happy to have a Director from the
bank counter-sign any cheques, and look over any accompanying
paperwork. I kept a simple debit/credit book and was able to
account for every penny. If only I looked after my own affairs as
diligently, I would be a rich woman by now.
Throughout these weeks I had been engaged in another project
for Sister Jane. I had only been back in England a couple of weeks
and was still feeling deeply homesick for Romania when the
phone rang and Sister Jane's voice came down the line. 'Bevey,'
she said, getting straight down to business. 'We need your help.
I want you to find an orthopaedic paediatric surgeon who will
come out to Romania and operate on my Szuzannah for me. If
that's not possible we will send her to England for the operation.'
'How on earth does she expect you to do that?' John spluttered
when I reported our conversation.
'Doesn't she know you work in a bank, not a hospital?'
I knew this was a very unorthodox thing for her to ask, since
she should have put a request in to her Regional Superior - then
the request would be passed on to London, but I felt a thrill or excitement at the thought of getting involved once more. On
reflection I wonder if she was trying to fill the void I still felt and
had written to her about. Was she trying to save my marriage- Whatever the reasons, my life was about to take another extraordinary
turn.
138
I soon realised that much as I still wanted to return to Romania,
I could do more to help by working on the children's behalf
in Britain. The Birmingham Heartlands Hospital had given me
medical equipment which was technologically redundant in a
British hospital, but light years ahead of anything they had in
Bacau. I wouldn't have had access to this had I still been in Bacau.
My heart still ached when I thought about the children, but the
pain was beginning to become less intense now that my days were
so full and even though I was miles away, I was still part of their
struggle. And John was so supportive and understanding, of what
was fast becoming my obsession, that I eventually began to feel
more settled within myself, to feel at home again. About time
too!
139
CHAPTER NINE
Answering the Call
*
Just six months before I would never have had the nerve to
approach a senior surgeon and ask for help, but by the autumn
of 1991 everything had changed and when it came to getting
things for the children in Romania I felt brave enough for anything.
The question was, how should I set about finding the right
surgeon? One of the people I had approached about writing
letters to the children was a Catholic woman at work called Mary
Cooper who'd become Szuzannah's penpal. I went to Mary and
told her of the challenge Sister Jane had set me.
'Well,' she thought for a moment, 'my mother did go to an
orthopaedic hospital outside Birmingham that was run by Catholic
nuns. But it was years ago and I'm not sure that I would be
able to remember the name now.'
'Do you think you could try to find out?' I persisted.
'Okay,' Mary agreed and, with the help of her local priest,
came up with the name of St Gerrard's Hospital.
I contacted the Matron at St Gerrard's, Sister Beatrice, who
was formal and businesslike but helpful. After several letters and
many phone calls, during which we built up a friendship, she told
me she had a number of surgeons she could call upon, but that
the best for our purposes was probably a Mr Nigel Dwyer,
who specialised in paediatrics. Unfortunately he was then at his
holiday home in Spain, but she promised to contact me when he
returned. Mr Dwyer was based in Birmingham, which would
not be very convenient when it came to getting the children to
appointments or visiting them in hospital, but if he was the best
he was the man for me and we would just have to learn to 1"^ commuting. I knew that he was not a young man, but I felt thi
140
as good news because it meant that he might, during the course
r pnany years' experience, have encountered similar problems to
i Q^es our children suffered. I sent Sister Jane's medical notes,
nlus my own notes on Szuzannah's personality - telling how she
saved me from being hit by one of the boys - along to St Gerrard's
to help in assessing Szuzannah's case.
A couple of months passed before I received a phone call from
the Matron to say that she had Mr Dwyer in the office and would
I like to speak to him? Trembling with nerves, I said I would.
'Well,' a voice barked down the phone, "what do you want,
woman?' He sounded just as grand and ferocious as I had always
imagined such distinguished men to be, rather like James Robertson
Justice in the old 'Doctor' films that I used to watch as a
child. He asked me a number of very searching questions on
medical points which I did my best to answer.
'Really,' I ventured, 'you would do better to come to Romania
and see the children for yourself.'
'Are you telling me, woman,' he bellowed, 'to cancel all my
appointments, my operating lists and my private engagements in
England, grind my practice to a halt and just take off for a week
because you think I should?'
'Well, yes,' I said, refusing to be intimidated, 'I think you should
do it. Can I come and visit you?'
A few days later I received a letter inviting me to go to inspect
St Gerrard's and to have lunch with the nuns. 'Oh dear,' I said to
John when I read it, 'they think I know what I'm talking about
and what I'm looking for.'
So much depended on my being able to get someone sufficiently
interested in the children to want to help. I felt a momentary rush
of panic: supposing they thought I was some batty old eccentric
and didn't take my proposals seriously?
'Oh, don't be so dramatic,' John scolded me. 'You can do it
ror the children. It's nothing to do with you, Bev, you are just an
intermediary.' This put things into perspective for me, but didn't
quell my nerves.
Both Sister Beatrice and I were surprised by one another. I had
^ en expecting someone stiff, huge-bosomed and starched, not
rwinkly eyed with a sweet smile, and she had been expecting a
Power-dressed charity queen with shoulder pads and a perm. St
^ errard's, run by the Sisters of Charity of St Paul, was a pretty
e ^"try hospital. The gardens and the chapel were full of
141
statues of Mary and Jesus and the staations of the cross which
had been carved by Polish servicemen. Matron showed me their
convent and their operating theatres annd asked me a lot of questions
- her own Order had sisters im Romania and she was
interested to hear a first-hand account *of the country.
Later that morning she introduced n-ie to Nigel Dwyer and he
proudly took me on another conducted tour. There was a lovely
warm atmosphere in the hospital and I began to imagine how
Szuzannah might be treated there. I felt ridiculously nervous
about lunch - what would I talk aboutt? I needn't have worried.
Mr Dwyer was very articulate and obviously knew the Sisters
well. He was a great, booming and attractive man with thick grey
hair and bushy beard, tweed suit and- ripe language, who was
used to being the centre of attention. H'e obviously enjoyed being
fussed over by the nuns. I was relieved to find that he had put a
great deal of thought into the possibility of treating the children
and asked many questions.
After considering all my answers he said, 'I may not be able to
recommend you to bring any of these children over here. The
suffering and stress that the travelling: might cause may not be
justified by the possible benefits.'
'That's okay,' I said. 'We'll be guided by you.' This was music
to my ears and convinced me that he w as the right person for the
job. The one thing I didn't need was ;a 'glory hunter', bringing
children over just so that he could wr ite up their operations as
interesting cases in the medical journal s.
Mr Dwyer threw up every possible barrier to going to Romania
himself, from the fact that his passpor-t had expired to his own inexperience as a traveller. Every objection he raised I dealt with.
I was determined to make the whole business so easy that he
simply couldn't say no.
'What do you think, ladies?' I finally- asked, looking round the
lunch table. 'Hands up all those who think he should go?' All
their hands went up and I could see we were wearing his resistance
down. ,
'You probably won't be able to get me a seat on the bloody
plane now, anyway,' he ended lamely.
'I've already booked your ticket,' I told him. 'I was sure you
would decide you had to do it.' .
That afternoon Nigel Dwyer's wife, Moira, came over to tn
hospital for tea - to meet me and have her mind put at rest.
142
was a physiotherapist and so had anticipated some of the possible problems. To start with I thought she didn't like me or what I
was proposing because she was so quiet. I soon realised that it
was shyness and I began to see that her sweet and gentle nature
belied just what a strong character she was and how dependent
her husband was on her. Mr Dwyer genuinely didn't like being
away from her and it was going to be a great sacrifice for them
both to be apart, even for a week.
By now it was October 1991 and the earliest I could arrange
for Nigel to go out to Bacau was the following January. I could
not expect him to abandon all his patients in Britain overnight.
He was, however, anxious to see Szuzannah fairly quickly as she
was sixteen by then and if anything could be done for her it
would need to be soon, while her bones were still flexible.
When Janet and Gillian had first gone out to Romania I had
contacted a travel agent who arranged for a courier, a university
student called Florin, to meet them at Bucharest Airport, arrange
their rail tickets, take them to the station and help them on the
train with their cumbersome luggage. I contacted Florin again
this time and asked if he would meet Nigel. He agreed and even
though he was hard up he refused my offer of payment. 'It will
be my pleasure,' he told me, 'to greet and assist someone who is
trying to help my beloved country.'
Moira and I worked well together because we were both equally
keen for Nigel to arrive safely and to experience as little stress as
possible. He suffered greatly from back trouble after thirty years
of bending and stretching across operating tables, but still
managed to carry five huge cases of desperately needed medical
supplies with him.
'How will I recognise the driver?' he asked nervously before
setting off.
'Don't worry,' I assured him, knowing that there would not be many people looking as prosperous as him at Bacau station, 'the
driver will recognise you.'
The trip went smoothly and on arrival at Mother Teresa's Nigel
Proudly handed over the five cases of supplies. 'Oh,' Sister Jane
waved them aside dismissively, 'put them over there, will you, doctor? Now, shall we start looking at the children?'
Silently doing what he was told, Nigel began by looking at srian, the boy with very bad club feet and hydrocephalus. 'Do
143
you think you can help this child. Doctor Nigel?' Sister Ta asked.
'Of course I ruddy well can, woman!' came the gruff reply
He later told me that he'd noticed that as Sister Jane smiled
her eyes were moistening and thought, 'Yes, I can do business
with this nun.'
The Sisters in Bacau were more than a match for Nisei's
outspoken ways and introduced him both to children living in
the home and to others who were carried in from all over Moldavia.
Some of the people had come 150 kilometres to be there.
He also worked into the early hours of the mornings with the
Sisters in the dispensary, returning wearily to the priest's house
where he was staying, to write up his notes.
When I rang to find out how his trip was going I was told that
he thought he would be able to help many of the problems nonsurgically,
but that there were about fifteen children he thought
would need to come to England for more extensive surgery. The
first to come should be Szuzannah. One of the reasons he was
willing to take Szuzannah was because she had shown such
courage in protecting me from attack at Ungerini and he believed
that this proved she had the courage and commitment needed to
stand up after sixteen years of disability.
'Bevey says I should hug you, Dr Nigel,' one of the Sisters told
him after I had heard the news, 'but your girth is too big for me
to get my arms round.'
'Good heavens, woman, you would benefit from having half
your tongue surgically removed!' he retorted with the blunt good
humour that is typical of him.
I was so happy to hear that there were hundreds of children
Nigel felt he could help without surgery, giving them mobility
with the aid of splints, calipers and walking frames. I was sure we would be able to find someone to measure and fit the equipment
once we knew what was required. We had finally made a
huge long-term breakthrough.
Dr Nigel (as he is now affectionately known in Romania),
having settled who he could operate on successfully, decided that
the next step was for all the concerned parties to sit down together
and discuss which children could withstand the emotional
upheaval and possible trauma of the return journey, the surgery
and a long absence from home. I felt fortunate that Nigel and
Sister Jane were willing to be guided by me on this as they believe
144
hat I had known the children longer than anyone and therefore
nderstood how they might react. I was particularly pleased that
hp was willing to help Szuzannah. Despite her unpopularity with
the other helpers at Ungerini, I had developed a very sort spot for
her. I also agreed that it might well be worth bringing the whinging
Patreascu to England as he had shown some signs that there was
more happening inside his head than we had all at first thought
and despite the constant whinging, he had shown the sort of
improvement and determination to succeed that would help in
the battle to get mobile.
The Sisters took Nigel to visit Bacau Hospital. The medical
staff there were very impressed that such an eminent specialist
had come all the way to Romania to see those children they had
been indoctrinated into believing had 'no worth' due to their
handicaps. Nigel promised to help the hospital in any way he
could and forged some strong friendships, both professional and
personal. His visit raised staff morale and introduced educated
people to the idea that the children in their institutions might just
be worthy of some attention.
The Romanians weren't the only ones who thought that the
handicapped children were not worth helping. When she heard
that Nigel was going out to look at the children, one British
doctor who had worked with the children in Romania rang him
and advised him not to waste his time because they were 'hopeless
cases'. He was also told that I was a 'ridiculous woman' who
didn't know when to give up, had no idea whatsoever of what
was needed in Romania, and was dabbling in something which
was better left to professionals. She advised that any money would
be much better spent on supporting Ungerini. I was worried that
Nigel would be put off by this negative reaction, but he treated
it with exactly the contempt it deserved.
'It seems,' he said, 'that if I don't go, the children are going to
receive no help from any other quarter.'
We both realised that bringing the children to Britain was a
strictly short-term solution. Nigel did consider doing some of the
°perations in Romania to save the children from the trauma of
^avel, not to mention the cost! He also offered to take some
master-classes' for local surgeons so that they could thereafter
"Perate on the children themselves. To prepare for this possibility
_ went to a local hospital to watch some minor operations.
en he saw that none of the gloves or equipment had been
i45
changed after four consecutive operations, it became clear th
working over there would be out of the question if he was to
stand any chance of success. There simply weren't the necessary resources available.
Nigel was the first to recognise that Patreascu had contracted
polio at some stage in his short life. As a result, both his lees were
withered and one was six inches shorter than the other. Despite all
Sister Ida's fine work with him, Patreascu still appeared severely mentally retarded and emotionally disturbed, showing no reaction
to being touched or kissed. He did not speak and was still
very withdrawn, whining most of the time. There had, however
been a few signs of intelligence. I had seen a flicker of life in his
eyes whilst playing music to him on the cassette, and there was
the painting work which he had done for Gillian. If there was
something there, how could we unlock the doors and bring the
barriers down? Despite the fact that it was impossible to assess
Patreascu's mental abilities properly, Nigel wanted to get him up
and walking so that at least he had some chance of independence.
When Nigel returned to England, we sat down together to
decide on the first steps to take with those children to be operated
on in England. I did not doubt Nigel's surgical abilities but I had
to be sure that the children themselves would be able to channel
their energies into what would be an enormous trial for them.
One of the first things Nigel said to me was that it was essential
I travel out with him next time he went to Romania. He would
not consider going without me. 'I need you there for your opinions,
your on-the-spot information. And Sister Jane agrees!'
Both Nigel and I were keen to get a boy called Lucien Mattel
over as quickly as possible. He was already fifteen and his legs
were permanently locked in the lotus position as a result of his
being tied up for so many years. He had also developed rickets,
which made his legs bow sideways. Had he not been tied there
was no medical reason why he would not have walked normally- He was a severely disturbed child and still extremely fragile
emotionally. 'I think we should wait another six months before
we bring him to England,' I said and was relieved when Nigel
nodded his agreement.
Having discussed all fifteen children, we then put them into a
rough order of priority and emotional stability and decided that
we would start by bringing Szuzannah over to Birmingham. Nige
was keen to bring Patreascu to the front of the queue - keener
146
, t ^yas. I was worried about whether it would be possible to
communicate sufficiently with him to convey what was involved
in getting up and walking. Would he want to do it? He had shown
little interest in much apart from his paintings and the tape player;
hut eventually I was won over by Nigel's enthusiasm and decided
that despite my reservations about his will to walk, I could not
deny Patreascu his one chance of getting on his feet.
In January 1992 we began the lengthy process of getting Szuzannah
and Patreascu to Britain. The Sisters were thrilled. I was
worried about how well the children would cope with the actual
journey and suggested that I should bring them over personally
so that they would have someone they knew with them. My offer
was gratefully accepted.
There was much to do in obtaining the various permissions for
the children to come to the UK. Letters from Romanian doctors
and the hospital were needed, stating what was wrong with
them and that the necessary treatment was not available within
Romania. Government departments responsible for the handicapped
and the police had to agree to their travelling. The children's
parents had to be contacted, if they had any. There were
also arrangements to be made in Britain. My head was spinning
with all the different things I had to think about. What with my
job at Abbey National and preparing the way there were never
enough hours in the day.
In the course of my work in Britain, I was approached by the
inmates and officers at Wandsworth Prison who wanted to help
the children of Romania. I never did find out how they got hold
of my name. First of all I sent out relief parcels on a lorry they
both organised and had donated for the whole trip - and all free!
Since I knew they couldn't get out there to see for themselves the
result of their efforts I wrote regularly to tell them how the aid
was received and about our plans for the school and for bringing
the children to England. The prisoners and officers wrote back
via Bill Robinson, the Governor, saying they had all been deeply
moved to hear of the children and the poor of Romania and
asking if they could do anything further to help. They suggested t ey do extra work in the prison donating the sweet and tobacco ^oney they received to pay for the children's airfares. I was ^ghted to accept their offer, half expecting to find a large bag
Ith ^wag' written on it left on my doorstep - the proceeds of
i47
some robbery! The prisoners asked their families to bring in sna
clothes and toys; they made teddies and strong wooden tovi. bought sweets and chocolate. The whole prison came alive with
much needed meaningful activity - they had a purpose. They
donated a huge amount of all the above to us.
The Sisters were very happy to hear of the prisoners' sacrifices
on our behalf.
Sadly, not all the news from Bacau in 1991 was positive. About
six months after I returned to England Sister Jane rang. 'I have
news for you, Bevey,' she told me. 'Your little Costel has died.'
'Oh, no.' I immediately started to cry, I felt so upset. His life
had been so short, so full of pain. He had only had a few months
of love, of being wanted and cared for.
'Oh, no, Bevey,' she said. 'You should be happy for him; it is a
release from his terrible suffering. We are going to have most
grand and excellent funeral for our dear child.'
I knew she was right and I remembered all the nights that he
had cried and screamed with the pain that we could do nothing
to alleviate, but it was still an awful feeling because even though
all the children transferred to the Sisters had been expected to
die, until then none of them had. Gill described to me what
happened.
'Sister Jane was fixing him up on a drip and she could see that
he was dying,' she said, 'so she took him to the chapel to baptise
him and he just didn't draw breath again. He slipped away very
gently without a sound. The other children were very upset, but
the Sisters were determined they should celebrate Costel's life and
his death. They managed to get a little white coffin and we sat
down with the children to make garlands of flowers and a crown
for Costel's head. They filled the open coffin with flowers and
then they put it on an open, horse-drawn cart, lifting the children
who weren't able to walk to sit up beside him.
'The Sisters wanted all the children to be dressed the same but
the only things they had enough of were those white Abbey
National T-shirts you sent, Bev. The shirts were all the same size,
so some of the children wore them tucked into their trousers and
others wore them with belts like dresses. They processed to the
cemetery and back and then had a party to celebrate him.
It was eight months before I first returned to the home in Bacau.
148
t February 1992. the Sisters contacted me and asked if I would
flv out as soon as possible because the various government departments
were refusing to issue the necessary documents. Taking a
week's annual leave, and organising things as best I could before
departing, I mustered my courage and set off - by myself!
As well as making sure that I had all the documentation needed
at my end for Szuzannah and Patreascu to fly to Britain, I took
out the plans for the schoolhouse, which were now ready. It was
the first time I had ever travelled alone and I was absurdly
nervous. I booked into a hotel in Bucharest that I already knew,
but I didn't have the nerve to go downstairs for dinner, staying
up in my bedroom to eat the food that John had packed for me.
Then I lay on the bed until I heard the familiar gurgling noises of
water coming into the pipes and knew that I was going to be able
to take a shower.
The next morning I was so worried about oversleeping that I
was up and dressed hours before I had to leave. Florin put me
and all my cases on the train to Bacau, asking the locals in the
carriage to make sure I got out at the right stop. It was a fivehour
journey and the problem with trains in Romania is that the
stations are always very badly signposted. I was nervous about
missing Bacau, or not getting all my luggage off in time. Russell,
who had travelled the same route, had meticulously logged the
length of time between each of the stops and named them so that
I could work out how far I had got to go at every stage, but I was
still worried.
Although the other passengers were very friendly, Romanian
trains are always rather intimidating. Ticket inspectors come
round very frequently, followed by threatening plain-clothes men.
Beggars constantly pass up and down the carriages, most of them
children with missing limbs and sad faces. I always assumed that ^ey had a parent in the train somewhere just waiting to whip
anything they were given away from them, so I used to break off
Pieces of chocolate for them to eat there and then. For part of the journey I shared my carriage with an old man. When I offered him
chocolate he gratefully accepted it and then carefully wrapped it
or his grandchildren. Seeing this, I insisted that he share some of rnlne- ^though I still didn't speak fluent Romanian, I did have
en^ to make a little pollt€ ^"^'"sation.
when the train finally pulled into Bacau many willing hands
e Ped me and my considerable pile of luggage off. As I gathered
149
my thoughts together I saw a scarf waving and was relieved
see Dom Patreascu's friendly face. He was with a girl I did '
know. He introduced her as Ana-Liese, a Swiss volunteer hnih
Helen and Gill had mentioned in their letters to me.
By the time I reached the home it was mid-afternoon and the
children were waking from their siestas. It took me a few moments
of staring into their faces to see who was who. They all had hair
now and their skin and eyes shone - they looked like totally
different children. They were better dressed, but I had seen them
in nice clothes before. I was amazed by how much healthier and
calmer they all seemed. I was overjoyed to see Szulita walking
Mariana dancing and Tractor Lucien trying to make conversation'
It was like witnessing a miracle and much more than I had ever
dared hope for when I first saw them transferred to the Sisters'
care. They actually looked glad to be alive.
I was pleased to see that I had been wrong about Valentina.
She had settled in well and looked relaxed and happy, still dressed
boyishly and still with a mischievous glint in her eye. The next
morning I was sitting in the little parlour outside the chapel when
Valentina appeared and, with great ceremony, served me a cup
of tea, pouring the milk and the tea herself from a lovingly
prepared tray. Her joy and pride at my surprised reaction was
heart-warming. I silently thanked God that the Sisters hadn't
listened to my misgivings about her.
The children had made a 'Welcome Bevey' banner and sang
'Aye Aye Yippy' in my honour. I was then introduced to a new
Croatian Sister, Sister Fabiana, who had joined them recently.
I was delighted that the children still remembered me after so
many other people had been and gone. I had imagined I'd been
replaced in their affections. The Sisters were amused by my fear
of staying alone in a hotel but understood and kindly allowed me
to 'live in'. I was to sleep in the girls' dormitory. When I went in
that night Valentina spotted me from her bed at the other end
of the room and came leaping towards me across the beds,
trampolining on all the children, bouncing them into wakefulness.
They were all fascinated by the thought that I would be sleeping
alongside them, because they never got to see adults asleep.
don't think they believed we ever did. They all sat down around
my bed with a lot of shushing to one another and studiously
watched as I tried to drop off. My mealtimes were also watche
with rapt attention because although the Sisters eat the same to"
150
as the children they always take meals in their own refectory. It
is their time together and is important for them as a community;
they are, after all, still a religious order. At first I used to sit
outside their little chapel eating by myself, but then I plucked up
enough courage to ask if I might join the children in my dormitory
for meals. The children loved it and I sat at a different table each
meal, chatting as best I could with my meagre Romanian.
I got off to sleep very late that first night, only to be rudely
awakened the next morning by Sister Ida squeaking a toy in my
ear.
'Bevey,' Sister Jane said when I emerged from the dormitory,
'come to Mass.'
'Oh, no. Sister,' I declined, not wanting to interfere in the
religious side of their life, 'I don't think I should.'
'Come, just to see your children,' she insisted.
I couldn't believe my eyes as I walked into the chapel. The
children who had all been so wild when I left them, still liable to
pull down curtains and throw food, still behaving ritualistically
and unpredictably, were now all sitting on chairs or cross-legged
on the floor, concentrating in silence on the service and looking
very content. They stayed in there an hour and none of them
misbehaved. Many of them gave the correct responses and said
their prayers to perfection. When the time came for the priest to
raise the chalice. Tractor Lucien rang the handbell at precisely
the right moment and the Sisters' foreheads dropped to the floor
like stones. I couldn't believe that Tractor Lucien could actually
be concentrating so hard on anything.
Two of the girls, Illeana mic (small) and Maria mari (large),
'lad the most perfect singing voices and as I listened to them,
watching all the children sitting so calmly, I was overwhelmed by
:he thought of how far they had come in the year since I had first
>een them incarcerated at Ungerini and by the waste of human
potential that must still be going on there. I felt the tears well up
ind start to flow uncontrollably. They were tears of joy and great
sadness too, for so many more children were left behind at
'Jngerini, imprisoned in lives of sheer misery. How many of
:hem would have been released from their emotional chains and
iberated to begin their lives by just a few months with the Sisters?
felt very strange and although I couldn't understand most of
:he Romanian Mass, I was enveloped by a warm glow which
overwhelmed me. As I gazed at a statue of Our Lady at Fatima I
151
became very confident that things were going to be all right; that
we would be able to achieve what we wanted; that our prayers
would be answered.
During that visit I came to realise that it wasn't what the Sisters
were actually doing that was miraculous, it was what was being
done through them. I secretly went to their chapel and, in the
dark, with only the dim flame of their little sanctuary lamp, I
sank to my knees. I did not know how to pray according to the
rules and I wasn't sure who might be listening, but I prayed
until exhaustion set in. It was a simple prayer, nothing clever or
articulate but straight from my heart. I just said, 'Thank you.'
Later in the first day I asked Sister Jane what they did when they
went to do their Adoration in the chapel. I had often wondered in
the past because I had heard such lovely singing coming out and
seen the flickering lights of the candles, but I had never felt it my
place to ask questions before.
'Why don't you come and see for yourself?' she asked.
'Oh, I couldn't,' I protested. 'I would feel like an intruder. Don't
forget I am an atheist.'
She smiled knowingly and said I was most welcome whatever
my beliefs and I went with them to the chapel that evening,
watching the Sisters at prayer but not daring to join in. The first
time they brought me a chair but after that I started to kneel on
the floor as they did because it seemed to help me to focus my
mind. It was a good opportunity to take stock of the day, to
think, to meditate.
The Sisters were almost ashamed to tell me quite why they had
needed me to rush out to Romania. 'A British group has been
spreading rumours that you are taking the children to Britain for
experimental surgery or to take parts for transplant surgery.'
'People believe that?' I was astounded.
'You have to understand, Bevey,' Sister Jane explained, 'that
the local people still can't understand why such an eminent
specialist as Doctor Nigel would come all the way from Britain
to see such worthless and hopeless cases. This gives them an easy
to understand answer. We need your help in convincing them that
the rumours are untrue.'
The Sisters proceeded to take me to all the relevant Government
offices, the hospital and the police. Everywhere I was introduced
as the woman who would take the children to Britain, be their
guardian for the duration of their stay and return them after their
152.
treatment. I suppose that my being a plump, rosy-faced, calm
and honest-looking person gave all these people the necessary
reassurance because they issued us with everything we needed. I
felt unusually comfortable in this role, as if it was natural, and I
discovered I had a new confidence without being able to understand
where it came from. Our final stop was the British Embassy
and none of the officials there seemed to find any cause to make
things difficult for us either.
All these people had genuine fears about the situation. The
Romanians were worried by the rumours they had heard. The
British Embassy was worried that once we had got them into
England on medical grounds the children would then be put up
for adoption. We promised we had no such intentions. They also
needed to be careful that once in Britain the children would not
become burdens on the taxpayer and that everything would be
funded by private money. I was concerned as to where I would
find the money but didn't let them see it. I could not allow Nigel's
and the Sisters' plans to be abandoned simply for the cost of a
few hospital beds and other expenses. Something would turn up.
The officials were reassured when I was able to show them
evidence that the team we were beginning to build would donate
their time free and at weekends. This was important to me too
because I did not think it fair that any of our children should
take the place of British children who had been on the NHS
waiting list. St Gerrard's was going to have to make a charge for
the beds; part of this would be paid for by Allison Hall and
her pupils from de Lisle Catholic School, Loughborough who
sacrificed their comic, sweet and pop money and did extra jobs
to pay for Patreascu's bed. Allison had read in a magazine about a
Romanian child who desperately needed surgery. After contacting
many groups and being dismissed as some sort of hysterical dogooder,
she finally got to Jessica at Relief Fund for Romania who
gave her my telephone number. I told Allison I didn't know the
child in the magazine and she asked me about what I did. A
couple of weeks later she told me she had spoken to her pupils
and they all wanted to help Szuzannah and Patreascu. The Sisters
were extremely moved that children in Britain should care about
the poor and handicapped from another country.
I was very conscious that staying with the Sisters was like being
a guest in their home and so I asked Sister Jane very politely if I
might be permitted to have a shower.
i53
'Of course, Bevey, whenever you like.'
'Where should I take it?' I asked.
'Oh, take it where we do our washing.'
'Where you do your washing?' I was a little unnerved by this
suggestion, knowing that they did their washing in a bathtub
which was a room on the way to the kitchens - a room used as a
thoroughfare by everyone. 'Someone might come in,' I protested
weakly, horrified at the thought of being seen naked by anyone,
let alone nuns and unstable children.
'Do it late at night if you are worried,' Sister Jane dismissed
my worries. 'I promise no one will come in.'
I duly waited until I thought the house was quiet and then
crept in for my shower, wedging the door with a large sugar
barrel. I still didn't have the nerve to do more than crouch under
the water, but it felt good to be washing. When I heard the sugar
barrel move across the floor and saw the door open a few inches
I thought I might just have to faint. A hand came in through the
crack and switched the light off, leaving me, clutching a towel to
myself, in the dark.
'What is that mad Englishwoman doing?' Sister Jane wanted
to know when she discovered that she had plunged me into
darkness on her lights-out round.
'She was taking a shower where you told her,' the others said.
'But I told her to do it where we do the washing! I meant where
we do washing for the children downstairs,' she said, 'where there
is a proper shower.' I was too embarrassed to apologise directly,
or even mention it at the time but we have laughed about it many
times since.
The state of the children had improved so much since I had
last seen them that I could hardly believe it. After every meal they
were sat down on potties, a ritual that many of the volunteers
thought was too draconian, but which I thought was much better
than having them soiling themselves everywhere as they had done
in the old days. They had all had their teeth seen to. There was a
local dentist called Johnny who used to come to Mass and the
Sisters asked him to have a look in the children's mouths. Most
of them had breath so rancid that when I first arrived at Ungerini
I used to think they had soiled themselves every time they breathed
on me. Most of them had terrible abscesses and needed painful
extractions without the help of much anaesthetic, bringing back
fearful memories of the brutal way they were treated by the
i54
medical staff at Ungerini. One of the most difficult jobs which
Russell had had to do while out there was to hold children down
while the dentist worked on them. Johnny the Dentist is a lovely
man who does his very best for the home with the limited
materials he has. I very much wished I could find a British dentist
whom I could persuade to come out and help Johnny, or at least
to send supplies.
After returning to Britain in 19911 seemed always to be on hectic
'scavenger hunts' with lists of urgently needed supplies to take
with me on my visits. The Sisters do not ask for anything; it is
not their way. They are, however, happy to accept whatever God
sends to them: all sorts of things were offered by would-be donors,
ranging from a wing mirror for the ancient Transit van to medical
supplies or bras and knickers - 'pretty and colourful,' the Sisters
told me, 'but not the breasties hanging out and bottie cleavage
showing types please, Bevey'. Whenever I went out to Bacau I
usually had at least ten large cases of stuff for the home and just
a small holdall for myself - thankfully nothing was ever stolen,
despite widespread need and people would always help me lift
stuff on and off the trains.
During that first year other charities were very helpful, offering
us room in their transport. One gave me half a lorry-load of space
going out in the first week of every month, so I could fit in things
like food, particularly fresh fruit and vegetables, medical supplies,
clothes, therapy toys and toiletries. One of my earliest tasks had
been to get each of the children a 'best outfit'. The Sisters didn't
mind dressing the children in average clothes during the week,
but their dream was for each child to have their own special
outfit, with good shoes, for Mass and special occasions.
Whenever I went out in '9Z and '93 I would fit in a visit to
Ungerini and was always made to feel very welcome despite often
arriving unannounced. The children would remember me and
smile when they saw me, running up and wanting to hold my
hand, smiling and shrieking their excitement, 'Bevey! Bevey!' All
the workers went wild too and it was good to feel they remembered
me with happiness. Not very much seemed to change there
after I left. They did build a new laundry room which brought a
little light into the corridor downstairs, and they built a nice
house for the British volunteers to live in until the time came for
them to hand back the work to the Romanians. The corridors
T-55
had murals painted on the walls and each room has a sink with
running water, and a cupboard for clothes and shoes.
I was saddened, though, to see that most of the children were
still sat on one or two beds in each room or in their cots. The
lack of occupational therapy was just the same as when I arrived.
156
CHAPTER TEN
Bringing the First
Children Out
*
W hen John had first heard that I was planning to bring two
floor children, or 'bottom shufflers' as they were affectionately
known, to Britain on my own he was aghast. 'You can't do
that,' he said. 'They are bound to be frightened and need special
attention. Then there is the luggage and all the documents. Supposing
one of them needs the loo, who will look after the other
one? Would you like me to come and help you?' For a few seconds
I resented the idea of him coming. At that stage Russell hadn't
been out to Romania yet and I was still reluctant to mix my two
lives. I thought it might spoil the mystique of my experiences in
Romania for me if John had been there too.
I was desperate for John to like Romania, the people and
especially the children. I felt like I wanted to show off something
I was proud of. I really wanted him to feel the same way about
the people as I did. Everyone I spoke to who knew what we were
doing told me that they were praying for us and for Szuzannah
and Patreascu. I got a lot of comfort from this news. I was
beginning to find that if I prayed things tended to go right. At
first I tried to rationalise this, telling myself that it was because I
was taking time to stop and think that I had a clear head and
made better decisions. I can't say that I totally believed at that
stage, but I couldn't totally discount it either. There just seemed
to be too many coincidences as our plans fell into shape, like the
Wandsworth prisoners coming up with a cheque for our children's
airfares just when we needed it. I wondered if I was finding faith
after all these years. I had so many questions and was still too
concerned about seeming dim to ask the obvious things. I was
thirsty for knowledge but had no one to ask.
i57
Eventually all the necessary documents were ready and we set
off in March 1992.. We were going to be arriving in Bucharest
too late for the evening train to Bacau and would have to spend
the night there. I contacted Florin and asked him to meet us and
purchase our rail tickets in advance.
A friend of John's, Roger Phillips, who, along with his family,
had already been very helpful in filling relief lorries for us, came
along to handle our luggage, leaving us free to look after Szuzannah
and Patreascu. We accepted the offer gratefully.
On our arrival Florin insisted on taking us on a tour of Bucharest,
and told us a lot about recent Romanian history. I wished
I had met him when I first arrived in the country. John and Roger
were surprised by the hotel, expecting something less grand, and
by how many staff there were, none of whom seemed to be willing
to do anything. The porters didn't even bother to help us with
our bags.
On the way to the station the next day John was fascinated by
the sight of the crowds of peasants with their livestock, and
horrified by all the beggars and street children everywhere, some
looking as young as three or four.
'They are the sewer children,' Florin explained. 'They have
either been abandoned by their families or they have escaped
from the orphanages. They live underground. When the central
hot-water plant is working they huddle around it under their rags
and bits of cardboard. When the plant is not working many of
them freeze to death.'
'How can the authorities see these children and do nothing?'
John wanted to know. His face was white with shock and I could
see his eyes were moist. By now the children were surrounding
us, holding out their hands and trying to cuddle us. Some were
Crying to talk.
'Are you my mama?'
'Are you my papa?'
Romanian people shouted at them to 'leave the foreigners
alone'.
Suddenly one of the children shouted something and they all
rushed off, returning with chunks of bread and pieces of salami
which two elderly but sprightly nuns were dishing out with mugs
of milk. We went over to talk to them and they explained that
this was the only food and drink most of the children received all
day.
158
r"
^
'We are going back to Britain for two weeks' retreat,' they told
us, 'so we wanted to make sure they had one last meal before we
went to the airport.'
'What will happen to them while you are away?' we asked.
'Some of them will surely perish,' the nuns said sadly.
'Are you from the Order of the Sisters of Charity of St Paul?' I
asked, remembering the nuns at St Gerrard's.
'Yes,' they smiled sweetly, 'we are. We were both called from
retirement because our Sisters heard about the sewer children.
Our work is no more than a drop in the ocean, but someone had
to begin somewhere.'
Meeting them was quite a coincidence.
Dom Patreascu met us at Bacau station and drove us to Mother
Teresa's. As the gates were opened there were suddenly children
all around us. The noise was incredible and I looked anxiously
across at John and Roger. John was smiling shyly at Sister Jane,
who was introducing all the Sisters and children to him. They were
all crying 'Johnny' excitedly, recognising him from the photos I
had shown them and stories I had told about my husband back
in England. They were fascinated by his height and his width and
they all wanted to hold his hand or swing on his jacket.
The Sisters quietened the children down and they began to
sing, 'We love you, love you, Johnny. We love you, love you,
Johnny. We love you, love you Johnny, with all our hearts.' John
could not stop himself from weeping. He had expected to be
standing in the background while the children welcomed me; he
had not expected to be so warmly embraced.
We discovered that Sister Fabiana had moved to the Bucharest
house. I was disappointed not to see her and to think John
wouldn't meet her. Had we known she was there in advance we
could have visited while we were in the city but by then it was
too late.
I slept in the girls' dormitory and John in the children's dining
room, on a mattress which Tante Magda, one of the helpers,
insisted on making up for him each evening and putting away
again in the morning.
The children all took to John immediately, thundering past me
to get to him whenever they spotted us. They particularly liked
it when he took his teeth out for them. None of them had ever
seen false teeth before and they were amazed. To this day the
poor man has to drop his dentures down each time we visit and
i59
the children and workers rush off in all directions, shrieking and
screaming with mock fear and delight. The workers love it when
there is someone new who doesn't know John and he can give
them a shock with his teeth.
The workers have hard lives, working all the time at the orphanage
or their homes, only eating what they have grown themselves,
drawing their water from deep wells, cooking over fires which
they have to light with sticks they have previously had to chop.
There is not much time for leisure or laughter and I think that's
why they appreciate the bit of light relief which visitors like John
bring - something different, something fun. John had a huge
snowball fight one day - him versus the workers and children which
they all enjoyed, and the helpers were amazed to meet a
man who was willing to do 'women's work' like washing up,
making tea or helping the children. Whenever they saw him doing
such chores they would rush to take over, not believing his
assurances that if was quite normal for him.
Sister Ida became cross with him for picking up the children
so much. 'Who,' she wanted to know, 'is going to pick them up when you have gone home, John? You would be helping them
more if you encouraged them to be independent and walk for
themselves, that boy you are carrying is nineteen!' John only
needed telling once and from then on he was the most successful
of all of us at getting the children onto their feet when they needed
physiotherapy.
At first John was nervous about getting the children out of
their cots - their legs and arms were so deformed he was afraid
of hurting them. But he was so gentle with them that soon they
were crying out to be lifted every time they saw him, wanting
him to play with them.
At first he kept a respectful distance from the older girls, having
been told how they had suffered at the hands of men in the past,
but soon they came to realise that this gentle giant wouldn't do
them any harm and began to play football and join in the games
which he proved so good at organising. One boy of eleven, a
worker's child, was able to talk to John immediately, crossing the
language barrier as they swopped footballers' names. John asked
him if he had a football of his own. The boy looked amazed.
'He says,' Sister Jane translated, 'I could never afford a football
- only rich people and foreigners can afford them.'
'It is good for our children to get to know another man,' Sister
160
Jane said approvingly. 'There are too many women around them
all the time.'
As well as providing an extra pair of hands wherever and
whenever needed, the Sisters asked me to start doing some speech
therapy with the children.
The Sisters could not understand why the children were not
beginning to speak and wanted me to help. I started speech
sessions with Alena. She had become a firm favourite with Tante
Magda and it was noticeable that because of the extra little bit
of attention she was coming out of her shell amazingly quickly.
Then I moved on to a group of five of the children. I used to get
them all to pull faces and then we would begin to put out our
tongues, to the left and to the right - anything that would exercise
facial muscles. Of course it must have looked hilarious to anyone
watching and we all laughed at each other. Hearing all the noise
many more of the children joined us until I was sat in the middle
of a horseshoe of chairs with most of the children trying to sing
and speak. I didn't know whether it was the correct way to
encourage speech - but it was the only way I could think of.
I called each child by name, clicking my fingers to get their
attention if they did not show a reaction or look at me. We
practised animal noises - I would ask them what each picture
was and then what noise the animal made - and clapped rhythms.
I thought that maybe if they got the idea of copying this then
they might copy speech. We sang scales; we sang selections from
The Sound of Music, from Annie and those scales. Pavarotti it
was most definitely not - but it was fun and most importantly it
kept the children cheerfully occupied.
We also threw ourselves into the day to day work of the
Sisters, helping to unload a forty-foot lorry which arrived one
day, forming a human chain in a blizzard of snow to get everything
down into the cellars below the house. The Sisters had heard that
there had been terrible floods up in the mountains, destroying all
the crops, and so John, Roger and Dom Patreascu took the
ancient Transit van out to distribute foodstuff, skidding up the
mountain roads, loaded down with clothes and toys and sacks
and boxes of milk powder, powdered soup and biscuits.
'The villagers were so excited to see us,' John marvelled on his
return. 'People calling out to one another and rushing out of their
cottages. We ended up with a crowd of about two hundred
around us. They were so careful not to leave anyone out. One
161
small boy was sent to run right across the valley to fetch an old
lady. When she came she was walking through the snow with no
shoes. By that time all the shoes had gone. The look on her face
was so pitiful I hunted through all the bits and pieces left over
and found a brand new pair of football boots, studs and all. She
politely, but very firmly, snatched them out of my hand. Her face
lit up with glee as she sat down on the tailgate of the van and
pulled them on. She paraded proudly around, showing how the
good the studs were for gripping in the ice. The villagers all
applauded her as she danced about.'
'Your visit will be talked about for years to come,' Dom Patreascu
told him. 'They will pass on stories about the day the
foreigner came with gifts from people in Britain who had never
met them. It makes them all feel special, just for a moment.'
Dom Patreascu explained that these people have nothing but
all look out for each other. If someone is wealthy enough to own
a pig, then when that pig is killed for its meat the family will
make sure that the elderly, or perhaps a widow with young
children, all get a share. Nothing is wasted.
On a visit to a local school, John found eight pupils shivering
in a freezing cold room, watching the teacher writing on a blackboard
which had long since lost its black. There were no books
and there was no heating. The teacher told them, in broken
English, how proud the village was to have a school because it
meant these children might one day be able to get jobs and earn
money to help their poverty-stricken families. John found some
books, pens and paper in the van and gave them to the teacher.
There were also a few toys left which John handed over.
'Excuse me,' the teacher asked shyly, 'my wife has just had a
new baby. Do you think you have anything for a baby?' John
remembered seeing a Fisher Price Activity Centre which he gave
to the man who was as thrilled as if he had received a thousand
pounds.
When John met Patreascu he was initially rather concerned at
the amount of noise he was making. John is quite self-conscious
and never likes to draw attention to himself. Patreascu had no
such inhibitions and still liked to whine at the top of his voice all
the time. John decided that he would have to do something about
this if he was going to have to sit on a plane for hours with the
boy. Every time Patreascu grizzled at him. John would grizzle
back in just the same tone of voice. To begin with this puzzled the
i6z
boy, then interested him enough to test it a few times and finally
it bored him. He stopped whinging for the first time in his life.
Sometimes Patreascu would just sit, so deeply withdrawn
within himself that someone might drop something right next to
him and he would not flinch or show any reaction. I wondered if
he might be partially deaf, and that perhaps that was why he
wasn't speaking. Perhaps whinging was the only sound he could
hear and imitate. Years of lying flat on his back and tied up might
have affected his vocal chords. I was also beginning to appreciate
even more the importance of the children eating and chewing
proper food. It was difficult to persuade them to try anything
that didn't have a smooth, puddingy consistency. If the food had
any bits in it they would instantly spit it out.
On Patreascu's and Szuzannah's last evening before departing
to the UK, we had a magnificent party with lots of little fairy
cakes and trifles made with the ingredients I always brought with
me from England. One of my claims to fame in Bacau is that I
taught them all to dance the hokey-cokey, which we did that
evening until I thought I was going to drop with exhaustion.
The Sisters made up a bed for Patreascu and Szuzannah in the
back of the Transit van, with plenty of blankets as the temperature
had dropped to minus 20. At 11 p.m. they roused the two children
and dressed them, but all the others woke as well and straight
away we were surrounded by well-wishers. The Sisters had been
saving their very best clothes for this trip so that the children
would not look out of place in Britain, but for some reason they
had Patreascu dressed in three pairs of shocking pink tights,
two pairs of trousers and several jumpers. Apparently they were
frightened he would be cold shuffling on the floor in Britain. On
the way out through the hall the Sisters paused in front of their
statue of Mary and sang a little adoration which was very moving
indeed. We all cried because the Sisters were so sad to see Patreascu
and Szuzannah go from the home. They gave us their blessing
and suddenly all my fears welled up; would the children travel
well, would the operations be all right and, above all, would
they be happy? The day before we had had a special Mass and
Szuzannah had wept afterwards. She was enjoying all the extra
attention but was also sad at leaving the Sisters and workers
whom she had grown to know, love and, above all, to trust.
'Bevey,' Sister Jane said as we prepared to go out into the
cold, 'I entrust our children to your most beautiful care.' All the
163
workers held hand-made garlands above the children's heads,
their faces streaming with tears because they feared for them so
far from home and with the prospect of painful surgery ahead. I
felt all my fears evaporate and I knew that everything would be
all right. As I gazed at the statue of Our Holy Lady of Fatima, I
felt such confidence. She almost seemed to smile at me, but I
dismissed it as imagination and over-tiredness. If it wasn't that, I
must have been cracking up!
The Sisters were also very concerned for Szuzannah's moral
welfare because, although she had the figure of a grown woman,
she was still an innocent. They were terrified that she would
become pregnant in Britain, despite the fact that I assured them
the nuns at St Gerrard's Hospital in Birmingham would keep a
strict eye on her. As the van turned out of the gates I shouted
back to Sister Jane, 'Start knitting - for twins!'
'If that happens,' she shouted back, 'Szuzannah and the twins
shall come to live with you and John.'
Little Sister Ida, the four-feet-six Indian ball of energy, came
with us on the six-hour drive to Bucharest to help keep Patreascu
happy. She prayed all the way, only stopping to give directions
like, 'Our father, who art in heaven - take a left here - hallowed
be thy name.' She also sang, so compellingly that we all joined
in. It was a very spiritual time, despite the fact that we were
driving through blizzards all night and Szuzannah was continually
sick. Patreascu had been given a sedative but it didn't seem to be
having any effect on him: his eyes were wide open and he seemed
to be taking an interest in everything that was going on around
him. When we arrived at the airport we waited in the van while
the authorities tried to find us wheelchairs. Failing in their search
they brought out an army ambulance instead. They didn't want
us to walk through the main area of the airport in case the sight
of the children frightened or upset other passengers.
As we loaded the children into the ambulance a young soldier
absentmindedly dropped the tailgate down onto Patreascu's legs.
I could see what was about to happen and managed to put my
arm out to protect him, but unfortunately the gate came down
on my head which frightened the children. I am usually such a
wimp and I wanted to cry, or at least lie down, but I had to
appear to be quite brave about it. I could really have done with
a few stitches. After we had been driven round the airport I was
told by the soldiers to get out of the ambulance. I was terrified to
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leave the children but they insisted and much to their annoyance
I refused to go away, hovering about outside, determined not to
let them out of my sight as we worked our way towards the
departure gate.
I felt very real pains in my heart when I saw Sister Ida with
Patreascu. She loved him so dearly and knew that once he left for
Britain he was bound to be away for many months, by which
time her three years in Romania would be over and she would
have moved to her next posting. In the early hours of Monday
morning, standing in slushy snow, the wind howling round us,
she said her final farewells to him. I looked into her eyes and saw
a momentary flicker of pain. She blinked away the tears and said,
'Now, Bevey, you take him to Mass and keep up his religious
instruction, and always remember this little prayer, "Mary,
Mother of Jesus Christ, be a mother to Patreascu now." Use it
whenever he needs it.'
I hadn't warmed to Patreascu during the past four days, but
John, who had him on his lap on the plane most of the way back,
said that he agreed with Sister Ida and thought Patreascu was
brighter than everyone else believed. I've always found John to
be a good judge of character, so I looked forward to seeing what
would happen in England - perhaps with new surroundings and
more stimulation Patreascu would learn to speak and become a
bit more sociable. It would be good if we could return him,
walking, as a role model for the others. We had been worried
about how the flight would go for him because he had a habit of
doing some pretty wild gruntings, but he seemed to be enjoying
every minute of it, despite having been wide awake all night. The
only time he let out a very loud noise was when he unexpectedly
discovered the joys of real orange juice for the first time and
swallowed it with a long moan of pleasure. He ate all the food
that was put in front of him without a murmur.
Szuzannah found her first flight very frightening. I started
singing, 'Oh, Szuzannah' to calm her and John joined in. Other
passengers turned to look; they must have thought we were some
sort of weird religious cult but it did the trick and she was fine
after that.
As the plane landed I had Patreascu on my lap and told him
what we were seeing through the window. I noticed his eyes shone
when he saw cars and he made little excited noises which were a
marvellous change from all the grizzling. Even if the children
165
show no response I always speak to them as if we are having a
two-way conversation and I chatted on to him about everything
we were seeing.
An ambulance organised by Wandsworth Prison was waiting
on the tarmac for us at Stansted Airport, complete with a couple
of teddy bears which the prisoners had made. Roger, who had
been a wonderful help throughout the journey, left for home after
saying a sad farewell to the children. Poor John had to go straight
to London for an urgent business meeting, so I headed off towards
Birmingham and the hospital with the children. It had been
arranged that I would stay with them for the first few days to
help them settle into their new lives. A fine one I was to look
after the children -1 was the only one who was travel-sick on the
final leg of the journey.
Szuzannah was sixteen by now, but she still had the mental age
of a very young child, and there was little hope of progressing
much further. She suffers from cerebral palsy and for many years
her legs had been bound to her chest and had been broken in that
position. I had first seen her at Ungerini during one of the frantic
feeding sessions which the older children had to endure. I remember
watching her on all fours, desperately scooping up whatever
food she could find. She had been particularly badly treated
because she was a gypsy. The Sisters were the first people to really
be kind to her. Even the gypsy workers were cruel to the gypsy
children. Most gypsy girls ended up working in the streets as
prostitutes or cigarette sellers, the Sisters having to treat many of
the locals for venereal diseases.
Many of the British workers hadn't liked Szuzannah because
she would sulk if you didn't hold her hand when she asked, but
I was fond of her despite her moodiness and I suppose it was
because I had shown her friendship that she had saved me from
that punch. Many of the children became extraordinarily loyal
and protective towards anyone who showed them any friendship.
It was only after she had arrived with the Sisters that Szuzannah
had started trying to speak. Though her Romanian was very basic,
she had a little English too by the time she got to Birmingham. She
became a great favourite of the nurses at St Gerrard's who loved
to spoil her. Both children had the most wonderful nursing care
while they were in hospital and none of the miracles which
happened subsequently would have been possible without all the
people who worked so patiently with them.
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Szuzannah and Patreascu were initially in an open room at the
very end of a ward until Patreascu found a little push-along train
which he pulled himself up onto. He was spotted setting off down
the corridor toward the X-ray department and the chapel. It was
decided they should be moved to a room at the other end of
the ward, next to a room where a priest. Father Gerrard, was
recovering from heart surgery. That way, if Patreascu made
another bid for freedom he would have to go past the nurses'
office and all the side wards. I found it very hard when the time
came for me to leave them there and go home to John. I knew
they would be in perfect hands because the Sisters and nurses had
already gone to great lengths to make them feel loved and at
home. Their room was full of toys and the nurses would often
spend their spare moments in with them. Patreascu didn't respond
well to the nurses' efforts, but Szuzannah was beginning to flourish
and showing her enjoyment at all the attention. She wept
uncontrollably when I had to leave and clung to me as if I was
abandoning her. I worried all the way home on the train and as
soon as I got in I phoned the nurses. They told me she was fine,
sitting up and trying to do some colouring. I was partially relieved
by this news but still very much looked forward to seeing her
again at the weekend.
The only problem was that Szuzannah was very good at getting
everyone else to do everything for her and it was hard for the
nurses to always remember that she needed to be encouraged to
do things for herself. She also treated Patreascu badly, beating
him furiously if she thought he was stealing her limelight and
shouting and screaming at him. Although she was my favourite
of the two I did feel sorry for Patreascu. Szuzannah seemed to
see it as her job to keep an eye on him in place of Sister Ida, but
sadly she took as her role models the women at Ungerini, not the
more enlightened Sisters.
At the same time Szuzannah often showed a very gentle and
caring side to her nature; she had a great capacity for helping
with the elderly and respite care patients. She would make sure
their tea was cooled down and then tenderly help them sip it,
carefully wiping any spills off them. She was never harsh with
these poor patients, never raised her voice. Her instincts told her
exactly what to do and with these little kindnesses she seemed to
satisfy her own need for someone to depend on her, fulfilling her
hunger to love and be loved. It was beautiful to watch.
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When John and I suggested taking Szuzannah home for weekends,
Nigel Dwyer was delighted because, apart from walking,
the greatest gift we can give the children is their independence. It
is always tempting to satisfy our own needs rather than theirs by
doing everything for them, and it is certainly much quicker but
they really need to learn to manage on their own. One of the
main reasons for getting them upright and off their bottoms is so
that they can get themselves to the toilet and clean up after
themselves. Those sorts of things make all the difference to a
child's self-esteem and self-respect.
Getting her from Birmingham to Milton Keynes could be quite
an adventure. I would finish work at the Abbey at 5 p.m. on
Friday evenings, get a taxi and then a train and then another taxi
to the hospital. We would then take another taxi back to the
station or, if I was lucky. Matron would give us a lift to save me
a bit of money. Szuzannah would be guffawing happily in double
legplasters and I would have our Intercity seats booked in
advance. Matron, a British Rail porter and I would then have to
winch Szuzannah onboard because of her double hip dysplasia.
She would invariably play to the gallery and get the giggles as we
tried to straighten her out. Both her feet were turned in and,
because Nigel had operated on one leg, there was a danger the
cerebral palsy would make the other leg and foot turn in more.
So it was necessary to plaster both legs in order to try to straighten
them. Nigel did consider doing both her hips but there was no
guarantee that this would work. Because of the length of time
her hips had been out of place, the operations could have led to
terrible problems with arthritis later in life.
We would find our seats in the carriage, usually in the dining
car where she had room to stretch her legs out, and British Rail
would not start the train until she was seated. The carriage would
always be full of business people on their way home after a week's
work and they would start out attempting to hide from us behind
their newspapers while Szuzannah tried to make eye contact with
them. Suddenly she would bang her crooked fist down on the
table with the most enormous explosion, making all the cutlery
and newspapers rattle in surprise.
'Hey,' she would shout at them, 'not beautiful!' And she would
insist that they all crossed themselves and said grace before they
took another mouthful of anything.
By June i99z Nigel got her calipers so she was able to get up
r68
off her bottom and walk for the first time. Her gait was very
strange, with wobbly legs and bottom crouched down, but it was
a long way away from bottom shuffling and looking up at people
from the floor like a sad old dog hoping for a pat.
At one stage Nigel became so frustrated with the nurses in
Birmingham who let her use a zimmer frame, instead of the
crutches she was meant to be using, that he threw the frame
through the window. 'Lucky there was an open window for you,'
I said to him afterwards.
'I didn't f...... know it was open,' he growled. Many times he
would shriek things like, 'Nurse, do you have your dinner in bed,
chopped up and fed to you? No, so why the f.. .ing hell should
Szuzannah?' Hearing these outbursts, Szuzannah would crook
her finger and say, 'Naughty, naughty Dr Nigel!'
The first thing we did when Szuzannah came home to us was
to put the wheelchair away in the dining room. The next was to
get her crutches out. At first she was terrified of the dogs, telling
us she had been bitten at Ungerini and how the women had
laughed at her pain and fear, but she quickly grew to love Moss
and Misty, and Sweeper the cat. Often when I popped in to check
she was all right before going to bed I would find Szuzannah
curled up in bed in a space the size of a mouse, surrounded by
the animals who were luxuriating in this normally forbidden
treat. It also made it easier to get her out on walks - if the dogs
were going she wanted to be there too. She would make them
shake her hand before giving them biscuits from her mouth, her
fears completely conquered.
The physiotherapist told me they wanted her to stand as much
as possible, so I would give her bowls of vegetables to peel and
things to wash and dry up, conveniently forgetting that we had a
dishwasher machine. We were working towards helping her to
lose her fear of being upright and at the same time I hoped she
would show the people in Romania that it was possible to give
the children little jobs to do. I had to teach her to close the door
when she was on the toilet or in the bath, as John or Russell
might be about and I thought it would give her more dignity. She
also had very bad breath, like all the children, and I thought she
might benefit from some teeth-cleaning lessons. So I decided I
would clean mine with her so that she could copy me. I was just
about to put the brush in my mouth when she shrieked, 'Bevey,
close the door! Johnny or Russell may see you!' I decided not to
169
bother to explain but shut the door and thanked her for reminding
me.
She loved to bake cakes with elaborate and distinctive decorations.
The best of the batch always went to the dogs, followed
by Johnny, then Russell, then me. I knew my place.
Every time I went to see her in the hospital after the operations
she used to like to play the same game. She would pretend to
begin her journey home with plenty of action; packing, getting
on the train and the plane. She would then imagine arriving back
with the Sisters in Bacau, her case full of presents for everyone.
Then I would have to pretend to be each one of her friends and
all the carers in turn - it was not a short game. She would knock
on the door and one by one they would come to see who it was.
Each of them would look down to the floor but would be unable
to see who it was because now she was standing. They would
call out, 'Szuzannah, where are you? We cannot see you,' which
would result in her becoming helpless with laugher.
Eventually the friends would become so exasperated they
would call out for Sister Jane who would also be unable to see
her on the floor. Sister Jane would then proceed to look on and
under all the beds (with a great deal of overacting on my part)
and then suddenly Szuzannah would say, 'But, Sister Jane, look
up here, I am tall and walking and it is very beautiful up here!'
Whereupon Sister Jane would shriek with delight and say, 'But,
Szuzannah, I can hardly believe it is you, you are so tall and
beautiful now!'
I'm sure the people at the hospital thought I was completely
potty but it was a good way of talking about home, reminding
her of her friends, and it gave her a boost and practical encouragement
at the thought of being able to return and show off her
new abilities. We were very fortunate that Joyce, the Assistant
Matron, took a great shine to Szuzannah and had her home for
several weekends. She also spent a great deal of time with her
while on duty and it was a terrible wrench for her when Szuzannah
had to return home. It was lovely for Szuzannah to have someone
she was special to.
Sister Maria, the physiotherapist at St Gerrard's, would tell us
what she wanted us to try and encourage the children to do. She
was a great inspiration, spending hours coaxing and encouraging
Szuzannah into walking, never giving up or despairing even
though Szuzannah's twisted feet began to look as if they would
170
never be straight. Sister Maria was also wonderful with Patreascu.
Firstly in his wheelchair and then with the aid of a little zimmer
frame he used to come down in the lift by himself, dark glasses
on, and suddenly appear in Sister Maria's office, where they
would share a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Patreascu and Szuzannah would come home to Milton Keynes
with me and John on alternate weekends and we had to do lots
of physiotherapy with them. I tried to make it fun, spending
hours walking backwards, pointing a broom handle to where
Szuzannah's left foot should be, then her right foot, and making
a great pantomime of bumping into things because I wasn't
looking where I was going.
My Romanian vocabulary was pretty small but I would encourage
her to get up and walk by saying, 'On the floor is for dogs.
Try and stand and be up here. It is very beautiful to be upright,
you know.' If I have any talent it is a gift for getting kids to
believe they can do things, making things that might be a chore
seem fun.
Finally Szuzannah was upright and, with the aid of calipers on
both legs, walking. Her boots posed a huge problem. The pull of
her spasticity meant that no matter how tight they were, her feet
would force their way out and she would be walking on the backs
of the boots. We tried everything, but to no avail. The fact that
she had confounded the doubters by dragging herself off the floor
at all, however, gave us hope that she could overcome this next
hurdle as well. We decided that although it was tempting to keep
Szuzannah in Britain as company for Patreascu, she might well
progress more quickly in her normal surroundings. She was
missing the Sisters, her friends and her favourite worker, Doamna
Anna and wanted to go home. She'd been away for ten months
in all. Many people in England thought I was very hard to take
her back. I kept explaining that she was not going back to an
institute but to a loving home which she missed, but I could see
they were not convinced.
Joyce was very concerned that the sudden separation would be
too much for Szuzannah and decided to travel with us, bringing
her friend Val, too.
Szuzannah wept when she said goodbye to Patreascu and all
the staff at the hospital. She had been attending Brays Road
School and her teacher, Lucy Danyi, organised a special farewell.
The most painful parting was from Moss and Misty; her tears
171
plopped onto their furry coats as she hugged them. The Christmas
season was starting and whenever I heard carols being sung I
felt very sad that we would not be sharing the festivities with
Szuzannah.
Maricica, who had been in Norwich short-term, undergoing
surgery on a very bad cleft palette, was also ready to go home.
Helen Wilkinson, whom she had been staying with, thought it
would be a great idea if we went back together. Helen had offered
help with children with ear, nose and throat problems - and the
services of an ENT surgeon. We all met at Stansted Airport,
Maricica rushing up to me, leaping up and clamping her legs
round my waist, chattering excitedly about going home. She was
a little disappointed that John wouldn't take his teeth out at the
airport.
Janet Stevens had warned me about Maricica's flight out.
Apparently she had been so frightened of flying she had pulled
her jumper right over her head, only coming out to be sick. Armed
with this knowledge, I had plenty of plastic bags and Wet Ones.
Szuzannah cried bitterly when it was time to say goodbye to John
and Russell.
Because we were such a large group we tied yellow ribbons on
our luggage so we could recognise it more easily at Bucharest
Airport. As we came through Immigration and Customs I noticed
a man disappearing carrying a large case with a yellow ribbon on.
'Oh, don't worry,' Joyce assured me. 'That nice man offered to
take it for me,' pointing to an unshaved old gypsy man.
'I'll bet he did.' I said. 'Look, get the girls on the pavement,
please, keep the luggage together with them. I'll be right back,'
and I tore off after the man, only just retrieving the case.
I staggered back with it to find a huge crowd milling around
our group. One of our number had taken their dollars out and
was counting them. People were offering to change dollars into
lei, taxi drivers were trying to pull us and our luggage into their
cars and suddenly, in the distance, I saw the glorious sight of the
Sisters' orange Transit van.
We sang all the way from Bucharest to Bacau, finally arriving
at ten at night. Joyce had kindly paid for herself, Val and Szuzannah
to have one last night together at the Hotel Dumbrava, so
that they would be fresh when they arrived at Mother Teresa's.
Unfortunately, when we arrived at the hotel they had given
the room away and were completely full. Joyce seemed so
172
disappointed that I suggested we try some of the other hotels. By
now it was 12.30. Thankfully the Hotel Moldova had a room to
spare - but their lift wasn't working. So we winched Szuzannah
and all her luggage up five flights of stairs, gamely helped by the
hotel porter. Once I was sure they were happy and secure, Maricica
and I raced downstairs, jumped into the van and headed for
Mother Teresa's. We tip-toed into the girls' dormitory and crept
up to the beds which had been left ready for us.
'Cica! Bevey!' shrieked Valentina from her bed at the very end
of the long room as she leapt out and trampolined down the
dormitory from bed to bed. Soon everyone was up, touching
Maricica, talking to her and kissing her. I felt happy, but exhausted
and keen to catch a few hours' sleep. Just three hours later Sister
Ida woke me and I saw Maricica was already making the beds,
desperately wanting to get back into her comfortable and secure
routine. All the children were up and the atmosphere was electric.
Maricica had only been away for two months but Szuzannah had
been away for ten. Everywhere there were children blowing up
balloons or colouring cards or helping to make garlands. The
Sisters could hardly contain their excitement. The whole place
was alive - they couldn't wait to see Szuzannah.
I had arranged that we would go to collect her at nine. When
we drew up at the gates of the home we could see Valentina, who
was Szuzannah's best friend, bobbing up and down on the other
side impatiently. When the gates were opened every child was out
there, with all the Sisters and the carers and the neighbours. There
were hundred of balloons, a big banner and flower garlands. They
were singing, banging tambourines, beating drums, shouting and
screaming - the whole scene was vibrant, like a tribal welcome
in some remote African village.
Joyce was overcome with emotion and the realisation that
Szuzannah was home for good hit her forcefully. She wept and
clung onto her, hugging her as if for the last time. I was afraid I
was going to be overcome with emotion, too, so I opened the van
door and gently pulled Szuzannah away, allowing her to be
engulfed by her family. Szuzannah's favour carer, Doamna Anna,
was weeping very loudly and everyone wanted to touch her, to
see her legs in their calipers and to kiss her. I was able to blend
j into the background while I tried to recover my composure. I
I could see that she didn't need me, that I had done my job. She
was not dependent on me and I felt very proud.
i73
The welcome turned into a party for the evening with Joyce
and Val making cakes for everyone and me making trifles and
leading the hokey-cokey. Sister Jane even gave a rare display of
Indian dancing which she had enjoyed before she became a nun.
The Sisters couldn't understand why Szuzannah's Romanian
had improved while she had been away, and then it dawned on
us. As I have a small Romanian vocabulary I tend to repeat the
same words, especially the verbs. I had used them all the time in
conversation with Szuzannah. She had, of course, been having
plenty of one-to-one conversations in both English and Romanian
during her stay in Britain, and her confidence and eye contact
had improved dramatically. The differences in her behaviour did
not go unnoticed by the Sisters and served to reinforce their belief
and encouragement of the workers to 'talk to the children as if
they are your family'.
Joyce Val and Helen wanted to see Ungerini while we were
there so a few days later we drove up the winding roads in a thick
fog. When we arrived they were as appalled as I had been by my
first sight of the place. I did my best to explain that things were
better than they had been but they were deeply shocked. By the
time we came out the fog had grown impenetrable and we had
an eerie journey back to Mother Teresa's, forced to continue
because we were due to leave in the early hours of the morning
for our flight back to England. There was a deep silence in the
van, each of us lost in terrible thoughts. Joyce's impending and
probably final parting from Szuzannah was weighing her down
and even in the darkness of the van I could see her lip trembling.
We finally made it back. Joyce said a very moving and sad farewell
to Szuzannah and went back to the hotel for a few hours' sleep.
When it was time for us to leave, Szuzannah wept and I felt a
huge wobbler coming on. My eyes filled with tears and I had to
put on an act of being mega-jolly, walking around with my hands
on my hips doing exaggerated Rik May all impressions. 'Well,
aren't we a load of silly billies!'
From the moment we left Szuzannah became an expert on
walking and told everyone that, 'On the floor was for dogs. Being
upright is beautiful - Bevey says so!'
i74
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Patreascu's Ordeals
*
Lynce Nigel returned to Britain he sent me detailed medical
reports and asked me to go up to Birmingham to discuss them.
Tatreascu,' Nigel explained, 'has had polio in one leg. The
other leg is withered through having been tied, knees to chest,
for so many years and not used. The leg affected by polio is even
more withered and is also six inches shorter than the other one;
the muscles are completely stunted.'
He then, with the aid of detailed diagrams, showed me what
he intended to do. Patreascu was going to have an operation to
lengthen his shorter leg and was probably going to have to spend
a total of a year in hospital.
'After enduring all that,' I asked, 'will the legs be equal and
will he be able to walk?'
'Of course he ruddy well will - I wouldn't put the dear chap
through all that if the end result wasn't walking!'
I was wondering how Patreascu was going to cope with such
prolonged pain. As it was he whinged if anyone even lightly
touched his stunted leg, or if another child just came near him.
What would he be like after all this?
'Although the leg muscles are all wasted,' Nigel went on, 'the
nerves are all there and will be highly sensitive to pain, probably
more than average.'
Poor child, I thought to myself. But what were the alternatives?
A life of shuffling about on his bottom? A life of never being able
to get out?
Nigel estimated the operation was going to take five and a half
hours. 'You can come and watch,' he told me cheerfully.
i 'Oh, no.' I was horrified. 'I'd be sick. I've never been good
I i75
around anything to do with blood or medical matters. I can't
even watch operations on television.' I hoped that would close
the subject.
'For God's sake, woman, I tramped all the way to Romania for
you,' he roared. 'The least you can do is watch an itsy bitsy
operation for me.'
'Okay.' I took a deep breath and tried to block the details of
what was about to happen from my mind. I didn't want to upset
him and I was flattered that he felt he wanted my support in the
operating theatre.
'Good,' he grinned. 'I've invented a new anaesthetic, specially
for you.'
'That won't be necessary,' I told him sniffily. 'I'm quite capable
of walking out if I feel it is too much.'
'It's not to calm you down, woman, it's to stop you ruddy well
talking while I'm working.'
Nigel said that the operating theatre at St Gerrard's was not
sophisticated enough for an operation this complex. 'BUPA
Parkway Hospital in Solihull could handle it,' he told me. 'Why
don't you write to them and ask?'
'Wouldn't the letter be more impressive coming from you?' I
ventured.
'Look - ' he sounded exasperated ' - you must have realised
by now, the persuasion bit is what you are good at!' I hadn't
realised, but I wrote anyway. I composed a long letter explaining
all about Patreascu, and the hospital management agreed to give
everything absolutely free. All the staff then said they would
donate their time and stay on for whatever extra hours were
needed. If we had been presented with a bill it would probably
have been around £zo,ooo.
I shyly offered to stay with Patreascu again as his 'mum'
because he knew me and it would be less traumatic to have me
doing his painful dressings after surgery than a stranger. I was
rather afraid that I might be attaching too much importance to
my presence, but Nigel was ecstatic at the idea, having hardly
dared to ask me as he knew I was on annual leave from Abbey
National and running out of time. I still felt very squeamish about
the idea of attending the operation but I didn't dare to say
anything else to Nigel.
The morning of the surgery I got Patreascu up and he had a
long, luxurious bath. I put him into the sweet little operating
176
gown they had left for me. A nurse came to keep an eye on him
whilst I went to get ready myself. By this time he was fairly
relaxed by the pre-med, so the nurse didn't worry when she was
called away for a few minutes. When I returned to his room I
discovered that Patreascu had locked himself inside. We tried
talking to him through the door but there was no response. The
only thing we could do was take the door of its hinges. By the
time we had found a carpenter to do that Patreascu in his terror
had crapped from one end of the room to the other. It was like a
stable and I had to clean up everything before we could take him
through to the theatre. Retching and heaving rather loudly as I
tried to clean off the little push-along train he had been sitting
on whilst evacuating, it did occur to me that there were better
ways to spend a Saturday morning.
The sight of the trolley terrified him because he couldn't work
out what was happening. He didn't understand enough words
for me to be able to calm him or explain that it was all going to
be okay.
Tt won't work,' I told the theatre staff. 'I'll have to carry him.'
He was wearing a pair of dark glasses which he loved and they
covered the tears in his eyes. He also had Russell's Walkman over
his ears as I carried him down to the prep room. There he finally
allowed me to lay him down on the trolley, squeezing my hand
tightly in his little fingers.
The Sisters in Romania were going to start a special Mass at
exactly the time Nigel was due to make his first incision. He had
been delighted by this news but told me, 'Tell them to begin
an hour earlier. I want them up to full steam by the time I
start!'
To my utmost surprise I found the operation fascinating and
managed to stay upright throughout. Sister Valerie, a theatre
nurse and one of the nuns, had come with us from St Gerrard's
as an observer and she gave me a whispered commentary at the
moments when Nigel was concentrating too hard to talk. Once
Patreascu was fully anaesthetised and I could prise his fingers
loose from my hand, I stood back, Nigel stepped forward and
they started cutting. He then took his bone hammer and broke
Patreascu's tiny leg in four places. The plan was to drill four holes
in the thigh bone and five in the tibia, between the knee and the
ankle.
The most crucial hole was the one at the top of the thigh, and
177
who never lets you down, never forgets you and someone who
isn't frightened to let you see your own faults.
Both Patreascu's legs had been useless because there was no
muscle, and now the shorter one had these bars sticking out
which, if he ever knocked them against anything, were agony for
him. Even lying in bed could give him unspeakable pain if he
turned in the wrong direction. He frequently went into spasm
during those first few weeks and the nurses would try to inject
the legs with painkillers, but it was hard to find enough flesh to
put the needles into. Throughout the nights he twitched and
rocked and never seemed to sleep for more than ten or fifteen
minutes at a time. I wished I could explain to him why he was
suffering, assure him that he would walk one day.
After two days the dressings which were packed around the
savage-looking pin sites had to be changed. We soaked them as
much as possible before attempting this but they were encrusted
and stuck fast. I cannot describe the agony Patreascu endured
and how I hated to inflict this appalling additional suffering on a
child who had been through so much in his few short years, but
it had to be done. I wondered if he would become frightened of
me; after all, I was torturing him no matter how hard I tried not
to. I used to wrap him in a blanket after each session, cuddle him
and try to comfort him until his little body stopped shaking from
the sobbing and the pain. It was a miserable time for him and
must have seemed endless.
A week after the operation he was given a hero's welcome back
at St Gerrard's. I stayed overnight and the next day to settle him
back in and then I had to leave to go back to work. I was surprised
how hard I found the parting. I thought it was probably the best
thing for Patreascu - it would be unkind of me to allow him to
become too reliant on me. Although I felt miserable at abandoning
him in the hospital he didn't seem the least bit bothered. Unlike
Szuzannah, who had always cried whenever I left her, Patreascu
was so institutionalised that it didn't seem to affect him. He still
had the vacant look that I had grown so familiar with in the eyes
of the children of Salon One. He was sadly all too used to having
people come, do painful things to him and go again.
Two weeks after the operation the next phase of treatment started.
Four times a day a key was applied to each of the steel bars
sticking out of his leg and they were turned, prising the bones a
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little further apart, causing internal bleeding of the bone, with
the aim of encouraging the formation of calcium and ultimately
new bones. It had to be done to an exact timetable. The first few
times Patreascu screamed in terror. I felt sick with horror and I
am ashamed to admit that I turned on Nigel accusingly while he
was showing the Sisters how to do it and shouted, 'Surely you
can give him something for the pain? Look how he is suffering!'
Nigel's face was livid with anger as he swung round on me. 'I
am not in the business of causing children unnecessary pain. We
cannot give him painkillers four times a day for the next eight
months. He will get used to the discomfort. Most of his crying is
not pain - it is fear of the unknown. Look,' he pointed at
Patreascu, 'he is already calming down.'
In the end Patreascu became very adept at unscrewing the
external fixators, the two big bars which the individual pins were
screwed into, himself. After eight months of this slow torture,
Patreascu's leg had grown an astonishing six inches and matched
the other one. As the bars went through the flesh, leaving open
wounds, he was very susceptible to infections which antibiotics
seemed to have little effect on and the flesh wounds were often
more painful for him than the pins themselves.
He started coming to our home for the weekends as soon as he
was strong enough, alternating with Szuzannah, and John and I
would try to visit both of them in hospital during the week, if
time and work allowed, but not as often as we would have liked.
I would also go to all the doctors' appointments with them both
as their legal guardian. At first I was frightened to have Patreascu
to stay. Nigel suggested he show me how to turn the pins but I
didn't feel confident enough to do it and waited until they were
being turned only every second day. Nigel was totally against
Szuzannah and Patreascu coming at the same time, feeling they
would be in competition with one another when both of them
needed individual attention. I did worry that the one left behind
would not get a visit and thankfully Joyce Jones stepped in to
have Szuzannah to her home and various other volunteers were
happy to visit from time to time. The nurses were also generous
with their time and one lovely girl called Maureen, who was from
a large and musical Jamaican family, shyly asked if she could take
Patreascu home with her on a Saturday. Her father had an electric
organ and I'm sure that listening to Maureen's family singing was
what fostered his love of music. Patreascu also befriended another
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patient, a good-looking young man called Neil. One day Patreascu
went missing and the nurses eventually discovered him sitting amongst Neil's female visitors, enjoying a can of Coca-Cola with
Neil's Walkman on his ears and his baseball cap trendily turned
the wrong way round on his head. He was quick to pick up Neil's
ways of speaking, greeting everyone with, 'Hey, my man,' and
'Give me five.'
Father Gerrard Jackson, the elderly priest who was recuperating
after a valve replacement in his heart, was a lively and
charming man. His love of God and of life positively shone out
of him. He had to rely on a walking stick to get about and we
both horrified to see Patreascu cower away in wide-eyed fear at
the sight of it when Father Gerrard popped in to say hallo.
Patreascu's arms came up to protect his head and he tried to hide
under the bed or in the cupboard. It took weeks to persuade
him that in Father Gerrard's hands the stick was nothing to be
frightened of.
One Sunday I heard excited laughter coming from the children's
room. I found Father Gerrard sitting on the bed with Patreascu
beside him. They were putting an old yoghurt pot on the end of
the stick and Patreascu was flinging it across the room. It was the
first time I had seen Patreascu laugh and truly enjoy himself. It
was a heart-warming sight.
When the children were resting I would pop in to see Father
Gerrard to ask some of the many questions I had about my
growing faith. He was endlessly patient and interested in helping
me. His room had lovely patio doors opening out onto the
gardens. He used to hold Mass in there and I brought the children
along for the services. We became firm friends and eventually, in
the summer of 199 z, I plucked up the courage to tell him that I
was thinking of converting to Catholicism myself.
'No,' he shook his head after a moment's thought. 'I don't
think you are quite ready yet.'
'When will I be ready?' I asked.
'You will know when the time is right,' he said. 'This is a
commitment for the rest of your life. You need to be sure.'
I had come to know, by seeing the Sisters in Romania doing
God's work with their own hands and by watching the pain of
the children, how even the most appalling suffering can draw
people together and help them. I was starting to understand the
joy of faith. Although I knew I could probably never shake ofi
i8z
my anxieties about life, I realised that by praying I was releasing
myself from the fear of what to do and about what might happen.
When I prayed everything seemed to begin to happen, maybe not
exactly on request or precisely as I wanted, but happen none the
less. I began to wonder how I had managed before and to see
how difficult life had been without this great warm blanket
enveloping me, giving me confidence.
In September 1993 I started to take instruction at my local
church. I was certain that this was the path I wanted to follow.
By seeing their work and allowing me to share it, and by never
preaching to me or trying to convert me, the Sisters had shown me that Christianity was the faith for me. All the time that I kad
been 'meditating' in Romania, thinking about things that I wanted
to happen, I realised I had actually been praying. And too mmy
of my prayers had been answered for me to believe it was just a
coincidence any more.
Spending so much time with him over the course of his treatment,
I slowly came to realise that Patreascu was a highly intelligent
little boy. I had noticed that many of the children in Ungerini
who had seemed to respond most readily to attention didn't
always continue to progress. I think that perhaps the more intelligent
ones, being more aware of what was happening around
them, had in fact retreated further into themselves, put up more
barriers, and were more reluctant to risk lowering them at the
first sign of kindness. Some of the children who had seemed the
most retarded might well be the ones with the most potential,
Patreascu was slowly emerging from his self-imposed prison.
Little things began to give him pleasure, like having a good soak
in his baby bath. His face came alive, if only temporarily, filling
with mischief as he loaded a syringe with bath water and drenched
us all. His eye contact was still not good but he was beginning to
take a real interest in what was going on around him. His powers
of observation surprised me. It took him only seconds to work
out how to use the channel changer and video at the hospital. He
used to copy Nigel and very quickly knew how to take pulses
and blood pressure. He used sneak down to Rita the receptionist's
office to help sort out and staple documents, put things into
envelopes and lick stamps. He needed to be occupied and stimulated
all the time.
He became very determined to walk, although it was hard at
nrst with all the metalwork on his left leg and virtually no muscles
183
in the right one. He saw other children getting up and moving
about and he wanted to do the same. Every new experience filled
him with terror, but once he overcame that fear he took to almost
everything with gusto. Changing from the wheelchair to a zimmer
frame was a major step forward and eventually he began to
develop a little muscle in his right leg and buttock. Nigel explained
that he would never develop any in his left leg, that it would
simply act as a prop, like a wooden leg except that it was part of
him and could still feel pain. The little bit of muscle that was
beginning to function in his left hip allowed him to begin to swing
his left leg around and position it to support himself.
The whinging child who had been unpopular with everyone in
Bacau had now developed into a favourite of the Sisters at St
Gerrard's. Sister Beatrice, the lovely Matron who used to hide
her mirth and joie de vivre behind a serious-looking facade, would
let him sit on her knee in her office, when no one was watching,
wearing her veil and glasses. She would whip them back off him
and compose herself the moment anyone knocked at the door. A
sweet faced, eighty-year-old nun. Sister Marianna, reprimanded
me when I told Patreascu off for pushing his head up her skirts
with a joyful, 'Haloooooo!'
'Don't scold the boy,' she chided. 'Hasn't he suffered enough?'
John and I began to notice big changes on Patreascu's weekend
visits. He was hard work to start with, partly because of the bars
in his legs, but also because he still wasn't communicating and
had virtually no control over his bowels or his bladder. We spent
most of our time cleaning up after him. It was like having a large
one-year-old around the house. I must admit we dropped him
back at the hospital on Sunday evening with a sense of relief
because we were so exhausted.
Patreascu was not particularly interested in toys, but loved to
be wherever there was something to be done, assisting me in the
kitchen or the garden. The eyes that had been so dead at Ungerini
were now alive, sparkling and curious, his little fingers getting
into everything and sometimes breaking things in their impatience
to discover what was happening in every nook and cranny of the
house. He helped me with the weeding and the planting of bulbs
for the spring, watering them carefully and lovingly. I became
increasingly sad that he wouldn't be there to see them bloom.
Every new experience seemed to fascinate him and I realised that
my feelings for him were growing stronger. I started to miss him
184
during the week and to dead having to take him back to the
hospital after weekends. I us pained at the thought of returning
him to Romania, but I realised that I was just being selfish because
that was his home.
At first it was difficult to have Patreascu to stay because like
Szuzannah and all the children at Ungerini he was afraid of dogs.
He began to stroke our collie. Misty, but would still scream if she
turned to look at him. He rould crawl over to Moss but before
Moss showed any signs of aggression he would crawl away again.
Moss would almost immdiately show his teeth. It was as if
Patreascu sensed danger btfwe there were any visible signs. The
dogs were equally unsure about the unpredictable little animal
who had been introduced into their home.
Because he didn't want to play with toys like most children it
was sometimes hard to occupy him, so I often took him out in
his wheelchair to the woods with Misty and Moss. We would
meet up with my sister-in-law. Joy, and her huge German
Shepherd, Strauss, and afttr a while Patreascu would hold the
leads of all three dogs, allowing them to pull him along the
woodland paths. One daytlie dogs spotted a deer and took off
like rockets, with Patreasci rattling along behind like something
from Ben Hur. Although I bd strapped him in I was terrified he
would crash and undo all Nigel's brilliant work and I panicked.
By the time Joy, who was imich fitter than me, managed to catch
them and bring them to a lilt, Patreascu was shrieking with joy
and waving a finger at the dogs.
I used to take him to the playground a five-minute walk away
from the house. It would tike Patreascu an hour to cover the
distance with his zimmer time and I used to think I would die
of boredom; waiting, coaxing and then waiting some more. I had
to force myself not to thiiil of all the things I should be doing
around the house and garden. Then, after playing, we had the
slow walk back.
Nigel and John used to ftise me, 'Poor Patreascu,' they would
say, 'a captive audience fortev's talking. He'll probably go deaf.'
It was true that I used to taltto him a lot, not knowing if anything
was registering really. I uitd to point out flowers or cats or
birds or anything of interest, but it remained a very one-way
communication. He had a concentration span of seconds, never
wanting to play or give thetdevision more than a fleeting glance.
He just wanted to be witlis, like a small baby. I spent hours
185
sitting opposite him, pulling faces for him to copy, hoping he
would develop throat and facial muscles which would help him
to speak. But I knew his silence wasn't just a result of physical
problems. He still wasn't ready to talk. It was as if he was soakine
everything up and storing it like a computer, waiting for the time
when he might decide to put it all to use.
I was chuffed when Russell, who had been very patient with
the children who came to the house at weekends, announced that
he would like to go to Bacau. Russell and his friends at Rotaract
have helped lots of elderly and handicapped people at home.
They raise funds and have fun while they are at it. I've been very
grateful to have had their help in collecting, sorting and transport
for aid to Romania many times, but I really appreciated Russell's
desire to get out there and see it for himself. I felt confident that
he had seen enough of the children to know what he was in for.
Patreascu had had to learn the meaning of the word 'no' very
early on, especially when he was caught crawling towards Russell's
room, attracted no doubt by the music centre and computer
equipment. Sometimes when Russell had friends round Patreascu
would drag himself into the room and sneak onto a beanbag,
pretending to join in their chatter and imitating their laughter.
On one occasion he even downed a lager and became extremely
merry, falling about even more than usual. The next morning he
had a king-sized hangover which did nothing to improve his
whinging. Russell, an adult, was entitled to his privacy and I'd
been careful not to force the children on him.
I often used to take Patreascu to the toy department at our
local John Lewis where the staff would kindly allow him to use
the cars and tractors. He used to get into a Little Tikes car and
then bomb around the limited floor space, screeching happily at
his new-found freedom, his leg with all its equipment stuck out
of the roof at a very strange angle. The Alliance &: Leicester was
another stop. They used to wave to Patreascu and he used to love
to go in and play with the toys they have for customers' children,
or to sit on the counter watching the computers. He was always
fascinated by computers. These were treats at the end of long
walks to exercise his muscles!
John's elderly parents, like many other people, had not understood
why I had gone all the way to Romania when I had never shown any interest in helping children at home. One day we had
to call in on them and took Patreascu along. When they saw him
186
trying to wa^ wltn ms ^tt^ zinimer frame they visibly melted
and made him very welcome. Bert (John's dad) produced an ice
lolly and indicated that Patreascu should keep it safe for him.
Licking it, Patreascu gave a puzzled shriek at the unexpected
coldness and then as the taste hit him his face lit up. Bert returned
and made a big joke of, 'Where's my lolly, you cheeky monkey?'
none of which Patreascu could understand but they both seemed
to enjoy the pantomime equally.
Though still not speaking, Patreascu was noticing everything.
He was constantly asking for jobs to do; as with Szuzannah,
physiotherapy at our house was to empty the bins or stand doing
the potatoes. The hardest thing was to allow him to do things for
himself. Slowly but surely we were giving him his independence
and he loved it.
He was becoming much more sociable. Walking around the
corridors of the hospital he would wave his arms in greeting to
everyone who passed and managed to get replies from even the
frostiest-looking consultants. When the staff brought him meals,
he would get them to set up a little table outside his room so that
he could wave to passersby.
To begin with it didn't seem to trouble Patreascu to go back to
the hospital after our weekends together, but one Sunday night
in November he started to cry when I passed him to the nurses. I
stayed with him and got him into his pyjamas, then sat on the
bed with him and felt impotent and desperate as he sobbed
himself to sleep. Eventually I had to go home. On the two-hour
train ride back I felt terribly miserable and wondered if John and
I were doing the right thing in letting him grow so attached to
us. Were we actually going to cause him more unhappiness by
giving him a glimpse of family life and then whipping him away
from it again?
The next day Dr Mike Tarlow, who was Patreascu's blood
doctor and was also an eminent paediatrician and psychologist,
rang to make an appointment for us to talk about the result of
some anaemia tests and I told him how badly things had gone at
the hospital the previous evening.
'Excellent!' he exclaimed to my surprise. 'You should be grate^r, it means he is starting to form relationships, make choices ^nd show some normal behaviour. This is a major breakthrough
rorhim.'
'But it was heartbreaking,' I protested.
187
'He'll soon realise that although you have to leave him voi
always come back for him. The fact that he actually cares about
something is an enormous step forward. He is becoming deinstitutionalised.'
Although I felt cheered to think of it that way
it didn't lessen the sadness I felt at having to watch him go
through such unhappiness.
The prospect of taking each of the children in turn back to
Romania excited mixed feelings in me. It was good to imagine
them triumphantly walking in on their own legs and Szuzannah's
return fulfilled all my expectation. Their ability to endure complicated
surgery was always a worry, no matter how many tests
were done in advance. At the same time I did feel sad at the
thought of losing them. Coming to England was a frightening
and exciting experience but Szuzannah especially was very keen
to get back to the Sisters and her friends and carers in Romania,
eager to show off the new skills that the doctors in England had
given her. In contrast, even after he had been at St Gerrard's
for many months, Patreascu hadn't seemed bothered where he
was.
People who thought I must be very hard to be able to take the
children back to such poverty didn't realise that the Mother
Teresa home was a lovely place, and that to be with the Sisters
and all their friends was what the more aware children looked
forward to most. While they enjoyed the extra attention and
different experiences in England, they all missed the Sisters dreadfully
and were overjoyed if there was ever a chance to speak to
them on the phone or if they received a little note or gift. Whenever
they reached a new stage, like standing or walking, they would
say, 'Tell Sisters,' or, 'What did Sisters say?' If they saw a photograph
of the Sisters their faces would light up and sheer joy would
shine through. Szuzannah would ask, 'Home soon, how is my
Sister Jenny?' because she could never say Jane.
After several months, while I was in Romania with Szuzannah,
Patreascu had his pins taken out, an agonising experience for
him. Shamefully and selfishly, I felt relieved that I had been away
and missed the event. He was put into plaster from the tips of his
toes to the upper thigh. A huge hinge joined the leg plaster to a
body plaster which ended up under his arms. The plaster, which
was to protect his fragile new bones until the screw holes had healed up, had to be changed several times because the doctors
needed to see how the painful, open wounds of the pin sites were
188
doing. At last the wounds had a chance to heal and the continuous
infections ceased. Dr Tarlow had told us that Patreascu's severe
anaemia would almost certainly go if he were with a family,
eating a normal child's diet. A year in hospital was much too long
to be healthy for a child. I vowed to find a better alternative to
extended stays in hospital for any children coming from Bacau
to England in the future. Although the care at St Gerrard's was
excellent and the love Patreascu received was exceptional, I knew
in my heart that hospital was the wrong place for him, but it was
too late to do anything about it.
When the plasters finally came off, the wounds were still sensitive
but, joy of joys, Patreascu could go back to having baths at
last. He stayed in the water so long he came out like a little white
prune.
Once he had overcome his fear of dogs, Patreascu grew so fond
of Misty and Moss that on a Friday night I didn't dare to feed
them until he arrived home with John, no matter how late. It was
always his first job, the second being to check if the bins needed
emptying. Whenever we were sorting out boxes and black bags
for Romania, he would be in there tying them up, putting the
labels on, pairing the shoes and tying them together, knowing
that he was doing it all for his friends back home in Bacau.
I was giving more and more thought to the things I had learned
from the Sisters. I felt pretty sure that Sister Jane had deliberately
given me this job in England to show me that I could keep my
old family life and still be fulfilled by my new work helping the
children. I was praying for Patreascu's legs to mend enough for
him to be able to live a near-normal life. He had also contracted
an infection in hospital because the constant intake of antibiotics
had left his resistance to germs low. I was in Romania with
Szuzannah when Nigel rang to tell me that Patreascu was seriously
ill. I prayed on my knees in the Sisters' chapel, 'Please help this
poor child. He has endured so much.' Finally, I prayed that
someone would come forward to adopt him.
What I really wanted was to keep him for myself but when I
broached the subject of adoption with John he was adamant that
we were 'too old, too fat and past our sell-by date' for such a venture- We ended up having a terrible row. I suppose that it reawakened the longing for a child of my own that I had suppressed
for so long. I already felt almost as if Patreascu was mine and the thought of losing him was awful.
189
On the other hand I realised that I had to be fair to John who
at fifty, had built himself exactly the sort of life he enjoyed and that I had been happy with before going to Romania. He was
already making big sacrifices to help me ferry the children around
and having them to stay with us. He was always kind and patient
and spent hours helping them to walk or do whatever exercises
Nigel wanted. He had been wonderful, even having Patreascu on
his own one weekend when I was in Romania with Szuzannah
washing his wounds when they were at their most unpleasant
and clearing up the results of his incontinence. I couldn't find
fault with anything he did and it was quite understandable that
now Russell was grown up and independent, he did not fancy the
responsibility of taking on another small son whose capabilities
were far from certain. But I still resented the idea that he had set
his mind against the adoption without even talking to me about
it or considering my feelings. Inside I was deeply unhappy about
not being able to adopt but I knew that it would only work if
John truly wanted it as well. Once I had got my anger off my
chest I let the subject drop and went back to saying my prayers.
Nigel rang me again in Romania a few days after telling me
about the infection. 'It's a bloody miracle, Bev. Young Master
Patreascu is clear of infection. We have double-checked and redone
the tests and he's fine. Scientifically there is no explanation.
Did you by any chance ask the Sisters to pray for him?' I thought
he might laugh at me if I confessed that I had been on my knees
myself, so I remained silent.
Nigel told me that the progress on his legs was another miracle.
He said he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that Patre- ascu would get so far so fast. Sister Beatrice suggested that
Patreascu might benefit from going to St Edward's Catholic
School, next to the hospital, just for a little recreation. We had
discussed Patreascu's future and our hopes that he would be
adopted by an Italian family. Mother Teresa insists the children
are put forward for adoption to Romanian families. If no Fromanians
come forward then the children go for adoption to Italy
as she has an agreement to this effect with both governments. It
seemed a brilliant idea to get Patreascu to a normal school for a
few weeks in preparation for this eventuality. The Headmistress,
Jill Owen, was delighted to take him in and the whole school
took him to their hearts. A few weeks later I was approached by
a family who had grown so fond of him that fostering and
190
eventual adoption were mentioned. Oh delight of delights! This
would mean that Patreascu could stay in England and I might be
able to go on seeing him as he grew up. I was so happy for him
and immediately phoned Sister Jane with the good news that all
my prayers had now been answered. I did feel a pang of sadness
that it wasn't to be us, but I couldn't be selfish and deny him his
one chance of family life and happiness.
'I absolutely forbid you to encourage this adoption,' Sister Jane
said with extraordinary firmness when she heard the news. 'We
cannot allow it.' No matter how much I argued she wouldn't
hear of it, firstly saying it would contravene our arrangement
with the Home Office, which stipulated that Patreascu could only
stay with us, and then saying they had a family in Italy designated
for him. I felt very sad.
The Sisters always hoped to find families for all the children in
their care, but they were ruthlessly realistic about which of them
would be suitable. Just because a family was willing to change
nappies and clear up after a cute five-year-old didn't meant that
they would have the same attitude to a lumbering great fifteenyear-old.
Some children, they knew, would always be better off
staying with them. It was good that they now considered Patreascu
to be a candidate for adoption at all, because he certainly
wouldn't have been when he first went to them.
During this convalescent period Patreascu started to talk and
to call us Mummy and Daddy. I felt a surge of joy every time he
said those magic words, followed by a wave of panic because I
knew that I could never be his mummy. The realisation made me
weep many times. We were shocked by his use of the words
because we had never mentioned to him that we were his mummy
and daddy. At first we thought he might be copying Russell, but
Russell always calls us Mum and Dad. We then thought it might
be learnt from the few other children at St Gerrard's but he hardly
ever mixed with them. So where had he got it from?
I used to love giving him his bath, massaging cream into
"is little body, putting baby powder on and then taking him
downstairs for a bit of time together before bed. He used to sit
on my lap, cuddling in, his head resting on my chest - which he
later called 'Patreascu's pillows' - and I sang to him. I began to
experience a tingling glow of contentment and fulfilment. I asked
a triend of mine, Janey, who had a young child, if this was normal,
"ecause I had never experienced anything like it before. With
191
Russell it had been different because he was already independent when he came to live with us and very active and athletic. hp
had never physically needed me in the way Patreascu did. Janev
said I was describing exactly how she felt about her own child
Andrew.
Russell, always a clever boy academically, was also a good allround
sportsman, winning many cups and medals and enjoying
all the same things his father had as a boy. I did wonder if this
was at the back of John's mind, knowing that none of that would
be possible for Patreascu.
One day I went to do something for him and he said, 'No
Daddy do it,' and it seemed so right, so natural, so beautiful and
for one moment I allowed myself to think how wonderful it
would be if we could all be together as a family. Then John
laughed and said, 'No, I'm John, you little rascal,' and I couldn't
tell what effect the word Daddy had had on him. The harsh
reality hit me and for a few seconds I hated John for depriving
me of this wonderful feeling of being wanted, of being unconditionally
loved. To Patreascu I was not fat, not ridiculous, not
garrulous and not boring - all he saw was someone who loved
him and whom he loved back. His face used to light up when I
arrived at the hospital to collect him and he used to race down
the corridor, his little rucksack on his back, his crutches flying,
not looking back at the nurses who so tenderly and kindly looked
after him all week, launching himself into my arms. It was such
a deep joy for both of us and I now knew that we were what he
needed; we had all the skills necessary to be his parents. There
was no therapy needed, no experts, nothing but the best medicine
in the world, love.
How could John deprive Patreascu and me of this shared
miracle, this beautiful journey of discovery? How could he tear
us apart? How could he be so unfeeling? Deep down I knew the
answers to all these questions but I still kept on asking them
inside my head.
I had tried so hard to put the thought of being parted from
Patreascu out of my mind, but it didn't often work. My last
thoughts at night were always of his sweet little face, now so very
much alive; his little body, disabled with the gammy leg but
always quivering to be active. He was so brave, so desperate to
please, so ready to give his trust and love. I would wake in the
early hours of the morning with the cold realisation that it was
192
nt a nightmare, it was real: he would not be staying with us. I
worried so much about the possible effects on him. I was going ^ye to reject him, abandon him. We had come through so
much grown so close, shared so many experiences. How could
all that be discarded without doing him untold damage? I vainly
tried to console myself with the prospect of the big, loving Italian
family- Ac one ofPatreascu's appointments, Nigel sat back and beamed.
'Well, Bev,' he said proudly, 'I think this young man is just about
ready to go back to Romania.'
His words were like a dagger piercing my heart. I felt the air
rush from my lungs, my temples were pulsating, my face was
flushed and my heart racing. I realised my jaw had dropped. 'Are
you sure?' I croaked.
'Absolutely,' he beamed, knowing nothing of my dilemma.
'He's done wonderfully.'
By Christmas 1992, Patreascu had been in England for ten months
and he was wanting to do things with John rather than just me,
following him around, wanting to help with the tree, the lights
and the decorations. Although he was not speaking very much
he used to point to things and say, The do!' and show such joy
when John included him. He made John laugh. John would have
mock fights with him and generally encourage him to get up and
use his legs, while having fun at the same time. It was the best
Christmas John and I had ever had together. It must have been
then that John began to think about Patreascu returning to
Romania, realising that we might never see him again. He noticed
how much Patreascu was progressing when he was able to enjoy
one-to-one attention. I watched all these signs, hardly daring to
dream that John would change his mind, but always hoping and
Praying that he would. Then, on New Year's Day, he spoke the
immortal words that were to change our lives once more: 'Look,
this is probably a ridiculous idea - I still believe we are too old, too fat and past our sell-by dates - but I think we should try to ^opt Patreascu, if they will let us.'
Now I was truly convinced about the power of prayer to change
f iTf8'l starec^ at J0"" in disbelief, sitting down quickly before I w d0^, a thousand fireworks going off in my head. 'We'll have c eck it with Russ,' we agreed. So, plucking up our courage, e ^t Russ down and cautiously broached the subject with him.
193
'Russ,' John began, 'you've probably realised Patreascu will he
going back home to Romania soon...'
'What?' Russ looked surprised, as if this was the first time he
had considered the prospect. 'That's ridiculous. Why don't you
try to adopt him?' We couldn't have been more gob-smacked!
When I told Sister Jane about John's change of heart, I was
nervous about her response in case she became angry again but
she was overjoyed.
'But what about the family in Italy he was designated for?' I
asked.
'Foolish child,' she chided. 'We always had him designated for
you and John, but we had to wait for you both to want him.' I
heard her passing the news on to Sister Ida, who them came onto
the phone.
'I knew you would,' Sister Ida panted breathlessly, 'ever since
I saw that photograph of Patreascu in your home. The look of
love on his face. I have prayed to Our Lady so often that this
would happen.'
We had to contact Mother Teresa herself to obtain official
permission to begin the adoption process. I telephoned a number
in Calcutta which Sister Jane had given me to leave a message for
her. A soft but strong voice came on the line, 'Mother here.'
'What?' I stuttered foolishly. 'Mother Teresa?'
She laughed kindly. 'Yes, that's me. How may I help you?' I
told her briefly about working in Romania and about Patreascu,
how we had grown to love him and wanted to try to adopt him.
'Oh, such good news.' She sounded so warm, excited and
happy. 'God bless you and your husband and son for wanting to
give a home to one of our dear handicapped children. God will
reward you. But,' she added, 'you must promise Mother one
thing - everything must be done legally!'
She promised to write the necessary letters to the Romanian
authorities and asked that I let her know how things were progressing.
Most importantly, she wanted to know personally all
news of how Patreascu settled in. 'You must bring this dear little
man to meet me in London -1 will be there soon. Please tell him
that I want to see him walking.'
I promised I would. I couldn't believe that with all the thousands
of people she was responsible for, she would spend so long
chatting to me. I didn't dare to think what the phone bill was
going to be.
194
'We will remember you in our prayers,' she said. 'Now I must
eo and tell the Sisters this good news,' and then she was gone.
Nigel did not react quite as well. In fact he was furious. I
had always known that he would disapprove of the idea of me
adopting any of the children, believing that it would make it very
hard for all the others I knew and loved and who knew me, and
that it would make it impossible for me to continue my work in
Romania. He also thought that Patreascu should go back to
Bacau as an inspiration to the others, a £gurehead to show them
what was possible. 'Adopting him will not solve any of the big
problems,' he had argued in the past, 'and it will look as if you
bring them here to fix and once they look decent we decide to
keep them.'
The last thing we wanted the Romanian people to think was
that once we had patched the children up, and they began to look
a bit normal, we would keep them for ourselves. Of course, this
was a logical and professional attitude. What happened between
us and Patreascu was totally illogical, unplanned and exactly
what I had promised the British Embassy in Bucharest would not
happen. It had taken us by surprise, totally and absolutely. Our
lives were stable, organised and we could go to London to the
theatre or to a concert at the drop of a hat without worrying
about the consequences. For many years we had been able to go
abroad annually for a holiday and then have a week's walking in
the Lake District too. The thought of having a young child in the
house again, with all the associated mess and restrictions couldn't
have been further from our minds. However, we had not
accounted for Patreascu, how his love for us would give rise to
our love for him.
I was so scared of Nigel's likely reaction that I made John ring
him with the news. He exploded just as I expected he would, and
I heard John trying in vain to get a word in edgeways. Eventually
I heard him say, 'But, Nigel, we love him.' The voice at the other
end of the line fell silent. He continued to make his unhappiness
known about our decision for weeks afterwards, and many of his
arguments were very sensible, and were what I had believed
myself before Patreascu came on the scene. We finally managed
to convince him that we were doing this for the right reasons.
ne ^17 relevant point he made was how the other children
would feel if their 'Tante Bevey' just wanted to adopt one child,
rejecting the rest. We both liked Nigel tremendously and valued
i95
his opinion. We desperately wanted him to understand anrl approve. I had already given a lot of thought to the children who would be coming to the UK in the future and praying very hard
for a solution to present itself. Nigel was due to retire in a couole
of years and it was important to get the children to England for
surgery just as soon as Patreascu was discharged.
In the summer of 1993 I heard that Mother Teresa had decided
to open a house in Birmingham later that year. What joy. Maybe
if I continued to pray hard the Sisters at the Birmingham home
would be able to have the children from Bacau to stay with them.
That would get them out of the hospital and allow them to be
amongst the familiar white and blue saris. They would receive
love and care in a similar environment to Bacau.
I knew without any doubt that I would carry on helping, for
each time I go to the Adult Institute at Gisteni I look into the
faces of the young, the old, the men, the women, the boys, the
girls and I see Patreascu's face.
I see him in each and every one of them. I see their suffering,
their pain, their misery and I know that would have been Patreascu's
life, or death. He would have lived there, as they live; he
would have suffered, as they suffer; he would have had the very
life drained from him and died, as they surely will, unloved,
broken, lonely and forgotten. I have heard their cries and cannot
now become deaf to them. I have seen their despair and I pray I
shall never become blind to it.
'Despite your disapproval of what we're doing,' I said to Nigel
eventually, 'please, please, will you continue to look after Patreascu?'
The
moment I saw the sad, hurt look on his face I realised I
had said something very stupid and wounding; he would always
care beautifully for all the children I brought to him. I could only
apologise for my careless words.
Moira Dwyer took the news of the adoption quite differently
from her husband and independently rang to congratulate us.
We had to work very hard at keeping Patreascu working on
his physiotherapy. I used to take him down to the town centre
and put him through his paces, making him walk. Passersby
thought I was being cruel to him, driving him on when he was
begging to stop. Some of them would come up and ask me to le
them carry him. 'No, no, I'm his physiotherapist,' I lied. 'He has
to take the exercise.'
196
My other main pre-occupation in 1992 was the building of the
school and dispensary in Bacau. I was anxious not that they
should be showpieces but that they should be built well and
would last. Care had to be taken with the design and planning
of materials to be used because north-eastern Romania does
sometimes suffer from earthquakes. The Sisters could not afford
expensive upkeep and repair bills so it was important to build to
as high a standard as possible at the beginning.
Who could we trust for such a long-distance project? Then I
had a brainwave. I remembered when Sister Jane first showed me
round the home in Bacau she had proudly told me that all the
heating and water systems had been installed by an Englishman,
a co-worker of Mother Teresa's called George Bushell. George
was a builder by trade but also organised the shipping out of
clothes and medical supplies to Mother Teresa in India.
'What about George Bushell?' I suggested to the Sisters. 'He is
known to you; he will do an excellent job—'
'And he is trustworthy.' Sister Jane finished my sentence for
me.
They then had to put the proposal to their Regional Supervisor
who in turn needed the direct permission of Mother Teresa herself.
She approved the idea immediately and George went out to Bacau
to draw up preliminary plans even before I knew for sure that I
would be able to raise the money. I felt a puzzling certainty that
everything would be all right and George believed me. The money
duly came in - every Abbey National Branch must have given
money, if not every customer - and a few skilled men from
George's home in Bridport, Dorset, heard about George's work
and offered their services free if we could fly them out. Our only
problem then was that the men could only spare two weeks of
their time and would therefore have to work fast. We did not
want them to have to waste time worrying about where their
meals would be coming from. How could we look after them
while giving the Sisters minimum inconvenience? Jessica, who I
had come to know through her work with the Relief Fund for
Romania, had met George Bushell and they had become close
friends. She offered to come out as their cook and washer-up so
that they could concentrate on the work they were most skilled
at.
We were now ready for action. Ready to take things one step
rurther. The children were already well fed and warm. The next
197
thing they needed was an education. I was going out every couple
of months on some errand or other, either picking a child up or
taking one back so I was able to report back to all the people
who had made donations and sacrifices on just how well things
were going. Russell went out to help the Sisters dig the foundations,
shirting tons of shingle and rubble for the hardcore
using ordinary garden tools. It sounded from his description as
if they had a great deal of fun and every day there was a rush of
excitement as the children came out to see the progress of their
school. George and his team worked tirelessly from first light to
late evening in the scorching heat of summer.
It had been a long struggle getting all the plans and materials
organised, but the results were worth it. With the money which
had been donated we were able to make the building three times
the original planned size, which meant that there was plenty of
space for the children to run and crawl and for a variety of toys
to be left out to play with each day. It was wonderful to watch
them painting and making things and being taught to read and
write. Apart from the skilled tradesmen, we had also employed
many local labourers to bring some employment into the area,
and encourage the sharing of new skills.
The building is very simple, with a verandah running all the
way along the outside so the children can sit out in the fresh air
for their lessons during the summer. Desks and chairs renovated
by prisoners from High Down prison in Surrey were put to very
good use. When Nigel came out to see it, and watched the children
playing, he broke down and cried.
We were also able to build a proper dispensary and examination
room onto the side. We needed a room where drugs could be
kept under lock and key and away from the children, and it also
gave the Sisters somewhere better to see their four hundred or so
patients a week - the poorest of the poor.
Half the front garden was concreted over to make a hardstanding
play area which could be used in all weathers. The other
half has been grassed and some shrubs and flowers have been
planted. There are two big old trees which are very good for shade
and also have swings and ropes hanging from their branches. The
first time I visited the new playground I witnessed a pretty wild
water fight, started by Sister Jane throwing a bucket of water
from the balcony onto everyone below.
Mother Teresa came back to Romania in the summer of I992'
198
to visit her four homes. This brought all the local dignitaries
out to see what the Sisters had been doing and prodded them
into helping with things like providing some extra trained
teaching staff. They were all amazed by the progress that the
children had made and at the wonderful warm atmosphere of the
homes.
It was decided to combine the official opening of the school
with the baptism of the children. Initially, the Catholic priests in
the neighbourhood refused to baptise the children, claiming that
they were 'sinners' and that because of their handicaps they were
unable to 'renounce their sins'. The Sisters were very disappointed
but managed to prevail upon the Bishop to change his mind. He
came to the home with ten priests to bless the school officially
and baptise all the children. There was then a huge party with all
the local people.
At last people in Romania were beginning to overcome their
prejudices about the mentally and physically handicapped and
those who have been rejected at birth. But at the same time wars
in Africa and the former Yugoslavia were claiming the attention
of the international media. People in other countries like Britain
seemed to be forgetting Romania. We were no longer on the news
and so the aid was beginning to dry up. It was becoming harder
and harder to drum up support for lorries bringing goods out. It
was as if people thought that the Romanian orphanage 'problem'
had been solved now and they could turn their attention to the
next disaster area.
The Sisters wrote to tell me all about their big day and I wished
so much I could have seen it, but I had run out of money for
airfares and annual leave by then. My father was also in the last
throes of life and I needed to be with him. He had to struggle
ror every breath and in the early hours of 17 August he slipped
away.
I had known for some time that his illness was terminal,
although I had prayed that the doctors were wrong. I had even
asked the Sisters to pray for his recovery. 'Oh, no Bevey,' Sister
Jane had said, 'you should pray that your father will be released from suffering and that he may go to heaven to be with our dear ^rd in paradise.'
Although my faith was becoming stronger, I was not quite ^ady for such a reply. With Dad gone I suddenly felt much older. ^gel rang to say that he had just heard. 'Oh, Bev, love,' he said,

Eft
199

'Moira and I are so sorry,' and the line went dead. I began to sob
wondering if I should have spent more time with him at the end
of his life and less with the children. I prayed that Dad and his I
widow, Margaret, would forgive me.
2.00
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Others Follow
*
.Dy the time Szuzannah returned home. Tractor Lucien was
seventeen. He was thrilled to see her up on her legs but began to
cry uncontrollably. I asked him why he was crying.
'Szuzannah said that you got her to walk,' he sobbed. 'Please
will you do the same for me?'
I told him that it was the doctors, not me, who had done the
work, but he still believed it was me. The more I explained the
more he begged me to help him walk. I told him that he was to
be number four on the doctors' list, but as we talked I realised
that he expected to be able to get a pair of donor legs in Britain;
that he would be six feet tall and this would mean that his family
would come back to get him and they would all love him. He
believed they had only rejected him because he was small and
deformed. With new legs he would not only go home, but be able
to play football for Romania.
I was so tempted to lie to Lucien and give him some hope for
the future, but I knew that it would be unforgivable to have him
go through so much only to be disappointed at the end. I told
him that he would not grow much more, but that he could be
upright. I told him that he would always have to wear calipers,
but that we would make sure they were out of sight under
his trousers. He imagined he would be playing football like a
'campion' (champion). I told him that he would be able to walk
^ry well and would manage to run a little and play football, to
^e out of the windows and many, many other things like being
able to reach up higher, but that he would never be in the
Olympics.
In the end we played a game together, imagining him returning
zoi
from Britain like Szuzannah, knocking on the door and callin
out Sister Jane's name. She would bring his tractor to the donr
and he would laugh and say, 'No need for that. Sister Jane. Look
at me, I am walking now.'
Illeana also begged to be brought to Britain. She needed operations
on her eyes to correct the two ninety-degree squints which
meant that virtually all you could see were the whites of her eyes
making her look strange and self-conscious about going out
because of people staring. She had implored me to help her
saying, 'But, Bevey, you help the children to walk; help me to see
properly, I beg you.'
She had already had so many let-downs and disappointments
in her short life that I had to be very careful not to make matters
worse by promising something that might not come about. I
promised her that I would try to find someone who would
examine her to see if an operation might be possible. I explained
that I might fail and that even if I succeeded the doctors might
decide the problem was too severe or that she was too old for the
squints to be corrected. I was desperate to do something for her,
and equally desperate not to get her hopes up in vain.
Various people recommended eye surgeons and a couple had
written to me, offering their services. I was not sure. I rang Nigel
to see if he knew of anyone very special who might help. He put
me in touch with a distinguished eye surgeon called Gus Sutton
who offered to look at any children I brought to him - without
making any rash promises that he would always be able to help.
Mr Sutton would see Illeana at the Birmingham Eye Hospital and
Bob Dalrymple, the Hospital Manager, wrote to say all costs
would be met from the private sector. Wandsworth Prison offered
to pay her airfare. Everything was in place except for one thing where
would she stay? There was nowhere suitable. She wouldn't
be able to stay with us because I was working full-time. It was a
major stumbling block. Illeana waited patiently, happy in the
belief that I was doing everything I could on her behalf. Every
day she would go to the chapel and pray, then ask Sister, 'When
does Bevey come for me?' I prayed for guidance and the answer
became obvious. It was time for me to give up my job. I tentatively
sat down to discuss it with John, knowing that it would make a
big difference to our lives. Not only would we lose my salary, we
would also lose the big mortgage subsidy which we received from
the Abbey National. We couldn't afford it; it did not make
202
financial sense, particularly with our new responsibilities as Patreascu's
parents, but neither of us could bear to think of Illeana
not coming to Britain. We decided we would face the £nancial
problems as they cropped up. For now the important thing was
to get Illeana to Britain before it was too late. We didn't tell the
Sisters of our decision and I wondered how we were going to be
able to afford my airfare to go and collect Illeana.
I rang Sister Jane to make the final arrangements. Illeana was
so happy she rushed to the chapel to thank God for answering
her prayers.
'Illeana asked me to thank you for remembering her,' Sister
Tane told me, 'and asks me to tell John that he will not have to
draw a single drop of water from the well as long as she is staying
with you; that she will happily do all his washing and his chores
for him.'
Everything was happening at once. Patreascu was about to be
discharged from hospital to come and live with us; Illeana was
due to arrive for surgery and I was trying to work out how we
would manage without my income. There were boxes and sacks
to be packed, lorries to be organised, volunteers to be interviewed,
vetted, checked and organised. My fridge had begun to look like
the north face of Kz, my cooker like the Black Hole of Calcutta
and the garden like a jungle.
We had made the first tentative steps in the procedure for
adopting Patreascu by approaching the Social Services for advice.
They warned us that we might be considered too old to adopt.
The uncertainty was almost too much for me to bear. We decided
to bring Patreascu home from the hospital anyway, even if it was
only for the few weeks before the authorities made up their minds
and insisted we take him back to Romania.
'Should we tell them at the hospital that we are hoping to
^opt him?' I asked.
'I think it would be better not to get their hopes up yet,' John
counselled with his usual wisdom.
'They'll be so unhappy to see him go,' I warned, 'and they'll
"ate us for being so cruel as to send him back to Romania. I can't
"ce them.'
That's okay,' he smiled. 'I'll go; you get everything ready for
^m here.'
As John walked down the long ward to collect Patreascu there
ere ""ddles of people snuffling into tissues everywhere. John's
203
eyes filled with tears - he felt like a monster. He went down in
the lift to the Physiotherapy Department where Patreascu was
wearing his favourite dark glasses and sitting on each of the
Sisters' laps in turn, sharing a last rich tea biscuit and cup of tea
puzzled as to why he had been unable to raise their spirits as
usual.
'John,' Sister Maria implored him, 'surely there must be something
we can do to keep him in Britain.'
'There must be someone who could adopt him,' Sister Beatrice
joined the entreaties.
John made some noncommittal comments about families in
Italy.
'But that is so far away; we would never ever see him again,'
cried Sister Rita.
'Surely something can be done, John. We have been praying so
hard,' Sister Maria insisted.
In the face of so much despair John threw caution to the wind.
'Well actually, Sisters, there is a possibility that someone will
adopt him.'
'Will it be in Britain, John?' they all wanted to know.
'Oh, ummm, yes, they are a British couple.'
'Do you think they would allow us to stay in contact with
Patreascu? Are they a nice couple?'
'Oh, yes, I'm sure they would love you to stay in contact,' John
replied, now abandoning all hopes of keeping our secret.
'Is it anyone we know?'
'Well, actually, yes, you do. It's Bev, Russell and me.'
There was a few seconds' silence and then the Sisters leapt up,
weeping even more now. The news rang round the hospital.
People were rushing around crying and laughing. Patreascu didn't
know quite what was going on but enjoyed the carnival atmosphere
all the same. The Sisters carried him to the chapel, pushing
John along with them. Candles were lit and they sank to their
knees in front of the altar with Patreascu in the midst of them,
thanking God for answering their prayers and praying that the
adoption would be allowed to go ahead.
I was very worried about going away to Romania to pick up
Illeana just as Patreascu was coming home to us. 'Look,' my sister
Karen said, 'while you are away Patreascu can come to us for
two weeks' holiday. John can join us at weekends.' Despite the
fact that I wanted to be with Patreascu more than anything,
2.04
»1 could see this was a very good solution. They had a big garden
and lots of toys which he could share with my nieces, Becky and
Claire. I tearfully kissed him goodbye at Stansted although he
appeared completely unmoved, apparently still unaware of what
was going on around him and more interested in pulling John
out to see the planes.
Despite missing Patreascu, it was wonderful to see everyone in
Bacau again and to spend Easter with them. My happiness,
however, was tinged with sadness at the realisation that soon
Sister Jane and Sister Ida would be leaving Romania and moving
on. The thought of not seeing them again was almost unbearable.
They were very close friends and had been such an inspiration to
me.
When Illeana first went to the Sisters I had explained all about
Gabriel and their lost love for one another. Sister Fabiana had
given the matter careful consideration. Wondering if Illeana still
had strong feelings for Gabriel, she decided to try reuniting
them, to see if their love would flourish, perhaps even leading to
marriage with the Sisters helping them to set up home together.
The Sisters and Romanian friends of the house go to the Adult
Institute, twenty miles away, twice a week, so they took Illeana
with them one Sunday. The two young friends were very shy
with one another to start with and afterwards the Sisters gently
enquired whether Illeana wanted them to help her be with
Gabriel. She had decided, however, that she didn't want to leave
them. Occasionally I would see her green eyes lost in thought and
I would wonder what she was dreaming about.
Once on the plane Illeana clung to my side like a limpet. Her
terror increased on take-off. 'Oh, Lordy, Lordy,' she shouted in
the Indian accent she had learnt from Sisters Jane and Ida, 'Oh,
my Jesus Christ!' When we landed at Stansted she was frightened
of everything, keeping her head down and not daring to look up.
" took me ten minutes of gentle coaxing to get her onto the
escalator but when we leapt off the other end she thought it was
hilarious. Everything must have been so much more frightening
viewed through quadruple vision.
When Illeana spotted John she leapt joyfully onto him, even
hough she hadn't seen him for a year. On the way home John decided to stop at a Little Chef. Every detail of it thrilled her -
ellttle Packets of sugar and ketchup, the serviettes and most of ^ "Ging able to choose exactly what she wanted to eat for the
zc>5
first time ever. 'American hamburger!' she exclaimed, 'just lik Dallas'.' Apparently she had seen the programme once at a worker's
house and it had made a big impact on her. We visited the
Ladies and I showed her how everything worked. The only thine that panicked her was the hot-air hand-drier. She tried to save
me by pulling my hands out from under its roaring air.
On examination, Gus Sutton said Illeana should ideally have
the surgery required on both eyes in five different stages. Each
operation would be very delicate in order to ensure that he did
not overcompensate and make the eyes point the wrong way.
Since Illeana was terrified of everything to do with doctors, Mr
Sutton asked everyone at the Birmingham Eye Hospital to take
off their white coats. She was also scared of the idea of giving
blood until a handsome young doctor turned up to do the job
and then she suddenly became very brave!
At the last moment Gus Sutton said he had changed his mind.
Although we had assured him that she could stay with us for as
long as it took, he had thought long and hard and was going to
attempt to do the whole job in one go.
To get Illeana used to what would be happening I would
bandage her eyes and she would pretend to wake up after having
had the operation. I didn't want her to panic and tear the bandages
off when the time came. We practised her telling me when she
had pain and I showed her how quickly I would get her tablets
to ease it. The hospital set up a bed for me next to hers, although
I had been expecting and would have been happy to sleep in the
armchair.
In reality she was an absolute cat when she came round from
the anaesthetic, and she kept wanting to rip the bandages off,
despite all our rehearsals. In the end I had to threaten to telephone
Sister Jane if she didn't do as she was told - that threat had the
desired effect. A few days later Gus Sutton came in to take the
bandages off. I could see that he was very nervous because if he
had overdone the work he would never be able to put it right,
having cut away too much nerve tissue. As he unwound the
bandages I held Illeana's hand. There was a frightful silence for
a few moments as he stared into her face. 'Illeana,' he said, you
have the most beautiful eyes,' and I could see that his eyes were
wet with tears. 'Excuse me,' he coughed and left the room,
returning a few minutes later having composed himself.
2,06
Illeana peered into the mirror, slowly focused and then blinked.
Her mouth began to curl up in the corners and she let out a
shriek, blinked and focused again and said, 'Lordy, my eyes are
straight, Bevey, my eyes are straight!' She had indeed got the most
beautiful green eyes.
'Thank you, Gus,' was all I could say before I too dissolved
into tears.
'Take her home,' Gus said. 'Hospital is no place for a beautiful
young lady like Illeana.'
We said our thank yous and goodbyes and headed home,
Illeana's head held high. As we came into the house Patreascu
looked into her face, then looked again, breaking into an enormous
grin. He had no words to describe what he wanted to say.
Instead he mimed, pointing to Illeana's eyes, crossing his two
fingers and then pointing both fingers out straight in front.
While she was with us Illeana learnt to do everything, how to
do the washing and peg it out, how to prepare dinner, how to
clean and how to iron. We thought these skills would be useful
to her should she ever have her own home and she took pride in
every task, revelling in our praise and amazement at each one
completed. It was her seventeenth birthday a few days before her
return and we decided to give her a party. First I took her to
Dickins and Jones to a young hairdresser called Mark. He lavished
attention on her and when he finally turned her to look in the
mirror she exclaimed, with obvious joy, 'Ah, Pamela! Dallas\'
She learnt a lot of practical and social skills in England. She
still sulked, sometimes for hours, but no longer for days or weeks
at a time. She was far more tolerant of other children. She seemed
softer, more at peace, less on edge and less inclined to lash out
over any minor incident. At first Illeana was very impatient with
Patreascu because he couldn't move very fast - she believed he
was stupid. But once he began showing Illeana how to do things
that were new to them both - putting music cassettes or videos
°n, turning on the central heating - it dawned on her that being
Physically disabled didn't necessarily mean mentally disabled. ^his being a still widely held belief in Romania, the Sisters were ^ry happy to see that Illeana knew differently on her return and
Passed her knowledge on to others.
Illeana had led a very sheltered life in a lot of respects and now ^e was getting used to meeting people and talking to them. She was ^PPy to be able to do things like make cups of tea and walk
207
the dogs. She lost her hunched, haunted look and her personaliiu began to develop. It was lovely to watch her looking in the mirror
having suddenly caught sight of herself, and the resulting smile
She was happy with what she saw now.
We sent photographs of Illeana with her beautifully straight
green eyes to Sister Jane and Sister Ida, and telephoned so that
Illeana could say goodbye to her friends. I did feel sad that they
wouldn't see the results of her operation for themselves see
Illeana's newfound confidence and happy outlook. The Sisters
would have moved on to their new three-year posting by the time
Illeana returned home to Bacau. When I expressed my sadness
that after going to so much trouble on her behalf. Sister Jane
would not see Illeana, she said, 'Oh, no, Bevey, it is Illeana's joy
now to see - not mine. My joy is to know of my child's happiness.'
Illeana was desperate for a family and when she discovered
that we were going to adopt Patreascu she took the news very
hard. She felt we had rejected her and there was nothing I could
say to make it better. The truth was that although she hoped we
would adopt her, that had never been our intention and we knew
she was too old for the authorities to agree to the adoption
anyway.
'Why can't you adopt me as well?' she asked.
'Would you rather we didn't adopt Patreascu?' I asked.
She thought about it for a long time. 'Is it possible that he will
get better if he stays with you?' she wanted to know.
'Yes, very possible,' I said.
'Then you must adopt him.'
I tried hard not to cry with her, biting my lip and looking away,
but I couldn't stop the tears falling.
'Oh, Bevey,' Illeana said, 'I thought you weren't upset about
me going home, but you are really upset.'
'We love you dearly, Illeana,' I explained. 'You will always be
extra special to us and we hope you will always remember us
too.' Nigel had been right. The other children would always
think, Why Patreascu? Why not me? and I would always feel
guilty about that.
I had talked to Illeana and became convinced she had lived at
home before going to Ungerini. There seemed too many detai s
for her to have made it all up. She even remembered the name o
her teacher, Cristy. I told Sister Fabiana and she promised to
check Illeana's records at Ungerini.
zo8
The sisters were very understanding when Illeana went back
to them and Sister Fabiana told her that she planned to write to
all the children's families. 'Would you like me to try to find your
family, Illeana?' she asked.
Illeana was ecstatic - all the years she had been telling us that
she had a family and someone believed her at last. Some days
later Sister Fabiana found out which village she had come from.
She decided not to wait for a reply to her letter but to take Illeana
for a visit.
'Imagine our dear child's excitement,' Sister Fabiana told me
later. 'She dressed in her best outfit. Valentina did her hair for
her. Szuzannah lent her a necklace. Maricica insisted on making
her bed for her. They were all so happy that she would see her
family again. All the house was at the gate to see us off.
'When we arrived we did not know which was her family
house. People were glad to guide us and then suddenly we were
at the house of her mother. Illeana stayed in the van, suddenly
shy. I called out and a middle-aged gypsy woman came to the
fence. She was Illeana's mother, surrounded by her younger brothers
and sisters. Her mother came to the back of the van and
opened the door. She looked at Illeana, put out her arms and
pulled her to her, hugging and kissing her, weeping and calling
out her name, "Illeana, my child, my child, my child." Illeana
wept too, calling, "Mama, Mama." They all moved to the house.
Sister Bartholomeo and I did not want to intrude on such a
private occasion but Illeana pulled us in as well.
'The mother explained to us, "I have six children. My husband
left me to bring them up alone. Earthquakes had already devastated
this region. When Illeana was nine years old floods came
too and swept away our house and our crops. We had nowhere
to live and nothing to eat." Apparently Illeana had a teacher
called Cristy, the woman she had talked about to us. Cristy took
Pity on the girl and, in the true belief that she was helping her,
took her to the authorities in Bacau so that she could be found a
home and continue her education. It was very unusual for a gypsy ^ild to receive education and her teacher must have been fairly ^ceptional to have accepted Illeana.
Her mother and Cristy were unable to trace what happened 0 her after that. They wrote numerous letters and Cristy even ^nt to see the government department responsible, at great ^ger to herself. No information was forthcoming. They hoped
zc>9
that she had gone to a good place with good food and a good
education, which would lead her to a better life than theirs.
'Her mother confirmed that at that time Illeana had a slight
squint in one eye. That must have been enough to get her classified
as handicapped.'
I could only imagine what Ungerini can have seemed like to a
bright nine-year-old girl. It must have felt like her world had
ended. Her grandparents arrived at the house while the Sisters
were there and as Illeana told them all the awful truth of what
had happened to her they all began to cry. After that first visit
Illeana decided she wanted to stay with the Sisters to complete
her education, but now she visits her family regularly and knows
she can go home as soon as she is ready.
There was a school next door to the home in Bacau where some
of the more able children used to go to have lessons before the
new school house was built. While she was in England Illeana
told me that there was an oaf in the school who used to take
pleasure in teasing, pushing and taunting our children, encouraging
others to join in and calling them 'handicapart'. She also
told me that the teacher who was supposed to be looking after
them was setting them work and then going out shopping. I rang
Sister Jane and passed this information on. She said she would
deal with it and the next time I rang she told me what had
happened.
'I found the boy,' she said, 'a boy so big I had to bend him
double to reach his ear. I was booting and beating him all the
way to the Principal's office. I had one such fine temper on me I
made the Principal call all the children together and I told them
they should be helping our children, not ridiculing them, and I
told them if I heard of such a thing again I would be booting
them all the way to their parents' houses.'
When Illeana went back, looking so beautiful with her eyes
straightened, several of the boys in the school asked her out.
'What did you say to them?' I asked her later.
'I told them to remember that I was "handicapart".' She grinned
mischievously. 'I don't want to go out with nasty boys like that.
The straightening of her eyes had changed her whole personality- She was suddenly tolerant and serene, a truly beautiful person. She
began to see herself as someone, not just a label, 'handicapped
Not all the operations were so successful. Petrutsa was a young
zio
blind girl who used to beat herself furiously in her frustration,
sometimes laughing as she whacked her head against the floor,
and only stopping if a worker picked her up. She seemed to have
sorne reasoning powers but it was hard to know what to do for
her. Sadly, Gus was unable to do anything to restore her sight.
'There is no possibility of sight,' he said. 'I could re-attach the
retinas but she still would not see. I could take off the cataracts,
which would make her look better,' he said, 'but that would only
help the rest of us; it would do nothing for her and I am not
prepared to put her through so much pain just for that. Please
get her back to the Sisters' tender loving care.'
I felt such grief for Petrutsa and, rather discouraged, rang the
Sisters with the news that her condition was irreversible. They
too were disappointed for her, but reminded me that we must
have the courage to try, even if the result is not what we hoped
for. Mr Sutton confirmed Sister Jane's suspicion that Petrutsa's
handicap was a result of her mother contracting German measles
when she was pregnant.
All the children had become great fans of Status Quo after the
discos at Ungerini, but none more so than fifteen-year-old Daniel.
When he came to England, Status Quo's guitarist. Rick Parfitt,
agreed to meet him at a London hotel and - delightfully and
refreshingly - insisted on no publicity before we could even
mention it. Daniel managed to spend two and a half hours with
his hero the day before returning to Romania. I was desperate to
go along myself, as I am a great fan of theirs, but I felt that
Ashley, the young English co-worker from Mother Teresa's who
had been so good to Daniel, deserved the treat as thanks for all
he had done.
Daniel's bones produce too much calcium and this accumulates
on the outside of the bones, causing abscesses and eruptions on
his skin. It is all very painful and gives him limited movement in
his arm. He is highly intelligent and attends high school in Bacau,
out can't live with his family because he needs constant medical
attention. Ashley hoped that by bringing him to Britain and taking
him to Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, something could
"e done to help him return home.
Daniel spent one week with us in Milton Keynes in the late
^mmer of 1991, not long after I had returned from my first trip
0 'Jngenm (Ashley desperately needed some time off, he gave
zn
constant care to Daniel for five weeks in all). During that week
Daniel became alarmingly ill, running a high temperature and
suffering a great deal of pain from infected abscesses. I rang our
doctor, Dr Prisk, to ask his advice about what best to do. I was
scared to lift Daniel since I couldn't move him without causing him absolute agony.
Dr Prisk came out immediately and when I opened the door to
the lounge where Daniel was bedded down on the couch the
doctor rushed in ... 'Ah, Daniel, now what's the problem
young--' But before he could finish, disaster struck and Dr Prisk
let out a piercing, 'What the--'? Moss, having seen a strange man
rush into the house and sensing Daniel's vulnerability, had decided a 'seeing-off was called for and bitten Dr Prisk abruptly on the
bottom! Despite his discomfort Dr Prisk continued to minister to
his patient. Daniel wasn't over-impressed with his skills, however;
when the pills prescribed didn't work overnight he told the doctor,
'I do not think those antibiotics you prescribed are strong enough.
The ones Sister Jane gives me would have worked by now!' Dr
Prisk good-humouredly suggested sending all his patients to Sister
Jane and retiring himself!
Sadly Daniel was told the results of the hospital tests showed
there is nothing that can be done, but he didn't really understand
or take it in - maybe he didn't want to. When I explained to him
that his condition was irreversible and that he would never walk
he wept and became very depressed. Then, after a few days, he
told me that he was going to snap out of it, organise the rest of
his life around his disability and stop making himself miserable.
I admire him so much. Now he is painting icons on glass quite
beautifully and plans to sell them to help support his parents and
family.
After their meeting, Status Quo contacted us to find out the
time of Daniel's train into London and sent a limousine to meet
him at the station the next day, packed with T-shirts, hats, sweatshirts,
cassettes and a huge ghetto blaster for all the other children.
The chauffeur then drove Daniel and Ashley to Heathrow and
escorted them, with all their luggage, to the departure lounge.
Whilst Patreascu, Szuzannah and the children who followed were
in England they were able to spend some time at Brays Road
School in Sheldon, a very well equipped special needs school; it
gave them a chance to get out of the hospital for a few hours
ziz
each day- Nigel was a governor of the school. The first time I
went along to see what was happening I went into the staff room at break time and found myself standing on my own, unable to
make a move, not daring to encroach on the groups huddled
together and talking. Seeing my discomfort, a very attractive
older man with lovely, wavy white hair and kind, hazel eyes came
over and introduced himself as John Hickman.
'You are with the Romanian children, aren't you?' he asked.
I said I was and he asked me lots of questions about what I
was doing.
'I would love to go there and do something like that,' he said.
'Why don't you?' I jumped at the possibility of recruiting a
fully trained special needs teacher! 'I'll make all the arrangements
for you.'
He proved to be one of the most successful volunteers I had
found so far and has been an invaluable help over the years.
The other person I met at Brays Road was a gentle, greyhaired
man called Bob Vicarage. He was an orthotist, a person
specialising in the design and manufacture of mechanical devices
to support or correct weakened joints, things like calipers and
splints. He worked closely with Nigel at the various hospitals,
clinics and special schools Nigel was associated with. I started
talking to him about something I had seen at Brays Road called
a standing frame. It was basically a box which went up to under
the child's arms and was almost impossible to tip over. It gave
badly crippled children the sense of what it was like to be upright,
supporting them securely and encouraging muscle growth.
'Would it be possible to get the designs for something like that,'
I asked him, 'so that we could ask carpenters out in Romania to
make them?'
He said he thought it could be arranged and suggested a lot of
other things we might do. I asked why he didn't come out with me to see what really needed doing and, after some initial hesitation,
he agreed. I told him to forget all his anxieties about
getting out there - to leave all the arrangements to me. I may not
"e able to do any of the clever medical bits but, by golly, I can
make great arrangements. The children called him Doctor Bobby, ^ich they thought was hysterical because one of the dogs at Mother Teresa's was also called Bobby. He proved to be the most
onderful ally, persuading his firm. Salt and Sons in Birmingham,
donate thousands of pounds' worth of splints, calipers, special
213
shoes, boots and appliances, with many of the staff workin
through their lunches and after hours to get rush orders completert for us. He came to Bacau with the Dwyers and me to meet th
children and see the problems for himself. His expertise advicp
and guidance were invaluable in getting many of the children on
their feet and he has been back several times since to help the
children in the home and others in the surrounding areas.
Our ultimate aim was for Dr Bobby to teach the local people
how to make some of the simpler appliances, so that they would
not have to rely on donations from other countries. I would like
to build a small workshop and to employ local handicapped
people to make calipers, crutches, splints and false limbs. During
his first visit we saw dozens of children with the most painful
stumps; their lives could be transformed with the right equipment.
Moira Dwyer agreed to come out to Romania with us on the
condition that nobody expected her to do any physiotherapy,
saying that she had not worked with children for thirty years and
that it would be reckless to begin working on such severely
handicapped little ones now. My job was to take notes.
One of the children, a frail little girl called Cristina, was obviously
highly distressed. Putting her back in her cot still didn't
calm her but I had to leave her to go back to my note-taking. I
glanced up a few moments later and saw Moira smiling reassuringly
at Cristina, their fingers touching through the bars of the
cot. Cristina stopped crying. I went back to my notes, panicking
at the unfamiliar terminology, realising how unequal to the task
I was. A few minutes later I saw Moira totally absorbed in doing
physiotherapy on Cristina, who was no longer protesting. She
then went on to work magic with many of the children during
the week.
Most importantly, Moira was able to work with the Sisters and
carers, gently encouraging them to have the confidence to do
what she was doing. Her work carries on, and that of Sally
Braithwaite, the physiotherapist from Brays Road School. Their
visits offer not only short-term relief but inspire long-term work.
After the first day's clinic, whilst everything was still fresh in
my mind and I could still read my own writing, I sat down at the
Sisters' antique typewriter to get the day's notes typed up. After
hours of consulting Black's Medical Dictionary, I realised that 1
couldn't make any sense of anything I had written. I despaire ,
214
weeping with frustration as I stared at all the words which looked
so similar. The notes were so vital. I headed for chapel but even praying made no difference. I had to face facts. My notes were
complete gibberish; the one useful contribution I might have been
able to make and I had failed miserably.
Next morning Nigel, Moira and Bob arrived early to start
another packed clinic. Parents and children had been queuing for
hours again and the Sisters were giving out bread and milk - all
they had to share. Nigel went straight to work and didn't stop to
look at the notes until he took a lunch break. I went off and
busied myself in a remote corner, wishing I could make myself
invisible. A strange rumbling noise began to reach me. It got
louder and louder and then the awful realisation hit me. Nigel
was laughing. My humiliation was about to be total and public.
Nigel was sitting on a small stool, tears pouring down his face.
He had lost all semblance of control; he had 'corpsed'. I didn't
know whether to laugh or cry. I was on the borders of a kingsized
wobbler. My bottom lip was quivering and Nigel tried to
compose himself. 'It's all right, Bev,' he spluttered, but then lost
control again and fell off the stool. That made everyone laugh
and I began to feel better. When he had recovered himself enough
to speak he told me that the notes, although hopelessly misspelt,
would serve to remind him which patient was which and his
brilliant secretary, Cathy, would fill in the correct medical spellings
later.
As my faith increases, so does my confidence, but I still hate
getting up and speaking in front of people. When the Sisters asked
me to read the lesson at a very special Mass I politely said 'yes'
then panicked seconds later and told them I couldn't do it. 'But
you will be amongst friends,' they said, completely puzzled by my attitude.
'I'm truly sorry. I am just not the kind of person who gets up
in front of everyone. Please, please forgive me.'
I rang Nigel at the hotel, fairly hysterical and abandoning any
sense of pride, and begged him to help me out by reading the
lesson himself. Nigel laughed and laughed but this time I didn't
care.
Oh, Bev, you are priceless,' he managed to say at last. 'Here is a woman who terrifies half of Birmingham - and probably most 01 Britain - a tigress and protector of children who can talk
215
anyone into doing anything and you can't even read a little lesson
to a group of friends, most of whom don't speak a word of
English anyway.'
I allowed him his moment of gloating and then he agreed to
read the lesson. He did it beautifully, his rich voice echoing round
the little chapel. He gently placed the Bible back on the lectern
and the whole thing fell to the floor in pieces. I raised my eyes
and said a silent prayer of thanks that it hadn't been me up there.
Valentina started to laugh, then the other children, then Nigel
and the Sisters and even the priest joined in.
Getting to know the children so well over the years, I gradually
learnt more about the horrors that had been perpetrated on them
at Ungerini. As they grew to trust me they told me things they
had forgotten or had been bottling up inside. The evidence came
in tiny little pieces, sometimes from the children and sometimes
from other people working or staying in the Ungerini home. The
bigger girls, I discovered, had often needed to have abortions. To
start with I assumed it was just because they were left unsupervised
with the bigger boys, but gradually tales emerged about
how a small number of the women carers would dress them up,
paint their faces and then bring the older boys up to their rooms
and encourage them to have sex so they could watch. The women
also brought male workers into the building at night when the
managers and volunteers were not there and let them loose on
those girls least able to protect themselves. One 'medical worker'
designed himself a special table that he could lie the girls on; it
held their deformed bodies and limbs in exactly the right positions
for him to have his way. Two girls separately told me how they
had performed oral sex on one of the medical workers. When
Madam Augustina found out about him, after an investigation,
she dismissed him. This was a very brave action because he could
have caused her problems with the authorities or spread rumours.
Thankfully we did not hear of any repercussions.
Other workers became very angry when they found out about
this, but it was always hard to discover the truth of what was
happening because most of the victims couldn't speak coherently. Lucia was instrumental in finding out about and stopping some
of the worst excesses. Luckily, enough of the perpetrators were
sufficiently frightened of her to take some notice.
The damage done to the children by this sort of behaviour was
zi6
incalculable. One girl I grew very close to gave me detailed
descriptions of her own abortion, details she could only have
known if she'd been fully conscious throughout. She believed her
baby's death to be her fault, that because of her sins he was
condemned to hell for eternity. I gently explained to her that it
hadn't been her choice to abort the baby. She hadn't understood
what was happening to her until it was too late and therefore it
couldn't be her fault.
First someone had told her she was going to have a baby, then
a couple of weeks later she had been bundled into a van, dragged
into hospital, undergone a painful and public indignity, only to
be rushed back to Ungerini in terrible pain, with blood pouring
down her legs. She hadn't realised that this had anything to do
with her baby until she missed the feeling of the child moving
within her.
'Oh, Bevey, he would have been mine. I could have loved him
as no one loves me. I could have given him the things I do not
have. I would have bathed him and dried him, and now he is
with the Devil in hell, and it is my fault!'
I tried to remember what I had learned as a child. 'Jesus said,
"Suffer little children to come unto me." That means that your
child was innocent and will be right now sitting in the arms of
Jesus, happy and loved. Loved by you on earth and Jesus and all
the angels in heaven. He will not be forgotten.' I wondered how
she knew about heaven and hell, given that she was supposed to
have lived at Ungerini all her life - there was no religious teaching
there. How I wished I spoke more Romanian, that we knew more
about the children's backgrounds.
I hope I gave her a little comfort, but her sad, haunted look,
and subdued yet agitated demeanour, will stay with me forever.
Many times after we spoke about her child, that he might be
walking or talking, whether he would have looked like her or his
father. Such was the girl's understanding of what abortion really
means - a terrible curtailing of life, and the awful suffering and
cental anguish of the mother - that I came to the conclusion that
Acre was no reason for her to have been sent to Ungerini at all.
Her baby's life had been wasted before it began, and hers was
wasting away too. Both seemed equally tragic to me. I began to
think about what abortion truly meant, the ending of life before
e^tant had drawn breath independently. How could it ever be
^t to do such a thing to someone so small, vulnerable and
2,17
unable to defend themselves? We held the children's lives in our
hands and it wasn't only their physical and mental welfare we
should cherish, but their moral welfare too.
I don't ever think about this girl and her terrible experience
without feeling I could have done more to protect the children in
my care. I pray she will fall in love one day and have a much
wanted child, fulfilling her dream to have a family, a home and
someone to share and return the huge amount of love she has to
give.
zi8
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Our Son - the Prodigy
*
December 1992 brought Patreascu's sixth birthday. I had just
returned from taking Szuzannah home and Patreascu was still
not speaking at all. We decided to take him to see the West End
show. Cats, and were given the best seats, right where the actors
came from under the stage. Initially he was terrified when the
cats came up to him, and I began to think I might have to take
him home. The actors, however, must have sensed his fear. Staying
completely in character, they began to gently wash and stretch in
front of him, putting their paws against their faces. He reached
out and touched a pure white one, rubbing his face in her fur as
she cuddled him. From that moment on he was entranced. Every
time a cat passed it made a fuss of him and he thought it was
brilliant. There was a rowdy scene where the dogs had a loud
fight in the park. Patreascu was shaking his finger at them as if
to say, 'Naughty, naughty,' which the actors on stage thought was
hilarious. They were all coming very close to him at the edge of
the stage.
Before the performance the stage hands had had to weigh down
Patreascu's seat because he was so small, he kept disappearing
through the back of it, and in the interval we were invited to go
behind the scenes to meet the cast. They were wonderful, letting
him touch their fur and explore their microphones and makeup,
encouraging him to show them how he walked with his little clutches . I had been very nervous about meeting such interesting anu artY people, but they were a complete joy and I made a vow to "'""ig all the children to the show in future.
^n our way back Patreascu spied the orchestra and rushed in 0 have a go on all the instruments. The musicians loved him and
219
wanted him to stay but the show had to go on and the audiencp
was returning to its seats. Back in our seats for the second half T
could see that his eyes were dancing with excitement. He was
completely lost in the make-believe of it all. He suddenly saw his
favourite character. Rum Turn Tugger, who he had spent most of
the intermission with, and pointed, shouting with glee, 'Pisicaf
his first ever spoken word. Old Deutoronomy came off stage and
gave him a massive hug and said, 'God bless you, Patreascu,' and
Patreascu gave him a broad grin and a thumbs-up sign. Although
he did not understand the language, which is all in song, or the
story, his powers of observation were amazing and he followed
the plot from their mimes and body language. When all the cats
were unkind to Grizebella, a very old, grey and tatty cat, he
turned to me, pointed to Grizebella and began to weep, burying
his head in my chest.
After the show we were asked backstage once more. The actors
had a hat, T-shirt and tape of the show for Patreascu. As soon as
he saw Grizebella he ran over to her and hugged her, stroking her
gently and comforting her as if telling her he understood the pain
of rejection.
When we got home at about 8.30 that evening we thought
Patreascu would be more than ready for bed, but he rushed
straight to the lounge, changed into the T-shirt and hat, put
the cassette into the player and proceeded to boogie until about
ii p.m.
Richard Oriel, who set up and ran Cats, and had been our host
at the London show, was very interested to hear about Romania.
I told him that all the children would love to see the show in
Bacau and he wondered if it would be possible. 'Why not?' I
replied.
Some weeks later Richard joined Bob Vicarage, Roger Wolsley,
our orthotists, and me on a short visit to Mother Teresa's. Richard
wanted to look around and assess whether it would be possible
to stage even a 'pocket' version of Cats, given the limited facilities
available. He is a very lively, kind and gentle giant of a man, six
feet five in his socks, and all the children were very taken with
him. I was surprised, but pleased, when he asked me to sit in with
him at his meeting with the Sisters. They expressed delight at the
prospect of a show for the children, not only their residents but
all the local kids, and a plan was set in train for bringing the
show to Bacau.
2.2.0
Richard had shown the Sisters photographs of the London
production and they had only one problem with it - the costumes. 'What about the costumes?' Richard asked. 'Oh, Bevey will
explain,' they said, disappearing. Will I? I thought, looking
puzzled.
I ran after the Sisters and asked what they meant and they
giggled and said, 'Bevey, have you no eyes, girl? Men's private
parts so prominent we could hang our umbrellas there! Local
people would be most shocked.'
Richard went on to set up and run Sunset Boulevard, then Oliver and now works directly for Cameron Mackintosh. Sadly
he was inundated with work and unable to work any further on
getting Cats to Bacau after that first trip - but we still harbour a
dream of taking the show to Bacau one day. I know it will happen!
Having said his first word, Patreascu came on in leaps and
bounds with his talking and worked constantly on his walking
and dancing. I spent hours giving him speech coaching but made
a silly mistake, getting him to copy everything I said. If anyone
said, 'Hallo,' that was fine because he replied, 'Hallo'. But if they
then said, 'How are you?' he would repeat that too. Everything I
learnt with Patreascu I am now using with the children at Mother
Teresa's and slowly they are beginning to speak too.
At first we feared Patreascu might be deaf because his speech
was very unclear and he never finished words. I spoke to Nigel
about it, asking whether it was a physical problem. He humoured
me by recommending an ear, nose and throat colleague of his
who, after a lengthy examination, said he was fairly certain there
wasn't anything physically wrong although spending four and a
half years flat on his back in a cot staring at the ceiling certainly
hadn't helped Patreascu. He told us that he was almost certain
there was nothing to worry about - it was just part of the learning
process. He confirmed my suspicions that lack of chewing and
other exercise of the facial and throat muscles had been a major
contributing factor in the children's inability to talk. Patreascu
and I spent many hours together, pulling faces to exercise his
speech muscles, singing scales, anything to encourage movement. Gradually his speech became clearer and his vocabulary
increased, but he was still not using long sentences and if he was
excited by something his speech tended to become garbled again.
We worried that the fear, aggression and misery he had experisnced
in his early years would leave a mark on his personality,
zzi
but no sign of this has appeared; he only ever shows kindness
and gentleness to everyone. For a long time he suffered from
terrible nightmares which left him sobbing, fearful and bathed in
perspiration, but as his speech improved he was able to tell us
about them as we rocked him back to sleep. 'I was tied up in a
cot, a big white octopus comes and all its arms are hitting me but
I can't move. Then I saw a white sari with a blue stripe and Sister
Ida with her wooden spoon and she beats the octopus and unties
me.'
Patreascu's mental processes were hard to assess those first few
months after he left St Gerrard's, and we were not sure whether
he would ever catch up with his peer group or be able to read or
write or achieve complete independence. All this had to be taken
into account as we prepared to adopt him. We knew that at our
age (I was in my early forties and John was fifty) we would not
necessarily be around for as long as he needed us and we did not
want him to be a burden to Russell, who was then only twentyfive.
Some
of the family had been very nervous about meeting
Patreascu at first but my sister, Karen, and her husband, Les, were
very helpful. They had invited us for a weekend in Kent some
months before, but we had to decline as we were having Patreascu
home from the hospital.
'Is he free from disease?' Karen asked.
'Absolutely,' I assured her. 'He is more likely to catch something
from other children because of his poor general health than to
give them anything.'
'Bring him too, then,' she said.
Both Karen and her husband are in the police force and they
have two daughters, Becky and Claire, who we had always said
we would have if anything happened to Karen and Les. We have
spent many happy holidays with them, a practice which has
regrettably stopped due to my commitments in Romania. As we
set off for the weekend we were a little worried about how
Patreascu would interact with two robust and very 'normal'
children. We needn't have worried, though. At one point we
found him, plaster cast and all, on the top bunk bed, having been
helped up by Becky and Claire. All the work Nigel had done and
all Patreascu had endured flashed before my eyes. If he had broken
his leg then it would have shattered in about thirteen places.
Thankfully he came safely down. Everyone was enchanted with
22,2.
him and Karen and Les took us to one side. 'He is so divine,'
Karen said, 'that we want you to know that if you do adopt him
and anything happens to you, we would be more than happy to
take him on completely.'
By April 1993 Patreascu insisted on trying to dress himself. His
first attempt took him two and a half hours. I am not a patient
person and I wasn't sure I was going to be able to cope with it so
I left him alone and went downstairs, returning every few minutes
to encourage him. Patreascu was so happy when he managed to
complete the whole process himself and one of his favourite
sayings for the next few months was, 'No, me do it.'
Initially, Patreascu had to have two crutches, then he moved to
one and finally he threw that away as well, preferring to make
his way about with a sort of rolling gait, swinging his feeble leg
around confidently. He would often fall over but always got
straight back up without making any fuss. He had really started
on the road to independence now. Before long he was washing
himself, doing his own hair, choosing his own clothes, making
his own bed and dressing himself every day. He became totally
toilet-trained. He took to dancing in a big way, using the kitchen
as a disco and the lounge for ballet. I sometimes shudder to think
what Nigel would have said if he could have seen Patreascu's
leaps across the room, often with one of the dogs grabbing his
leg in mid-air. (Misty never really recovered from the shock of
the first time her teeth encountered the unaccustomed hardness
of his leg plaster.)
He also started painting again, loving to get himself in a mess
and then helping to clear up afterwards. Gillian had told me how
his paintings in Romania had been dark and disturbing but now
he was using lighter, happier colours. Patreascu never buys cards
from shops, always insisting on making them himself in bright
and cheerful colours, with glitter plastered all over them.
Our next problem was finding a school that would suit him.
We wanted somewhere where they would not be bothered by his
problems and wouldn't molly-coddle or patronise him. We went
to see a lot of different ones before we found the one which we
nought would be the best for him. St Monica's is a local Catholic
Primary school and they didn't seem to think that his disability
^uld be a problem. They were extremely keen to discuss his
unities, not his disability. There was a wonderfully warm and
223
happy atmosphere, which we felt immediately we entered the
school, and a great deal of emphasis was placed on sociability as
well as academic standards. At first John thought me mad as I
don't drive and St Monica's isn't within walking distance so
getting there would be a problem. I knew it was not the most
sensible option in lots of ways, but the school had seemed so
right that I really prayed he would be accepted. There were some
stumbling blocks initially: he had not been baptised; John and I
were not Catholics.
One night, shortly after our visit, I overheard Patreascu sayine
his prayers, 'Dear Jesus,' he said, without prompting, 'please
please let me go to St Monica's.' Suddenly I just knew that he
would be accepted, that everything would be all right, and the
next day we went out to buy the distinctive uniform in readiness.
Reckless? Foolhardy? Certainly, but he and I knew this was his
place, that these were his teachers and that it would only be a
matter of time before he was accepted.
Every morning Patreascu went to the cupboard where his little
school uniform was hanging and enquired hopefully, 'School?'
'No,' I would have to say, 'not today, but soon.'
We were going to Mass at several different churches in our
area. One Sunday we went to the Church of Christ the King.
Father Sean welcomed us and asked who we were. We told him
and he said he recognised the name Patreascu because he was one
of the governors of St Monica's and had seen our application.
During the service Father Sean asked the congregation to 'give
each other signs of peace'. Patreascu rushed out in his caliper,
nearly falling over in his haste to get to the altar and said, 'Peace,
Father - nice church.' I think it was at that point that he won a
place at St Monica's. I heard from another governor that Father
Sean and Mrs Helen Finkenrath, the very active Head Teacher,
had both spoken at the next governors' meeting but that it was
the words of Adam Gawronski, a parent/governor, which had
moved them all to make their decision. 'This child,' he said, 'so
desperately seeking an education, is a gift from God. We must
surely accept him.'
It was really Patreascu who decided, after visiting many different
churches, that we should celebrate our regular Mass at the
Church of Christ the King with Father Sean. It is an unusual
church shared by the Baptists, United Reform Church, the Church
of England and the Catholics. We liked the idea of Patreascu
22.4
being able to mix with such a wide variety of people and he has been warmly welcomed by all the various congregations.
Patreascu refers to our priest as 'my beloved Father Sean' and
they do indeed share a tremendous repartee!
Once his attendance became a reality, we were very anxious
about how he would cope with the daily routines. How would
he know where to go for the toilet, for PE or lunch? Would he
be able to follow instructions when he was still only speaking a
few unclear words? We were terrified that someone would call
him over to the school gate and take him away because he was
so trusting of everyone and unaware of the possible dangers. Our
fears were soon allayed by the practical common sense of Marion
Shires, the school secretary, and Mrs Finkenrath, who was always
available and proved a very positive and spiritual guide, both to
Patreascu and to John and me. Whilst having to stop herself from
breaking into helpless laughter on many occasions, she managed
to encourage Patreascu in many ways. I am sure that a lot of his
personal skills, his communication and general confidence when
talking to people, are due to her persevering with speaking to
him, even when she couldn't always understand his replies.
When Patreascu finally started school, in late June 1993, his
attention span was about five seconds and we were nervous as to
whether he would sit still long enough to join in anything, and
worried he would be disruptive just because he did not understand
what was going on. We need not have been concerned. His very
first teacher, Mrs Binks, took him firmly and kindly in hand. Care
assistant Pam Cunningham was appointed to work with him for
one hour every day and they formed a wonderful relationship. I
felt quite envious, especially when he came home one Friday
evening and began to sob, 'Won't see Pam now!'
After his first two weeks I nervously approached Mrs Binks
and apologised for all the extra work which having Patreascu in
her class must mean. 'Yes,' she replied, 'he is extra work but what
he brings to me, to this class and to the whole school, more than ^mpensates; we are all enriched by his presence here.'
Each evening we would sit down together and try to do his
homework. Patreascu had a tremendous thirst for knowledge. He ^as a child of a thousand questions and his inability to express
himself often made him frustrated.
A month after he started we went to school sports day, wondering
if Patreascu would be able to compete at all. We should
225
have known better. Though greatly inhibited by his giant calioer
Patreascu was determined to do what the other children were
doing. Mrs Binks was anxiously following him around on all the
apparatus, giving him a little lift as and when needed, but he
whizzed round everything. The sight of John gamely doing the
hurdles with his son raised a great cheer, which made Patreascu
stop dead, laughing and waving to the crowd - as always the
showman. After that a cheer went up every time he did anything and I don't think there was a dry eye in the school.
The following year he went on to Mrs Brooks, with mornings
spent with Mrs O'Brien, who taught the new five-year-olds, in
order to catch up on the many things he had missed. After a few
weeks it was decided that this was unsettling for him and he
should remain with his own age group full time. Mrs Brooks is a
very lively teacher and they formed an instant bond. When she
was ticking off one of her pupils one day Patreascu said, 'Brooks
not happy?' whilst staring into her eyes and grinning hopefully.
He cannot bear to see anyone sad, ill or in pain.
Sports day 1994 showed us just how far he had progressed in
a year. He was now able to rush around by himself. The only
problem was the high jump but as he tried to jump two bigger
pupils appeared, as if by magic, grabbed an arm each and assisted
him over the bar.
Each year Patreascu wept at the thought of leaving one teacher
and moving on to someone new. His next teacher was Mrs Tholen
who had lots of beautiful long blonde hair and played the guitar
and, as with the others before her, he immediately formed another
extraordinary bond. Throughout this time he continued to be
encouraged by Pam Cunningham and by us at home. The academic
work was becoming harder now and Patreascu used to
return home from school exhausted. Just walking required ten
times the effort of another child and Patreascu was having to
absorb so much else at the same time too. I used to make matters
worse by thinking I had to be 'Supermum' and always be doing
things with him. Mrs Finkenrath tactfully told me that her own
children used to come in and just sit watching television in order
to relax after a hard day and I realised that I needed to give
Patreascu a little more space to behave like his new friends.
On his first day they had put Patreascu in the charge of a little
blonde Norwegian girl, called Ida, who looked after him and
became his best friend. She and the other children had to stand
zz6
guard over the gates when they were in the playground in case
Patreascu wandered off and disappeared. When Ida had to leave
because her parents were moving on to Thailand, Patreascu was
heartbroken, but he soon formed a deep attachment with two
other little girls, Emily and Rebecca. His other great friend is
Christopher Gavagher whose footballing skills Patreascu admires
and whose fighting and protection skills have come to Patreascu's
rescue on more than one occasion.
He has had to face up to a little bullying in the form of ridicule
about his left leg being so thin and scarred, having a caliper and
a splint, not being able to run, the fact that he fell over a lot, even
that he had to wear orthopaedic boots, nice as they were. This
hurt him terribly and puzzled him because he was usually so
naturally kind to everyone less fortunate than himself. The school
was as upset to hear about it as we were and immediately set in
motion procedures to make sure it stopped. One unfortunate
side-effect is that Patreascu will no longer wear short trousers.
He feels embarrassed and nothing any of us can say will make
him change his mind.
When Emily saw that Patreascu was being bullied, this delicate,
feminine little girl advised, If they hurt you again just punch 'em.
Punch 'em in the tummy then there's no blood and you won't get
into trouble.'
'I can't do that,' a surprised Patreascu responded. 'It's not right
to hit people.'
Til do it for you then,' she told him firmly. T can't bear to see
you hurt.' They then continued with their cushion fight.
When he started school Patreascu still needed to wear a very
heavy-duty caliper on his leg and Nigel warned us that he would
probably have to wear it for the rest of his life. Patreascu, however,
had other ideas and insisted on discarding this uncomfortable old
thing and wearing his lightweight 'night' splint all the time. We
asked Nigel's advice fearing it would do him no good at all.
'I'm not sure,' he admitted, 'but the boy has a pretty good sense
°f self-preservation and seems highly capable, so let him have a
try.'
We did and within a few months Patreascu was walking about,
albeit with a limp, but able to go up and down stairs with more ^se than when his leg was held completely straight and rigid in "ie caliper.
'I am good,' Nigel told us when he saw the result of this for
zz7
himself, 'bloody good. But what has happened to Patreascu is a
miracle.'
When he had been with them a year the school told us that
although he was one year behind his age group in language and
reading, he was actually two years ahead on intelligence and
memory. The only thing that had been lacking for him in Romania
had been input and stimulation. Because the teachers were
keeping such a close eye on Patreascu at the beginning, they were
also able to tell him off when he misbehaved. We did not want
him to be given any special treatment which might lead to jealousy.
They were soon telling us that he was by far the kindest
and most helpful child in the school. If another child was hurt in
the playground he would be the one to cuddle them and take
them to the medical room, where he would lavish them with
healing creams and plasters. He was always smiling and bringing
a sparkle to the eyes of the teachers with his innocent cheek,
complimenting one teacher on her new hairstyle and another on
her new perfume. At the beginning they would always push him
to the front of the lunch queues but before long the other children
were treating Patreascu just like everyone else. It was the nicest
compliment of all!
In the Nativity play he strode confidently about the stage in a
false beard, gently coaxing the shyer children to wherever they
were supposed to be and taking the instruction to 'sing loudly'
very literally indeed, even when he didn't know all the words.
'Away in a manger, no ... for a bed!' Mrs Finkenrath turned to
Father Sean and said, 'Just look at Patreascu, what an extraordinary
difference in only one year.' At the first Nativity play he
had been unsure and nervous, now he was not only taking an
active part, but encouraging others too.
Patreascu's first invitation to tea came from a schoolfriend who
we found lived quite close to us, Paula Gawronski, a rising ballet
star who was quite a bit older than him. Mary and Adam (the
parent/governor who had pleaded so effectively for Patreascu to
join the school), her mum and dad, Jan and Ronan her older
brothers, and Anna her older sister, all made him so welcome
that all our fears about little things like how he would ask for
the loo or know to change out of his school uniform just evaporated.
The whole Gawronski family have since been invaluable
in my work. Mary told me that she would dearly love to work in
Romania but was too committed to her family. In order to give
2.2.8
I, me the freedom to go there, however, she offered to have Patreascu
after school and to give him tea whenever necessary.
Remembering Patreascu's interest in music I enrolled him for
some violin lessons and after the first few the teacher became
tremendously excited. 'It is early days yet,' he told me, 'but
considering his background his ability is extraordinary. It may
well be that he is a musical prodigy.'
He also went to dancing classes with Paula. Mrs Woollard,
Paula's ballet teacher, while more used to training potential stars
for the Royal Ballet, formed a sparkling friendship with Patreascu.
Though appreciating Patreascu will never be another Nureyev,
Mrs Woollard has been teaching him ballet and tap, greatly
increasing his balance and coordination.
By sports day 1995 he was still putting everything he had into
competing. 'Oh, Mum and Dad,' he said sadly, 'if only I could
come first in one of the races.' We felt so bad for him but realised
he was going to have to face up to his limitations more and more
as he grew older.
Patreascu has also begun to be naughty from time to time: a
great relief to us and the school - another longed-for sign of
normality. He was told off one day by the Deputy Head, Kate
Harper. He had been talking in Assembly and she sent him out,
telling him to go to her office and 'face the wall until I return!'
When Kate did return, having survived a reproachful look from
an adult witness, Patreascu turned to her with sad eyes. 'Darling
Harper,' he said, The very sorry!' She said that in thirty years of
teaching no one had ever dared to call her that before.
Now he has been at school for a couple of years John and I
catch ourselves being disappointed when one of his school reports
say that in some subjects he is just 'average'. We have to kick
ourselves and think back to the child we first came to England
with, a child who was little more than a vegetable and who
certainly couldn't have been considered 'average' at anything in a Romanian orphanage for the handicapped, let alone amongst
a class of mainstream English schoolchildren.
All the governors, teachers, staff and pupils at St Monica's have
had a positive impact on Patreascu, so much so that really he is
a little piece of them all. It is impossible to single out any one
person for they have all guided him to where he is today - a
"BPPy, normal and enthusiastic pupil at an exceptional school.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Holiday, a Wedding
and a Funeral
*
When Illeana was in Britain in 1993 she and Patreascu were
invited to London to meet Mother Teresa. Illeana was particularly
excited because we were told that Princess Diana, her greatest
idol, was going to be visiting at the same time. But when we
arrived at the Sisters' modest mission house in Kilburn Mother
had been whisked off for a meeting with Princess Diana at Kensington
Palace, because the crowds of press and television were
too big at the mission house. We were told that Mother Teresa
was coming back to see us as soon as she could. We managed to
get inside the building but the crowds outside were so great that
they were forcing the doors down. John had to lean all his weight
against them to keep the reporters out. Suddenly, unannounced,
Mother Teresa was there amongst us; it was well worth the one
and a half hour wait! She saw Patreascu and cupped his face in
her hands.
'Child,' she said, 'you are truly beautiful. What is your name?'
'Patreascu.'
She indicated his school uniform, which he had proudly insisted
on wearing. 'What are these fine clothes you are wearing?' Falling
over his words in excitement, Patreascu answered her questions.
'You must walk for me,' she said and watched as he wobbled
across the room. 'You walk wonderfully.'
She pinched his face and then turned to Illeana and said, 'Child,
your eyes are beautiful,' and spoke for a few minutes with me
translating her English into Romanian as best I could for Illeana.
Then she turned to John. 'And who is this fine big fellow?'
'This is the husband of Bevey,' one of the nuns told her.
'Thank you, John, for helping us,' she said, shaking his hand.
230
'I haven't done anything,' he protested.
'You allow Bevey to help us,' she said. 'We are very grateful.'
Then she told me that she had heard about my work and
wanted to know everything we were doing. She asked me to keep
in contact, sending bulletins on Patreascu's progress, his school
reports and photographs, because she wanted to know how he
was getting on. After that I talked to her as often as I could afford
to or wrote, and she told me that she was taking the photographs
around with her to show people just what a family's love can do
for a child.
It is Mother Teresa's policy to move the Sisters on every three
years, which can be very hard for them and for the children with
whom they form relationships, but is all part of their accepted
way of life. In July 1993 Sister Jane was moved to Sri Lanka and
I missed her a lot. I knew that she had been unorthodox in the
way she involved me in life in Bacau and I worried that with her
departure all that might stop. I couldn't bear the thought of not
having so much contact with the children I felt so close to.
By the time I was due to take Illeana back to Bacau at the end
of July, 1993 Sister Fabiana, the Croatian sister, had taken over
from Sister Jane as Sister Superior and she came all the way to
Bucharest to meet Illeana and me. She greeted us warmly and
told me she had prepared me a bed in the girls' dormitory. 'All
the girls are hoping you will stay with them,' she said. I was so
relieved to know that things were going to continue as before.
They still do, and I feel very much part of the Bacau home.
I love staying with the children and being part of the house,
despite the savage hours and the sixteen people snoring, calling
out and getting up to pee in the night. Whenever I visit Maricica
always makes my bed, with her by now traditionally perfect
hospital corners. She loves it when I come out of the bathroom
and feign total surprise every time, thanking her profusely. Each
night my pyjamas are laid out and the top cover pulled down for me and a little teddy hidden within. I always have to leap up and
pretend finding it is a great shock. I'm sure the children are bored ^th doing this every night but keep it going just to humour me.
Sister Jane had dreamed of all her children visiting the seaside
and asked me if I would consider taking all the children to the
"lack Sea for a holiday. She warned me that I wouldn't be able
to bring Patreascu because I might not be able to get him back K°ut of the country again afterwards due to the bureaucracy
231
surrounding the adoption. I also knew that his British medical
visa had expired and that we would not be able to get him back
into England without it. I was very loath to leave him but I
thought it would be lovely for the rest of the children to set a
chance to see the sea and Sister Jane said that unless I was willing
to go it wouldn't happen because they had no one else to call on
who was experienced enough to handle all fifty children and the
carers. Put in a corner like that there wasn't much I could say
except, 'Okay'. Cecilia, the dentist's wife, went to immense
trouble to try and make the best possible arrangements.
By the time we came to take the holiday Sister Jane and Sister
Ida had left Romania, but Sister Fabiana didn't want to deny the
children this longed-for break so we went ahead. I felt torn in
two - was I going to make a good mother if I could so easily
abandon Patreascu for three weeks for these other children? I
wondered.
I knew I was going to need all the help I could get so I asked
John Hickman to join me. He was the volunteer and universal
grandad whom I had met at Brays Road School and who I thought
was particularly good with the children. He agreed. As well as
being a special needs teacher he was also a swimming instructor,
which would make him doubly useful at the seaside. Then I rang
whacky Helen, who I knew had been such a success on her
previous trips to Bacau.
'Would you consider coming back to Romania with me for a
couple of weeks? I asked.
'Can you give me a little more idea what it's about?' she said,
cagily.
'We're taking the children on holiday to the seaside.'
'Count me in.'
It was decided we should take the children in two groups so
that we had enough people to ensure their safety and proper care.
The first group consisted of twenty-six children, three of us from
Britain and seven Romanian carers, including Johnny the dentist
and his daughter Delia who would translate.
So we set off at the end of July from Bacau for Constanza, in
two van loads with so many children in each van that we all had
to sit on the floor. I had Valentina on top of me for most of the
trip and the heat was incredible. The driver in our van insisted
on keeping the windows shut because he was afraid he would get
a chill from the draught and when I took my shoes off Maricica
Z32.
was sick in them, and continued to be sick throughout the twelvehour
journey, despite having been dosed up with travel-sickness
pills. Then one of the big boys got severe diarrhoea and we
discovered that we had packed a thousand sanitary towels instead
of the Pampers nappies that we were going to need. Somehow,
however, we managed to contain him and continued on our way,
sweating profusely, smelling disgusting and singing merrily.
We took an open ferry across the Danube, feeling rather
nervous that some of the children might try to jump over the side.
The ferry operators agreed to take us free when we explained
what we were doing and I decided from then on to ask for
everything free, on the principle that if you don't ask you don't
get.
Constanza is the most beautiful place with long sandy beaches
and warm blue sea, but our joy at arriving was dented by finding
that none of the beds in the hostel were made up. It was a bit of
a struggle settling every one in, but we were soon set up, and the
holiday started in earnest the next morning. The town was clean
and neat with plenty of fruit available in the markets and, a great
treat for the children, ice-cream.
Apart from children like Szuzannah and Illeana who had been
to England for operations, this was the first time many of our
charges had been outside the Bacau or Ungerini areas. And it was
certainly the first time they had seen the sea or beaches. There
was a fair right on the beach and Tractor Lucien's face lit up, a
picture of joy, when he saw a little train roundabout. Although
he was twenty years old, he had never seen anything like it. Nor
had the other children or the carers.
This holiday outing was the first time I had been in sole charge
of so many women workers and I found I had to be firm with
them from time to time. I wanted to go on the evening outings
together, all of us, and they were unhappy about this. In the
evenings they wanted to put the children to bed early so that they
could clear off and really enjoy themselves. I could see that they
would want to get out, but this holiday was intended for the
children; the women were being paid to work not to party. I
wanted the children to get out and about as much as possible.
There was a lot of grumbling but they eventually went along
with me. They wound up watching one another like hawks and
complaining furiously if they thought someone else was doing
^ss than them, or had easier children to deal with. Most of the
2,33
bedrooms were allocated one carer to two children, but I made
it one to one for a particularly difficult child. This, however
meant that some of the women had to have three children, which
caused terrible arguments. I had three children myself and chose
ones that I knew the women didn't like or found too temperamental
or difficult. I wanted everyone to have as nice a
holiday as possible, with the least possible ill-feeling.
After a couple of days some of the women came beating on my
door, crying and wailing and crossing themselves. I had learnt
that whenever they started crossing themselves something was
afoot.
'Oh, Bevey, Bevey,' they cried, 'it is terrible. Six of the children
are terribly ill. We think they are going to die.'
I asked which six and they told me the names of six gypsy
children.
'Oh dear,' I said. 'Well, give me half an hour and then come
back and I will have arranged picnics for you to take with you
on the train.'
'The train? Us?' They seemed puzzled.
'Well, I am just so grateful that I have you women here to
escort the children home,' I said, 'and that you are willing to give
up your holiday by the sea. I could never send sick children all
the way back with just some village girls in charge of them. So
go and prepare yourselves and the children to travel and I will
organise the food.'
The women disappeared, muttering amongst themselves and
returned half an hour later, rejoicing and shouting hallelujahs to
the Lord because the children had been miraculously cured. I had
to agree with them that God, indeed, was great.
Our routine was much the same each day, since we chose to
keep to the same timetable as the home in Bacau. We would get
up at the normal time and head down to the beach and play there
until about eleven-thirty. On our two return trips in the van we
were always singing and banging tambourines, making our own
fun. Then we would come back for lunch and a break while the
sun was at its hottest, returning for another beach session in the
afternoon. In the evening we went out to places like the local
dolphinarium and fun fair and a boating lake. Dom Patreascu
had come with us and insisted on rowing vigorously on the
lake, despite the fact that he was fitted with a pacemaker. The
Romanians were always very proud of their surgical adventures
2.34
f
and he would insist on not wearing a shirt so that everyone could
see his scar. To show off his strength he went rowing off into the
middle of the lake, so I jumped onto a pedallo, beckoning Valentina
to join me, and we set off in pursuit, laughing fit to burst.
Halfway across I realised that I was doing all the work and had
to encourage my partner to put a bit of effort into it. But once
we got close enough, we scooped water up in cups and sprayed
Dom Patreascu and his crew and she didn't hold back then.
Comparing an evening like this to the way the children had been
when they were incarcerated in the gloomy dungeons ofUngerini,
seeing them in the fresh air in such beautiful surroundings, laughing
and shouting, their stomachs full and their skins tanned, was
miraculous. I wouldn't have believed it possible jut three short
years before.
The people at the dolphinarium and the beach fun fair
very kindly didn't charge us, but unfortunately for the other
holidaymakers, once our children got on the rides at the fair we
couldn't get them off. They would sit for twenty minutes at a
time, just going round and round. The gypsies running the rides
enjoying seeing the obvious fun the children were having, were
happy to give them extra time. I noticed that other people were
taking their children away when they saw our children. To begin
with it made me angry, but then I decided it was just a good
opportunity to fit more of our children onto the rides. I suppose
they were frightened their children might catch something or
would be upset by the physical ugliness of our children - they
were the ones suffering from their ignorance, not us.
I used to tell them not to be frightened, that their children
could not catch anything from ours, but my words fell on stony
ground so I decided to ignore them and look on the bright side.
The carers thought I was wonderful, sacrificing all my turns on
the rides to look after the bags - little did they know that just
watching made me feel travel sick.
Johnny the dentist had asked at the hotel about other activities
available in the area, and Doamna Victoria had rung a horsebreeding
farm owned by a very rich family of gypsies (who looked bs if they would slit your throat if you turned your back on them tor a moment). Our evening at the farm turned into the most "lernorable outing of the whole holiday. All the horses were
brought out for rides and demonstrations and the children were {yven carriage rides around the beautiful estate in the warm
^35
evening air. An enormous thoroughbred appeared and I was
offered a ride, but I didn't want the responsibility of breaking the
poor creature's back and so declined. Many of the women carers
had a go and thoroughly enjoyed themselves, however.
At the end of the evening I went to the head man and asked
him how much I owed him for our evening's entertainment. Very
formally and very emotionally he refused any payment: 'It is I
who should be paying you,' he said, 'for the most beautiful
evening of my life.' He then started to weep and gave me money
to buy the children ice-creams and drinks.
For the mornings and afternoons, we colonised a beautiful,
secluded piece of beach. A few people came up and warned us
not to let the children too far out into the water - there was a
deep channel nearby through which the fishermen took their
boats out to sea - but we felt there were enough of us to stand
guard and we needed to find a fairly uncrowded area to spread
ourselves out in. I have to say that once we arrived and started
to organise ourselves we usually found that the surrounding areas
cleared pretty quickly.
There were always a few curious onlookers who would come
and stare. Helen, resplendent in her bikini and Doc Martens,
joked that they were staring at me in my bathing costume because
they thought I was a beached whale, but it was obviously the
children who excited their interest. Helen was very brave and
used to sit herself down cross-legged in front of these people and
stare straight back at them until they felt so uncomfortable they
got up and left. I never had quite that much courage.
There were those who wanted to practise their English on us
and would ask us the usual irritating questions: 'Who's paying
you?' and, 'Why don't you bring nice children to the beach?'
'These children have no one else to bring them,' I replied, as
reasonably as I could, 'and they are nice; they're just handicapped.'

If anyone hung around too long we would give them a child to
hold and sadly that got rid of them pretty quickly. There were
some people who were very kind, though. One man bought a
kite for the children and others bought them ice-creams.
When the sun was particularly strong we would use the van
and a few sun umbrellas to provide shade for the less mobile
children, and I encouraged the more able ones to lay the towels
out and look after the ones who needed watching over. We ate
236
melons, which Johnny the dentist and his daughter Delia got
from the market each morning. I wanted to get the children
working as a team as much as possible, helping one another
whenever they could. For the first time they were not having
everything done for them; they were having to do things for
themselves and each other. I even got them saying 'please' and
'thank you' for things. They seemed to enjoy it all.
I constantly worried about the children drowning or wandering
off, and so I would arrange the volunteers and women into a
triangle with John Hickman out at sea to catch any who ventured
too far out. He was wonderful at coaxing the more timid ones
into the water, gently splashing their faces and getting them used to the waves. They all loved being smothered in sun cream and
after-sun lotion. We did, unfortunately, manage to burn poor
Shanti because I hadn't realised she had a condition which meant
her pale skin burned at the slightest exposure. She got burnt only
on our last day and the Sisters were furious with me when we
took her back in that state. All I could do was apologise to her
and to them.
In the hostel dining room, where we would eat lunch and
supper, we regularly met a group of perfect-looking Russian
children, visiting gymnasts. I had noticed that they were ridiculing
our children but lacked the courage to do anything about it. Then
one mealtime Szuzannah had one of her classic falls, tumbling
inelegantly off her wobbly, duck-like legs, hitting her head on the
table and knocking over a chair. It was a hard job getting her
back up because her feet turn in so much and she is always shaky
after a fall. The Russian children were all screaming with laughter
and imitating her fall. I became so incensed with anger that
anyone should mock Szuzannah after all that she had endured to
be able to walk at all that I stormed over to their table and started
shouting at them in English, telling them they should have helped
instead of picking on someone who was obviously in trouble.
Their teacher turned on me and wanted to know how I could
expect them not to laugh when our children were so handicapped.
That merely made me angrier and I began listing all the defects
of the Russian children and ended, rather grandly, saying, 'At
least our children don't eat like pigs at a trough!' They didn't
laugh at us any more after that.
The Sisters made me promise that I would keep the children's
religious observance while they were away from their care. This
237
meant sprinkling holy water on the beds each night in the sign of
the cross as many Catholic families do, a kind of daily baptism,
and saying prayers with them. We took it in turns to say grace
before each meal. It was a wonderful holiday, although such
luxuries are not the Sisters' usual way of doing things - it is hard
to justify a seaside holiday when the poor are banging on your
door and begging for a slice of bread for their starving families.
Sadly, the following winter, Dom Patreascu died and his widow,
Doamna Patreascu, insisted that I should go to the funeral with
her -1 was in Romania at the time collecting Lucien and Marian
to take them to England for operations. I felt honoured that the
family should want me there, and grateful to have the opportunity
to remember the life of this very special man. Dom Patreascu's
was the first Romanian funeral I had ever been to and I was not
prepared for the level of emotion I would encounter. The funeral
was held on the day before we were due to return to England and
a howling blizzard had set in. The local women and family
members set up a shrieking and screaming like I have never heard
before. The body was put on display in an open coffin on an open
cart. Dom Patreascu was all dressed up in his best Sunday suit
and shiny shoes, but as I looked at him I couldn't find the tears
to express my own sadness. I looked down at the children and saw
they were all watching me, solemn-faced and dry-eyed, waiting to
see what I would do. The sight of their sad little faces, thinking
how they had lost such a good friend, their 'Grandad', was
enough to set me off and as I began to weep they all followed
suit.
'Please, Bevey,' his widow asked me, 'say a few words to Dom
Patreascu.'
I started to protest but realised it would mean a lot to her and,
praying my Romanian was up to it, went up to the coffin to thank
the old man for being a grandfather to us all. 'Dom Patreascu
was the first and only family the children have ever known,' I
said, 'and he was family to me too - thank you for sharing him.'
When the time came to put the lid on the coffin the screaming
and moaning reached new heights.
'Let my lips brush the lips of my husband one last time,'
Doamna Patreascu wailed. 'When they put the lid down I will
never see his sweet face ever again.'
'Let me touch the hand of my father,' his daughter cried, beating
her fist against her heart in grief. When they finally lowered the
Z38
coffin into the grave the women almost followed it down in their
desperation not to let him go. I felt such an overwhelming sadness
for his family and for the Mother Teresa children that for quite
some time afterwards I would find my eyes filling with tears
whenever I thought about not seeing him again. The home
wouldn't seem the same without his kindly presence each night.
Eighteen months later, seeing his round, smiling face on a video,
I turned to his son Gerry, who had tears dripping down his cheeks,
and shared a few of those tears.
I had asked the Sisters if it would be possible to take one of
their Romanian helpers with us to Britain to assist Lucien and
Marian because I felt that they really needed someone who could
speak their language well and who would help them to maintain
their usual routines so that they would fit in again easily on their
return to Bacau. I had seen with all the other children that
although the nurses at the hospital were great, it was not the
same as having a familiar face from home around.
'Write down the name of the girl you think would be best,'
Sister Fabiana told me, 'and I will do the same.'
We both came up with the same name, Maria 'Ochelari' (Maria
of the glasses), a very bright girl in her early twenties who was
always asking questions about what we were doing and why.
After we had spoken to her we went to see her widowed father
to ask his permission for her journey, which he gave, although it
was obvious he wasn't comfortable with the idea. He seemed
rather set in his ways, not very considerate of his hardworking
daughter's feelings in this or any other matter. He wouldn't agree
to having water piped to his house because they had always
fetched it from the well and he saw no reason why Maria should
be any different. I noticed that when Maria pointed out to him
that he had trodden mud in all over the floors that she had just
finished cleaning he brushed her protests aside. 'That,' he told
her, 'is what floors are for.' I knew, however, that many Romanian
men of his generation were like that, and I could see that father
and daughter had a tremendous love for one another, despite
their disagreement about Maria's trip to Britain.
Not long before we were due to return to England I was in bed
in the dormitory when Maria came round last thing to lift the
children, as she always did, to try to cut down on the number of
wet beds. As she went past my bed I made the same joke I always
made, 'Do I have to get up, Maria, can't I stay in bed?' I noticed
2.39
she didn't smile, which was unusual for her, even though she must
have heard me make the same joke a hundred times. 'Are you
okay, Maria?' I asked and her bottom lip began to quiver.
I took her into the washroom and she told me what was wrong.
It seemed she was frightened about almost everything, from the
flight itself to the responsibility of looking after the children.
'My father tells me that if one of the children dies it will be my
responsibility,' she said. I assured her it wouldn't be, but I didn't
think my Romanian was up to setting her mind at rest totally, so
I asked Sister Fabiana to talk to her. Ultimately, Maria did come
with us, nervously but willingly. Sister Fabiana having explained
to Maria and her father that I would be the children's legal
guardian and would take all the responsibility this entailed. Both
Maria and her father were comforted by this.
The trip back to England went well partly because the airline
was now used to our presence. They no longer sat us at the back
of the plane in case we upset the other passengers, and they let
us go straight through the airport instead of making us go round
the back. Marian sat next to me and Lucien sat next to Maria,
but as the plane started to taxi onto the runway Lucien became
agitated and wanted to get to me. We swapped them over but as
the plane gathered speed he became worse, rocking back and
forth and begging me to tell the pilot to slow down. Once we had
taken off he was all right but I knew we were going to have to
make another stop in Romania before getting to England and
would have to go through the whole thing again - worse still, we
would be landing on compacted ice! Lucien, however, trusted me
and was very observant. Once he saw that I wasn't showing any
signs of fear he realised there was nothing to worry about although
he did keep saying, 'I will go back to the Sisters soon,
won't I, Bevey?' I assured him he would. Once he knew he wasn't
leaving for good Lucien became an instantly seasoned traveller,
even braving a visit to the cockpit with Maria to meet the pilot.
Maria became very nervous when we landed in England
because she had an ingrained fear of officialdom - the legacy of
years of dictatorship. I went through Immigration with her and
then she shot off because she had seen a policeman. I caught hold
of her and took her over, asking the officer to come and talk to
us so she could see that he didn't behave anything like a Romanian
policeman. She couldn't believe how polite and softly spoken he
was.
2,40
Stansted is a wonderful airport to bring handicapped people in
and out of because it is so calm and friendly and so geared up for
wheelchairs. As we came through Immigration we found John
Hickman and Helen waiting for us. John had managed to find a
brilliant van that would take wheelchairs and Helen had come
up from London just to welcome the boys to England. We stopped
for a cup of coffee before heading off with John for the new
Mother Teresa home in Birmingham where the boys would be
staying during their treatment.
We were warmly welcomed by Sister Vinetha, the Sister
Superior, who had thought of everything to make their stay cosy.
The home was so new that it was really still a building site and
only the day before the Sisters had been painting the walls of the
room which the boys and Maria were going to share. But by the
time we arrived they had made it look very homely, moving beds
down from another floor and filling it with pictures and toys.
There was a table and chairs for them to eat at and an electric
fire because the central heating had not yet been installed. They
had wanted us to bring the children later, when the house was
finished, but with Nigel considering retirement there was a danger
that if we didn't bring the boys then they would miss their chance.
I could see that Maria was a bit intimidated by the whole
experience and offered to stay with her for the first night. The
Sisters found me a Z-bed which Maria insisted on taking, giving
her divan up to me. She was always very respectful and courteous,
even though it wasn't at all necessary. I had learnt to accept little
gestures like this uncomplainingly, realising that a refusal could
hurt people's feelings.
The next day John brought Patreascu up to collect me. When
Patreascu walked in Maria, who had looked after him in Sister
Ida's room two years beforehand, was standing at the other end
of a long corridor. He still had on a heavy-duty caliper and as he
limped towards her, she suddenly realised who it was and started
to run, weeping hysterically. When she reached Patreascu she fell
to her knees, touching, hugging and kissing him, completely
beside herself.
Patreascu, whose speech was still a little indistinct, just kept
patting her and saying, 'Awight, awight.' When she heard him
speaking she almost fainted.
Then it was Lucien's turn. 'Patreascu Mic?' he said, unable to
believe his eyes.
241
'Yes, Lucien,' I said, 'this is Patreascu Mic.'
'Patreascu walks?'
'That is what you will be like, Lucien,' I told him as he made
Patreascu walk back and forth in front of him, staring openmouthed
in amazement.
'Patreascu speaks?' He shook his head in wonder at the miracles
unfolding in front of him.
'Patreascu eats?' he said when we all sat down for lunch. He
couldn't believe it!
The wonders never seemed to cease for them. When Patreascu
asked to go to the toilet and then washed his hands afterwards,
Maria dissolved into tears again, remembering the number of
times she had had to clean up his cot or anywhere else that he
had been at the moment he decided he needed to go. When he
said his prayers at the beginning of the meal and helped Lucien
and Marian to cross themselves it was almost too much for her.
Patreascu was desperate to use his new-found skills to help his
old friends, serving them their food, testing the temperature of
their drinks and buttering their bread for them. At one stage
Lucien got his penis out and started playing with it. He had
always had a habit of doing this and it was quite the most
enormous member I have ever seen. Sister Jane was very broadminded
about her boys masturbating as long as it was not in
public, although one of the other nuns was not so understanding
and used to threaten to beat Lucien's erection with a wooden
spoon. Patreascu's face was a picture as he saw Lucien start to
unravel this gigantic thing from his trousers. His jaw dropped
open and he looked from Lucien's lap down to his own with an
expression which suggested that many complex new thoughts
were passing through his young mind.
He immediately understood, however, that this was neither the
time nor the place to proudly display one's member, whatever the
size, and in the little Romanian I had taught him, he said, 'No willy
out in front of Sisters, pants up and trousers zipped.' Although he
was very aware of Lucien's sometimes erratic and very unusual
behaviour, Patreascu seemed to want to protect him. Now that
his awareness of what was accepted behaviour had developed he
simply didn't want other people to ridicule his Romanian friends,
some of whose behaviour was very bizarre.
Lucien had never lost the habit of using the most foul language
imaginable, much of which the women carers at Ungerini had
Z4Z
taught him in order to amuse themselves. There was a rather twee
visitor at the Birmingham home who used to annoy Maria,
criticising her methods and continually interfering. One morning
she walked into the room and Lucien smiled broadly.
'Hallo, you hairy old vagina!' he exclaimed in Romanian and
I thought Maria and I were going to die of embarrassment.
'What did he say?' the elderly visitor asked brightly, pleased at
such an enthusiastic welcome.
'He was saying how nice your hair looks,' I translated and once
she had left the room we collapsed in helpless giggles before
trying to explain to a puzzled Lucien that he mustn't say such
things to people.
When the time came for the boys to have their operations
Maria got into a terrible state and so I asked Father Gerrard if he
would come to sit with her while the operations went underway. I
was going to be in the theatre.
Lucien was very nervous on the way in spite of the premeds
he had been given. I always insisted the children had premeds,
even when the anaesthetists said it wasn't necessary, because I
wanted the experience to be as trauma-free as possible for them.
They were given something in tablet form to relax them, and then
I would insist the nurses use Emia cream, a local anaesthetic, to
numb any injection sites. The children had all had such bad
experiences with injections at Ungerini that the idea of the anaesthetic
could be more frightening for them than the operation
itself.
When it came to Marian's operation everyone had to wear
goggles, double gowns and triple gloves because of the danger of
catching hepatitis. It was astonishing how much bone would be
flying around the theatre once the doctors got to work with their
hammers and drills. Marian was eleven and had a large head due
to hydrocephalus. He had club feet too, which made it very
difficult for him to walk, although Nigel suspected he could have
got around if he had truly wanted to. Correcting club feet is
something surgeons hate to do. Vast amounts of tissue, sinews
and cartilage have to be cut away to release the feet so that they
can be straightened out and pinned into position, ready for
walking on. In England club feet are dealt with soon after birth
so an operation on a child of Marian's age is extremely rare, if
not unheard of.
Lucien was fifteen, although only the size of an average seven2.43
year-old. His legs were bent permanently in the lotus position
with the bones horribly mishapen and deformed. If he was held
up in a standing position his bones pointed outwards, looking as
if he was wearing jodhpurs. He was on the operating table for
six hours with Nigel, his surgeon son, Jonathan, and another
surgeon working on him, plus a dental surgeon who was removing
some of his teeth. Nigel and Jonathan and their colleague spent
a long time cutting carefully through everything because the
nerves and sinews would be sewn back together leaving minimal
damage and the best possible chance for healing and normal
function after the operation. A piece had to be cut out of the
thigh bone and then the two remaining pieces of bone pulled
together to form an almost straight section of bone which Nigel
then plated together. The same operation had to be repeated on
the other leg but to a different set of measurements. Having plated
both parts of the bone together on the second leg, the lengthy
process of stitching all the muscles, cartilage and tendons back
together took place. It was tiring, intricate and absolutely fascinating
to watch - even for one as squeamish as me.
Nigel was very concerned about the suitability of Lucien's
bones for the treatment he proposed because when he'd had them
X-rayed he had discovered that they did not contain any of the
internal marrow that most of us have. Because he had been tied
for so long in one position and had suffered rickets they had
become completely solid and Nigel was worried that because they
lacked marrow they would not heal properly. He was also worried
that he might sever some vital nerves in trying to get to the bones.
Unable ever to stop talking in moments of stress, I was constantly
asking questions when I was in the theatre and most of the time
Nigel would answer. At one stage he let out a strangled, 'Bev,
shut up.' A few minutes later he straightened up and apologised,
explaining that he had been working on a particularly fiddly
section. Given that, his response was very restrained, especially
after hours at the operating table.
When Lucien came round he was very distressed. It was the
tooth extractions which caused him most discomfort and a lot of
vomiting and nausea. I stayed with him until he was calm enough
to hand over to Maria, at which stage Nigel rang up and ordered
me to go downstairs. When I got to the theatre staff restroom I
found that his wife, Moira, had prepared another of her lavish
picnics for us all. Now the boys had survived the surgery we all
244
felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off our shoulders.
There was quite a carnival atmosphere as we talked over everything
that had happened. The nurses relieved Maria so that I
could bring her down and she could join in, albeit rather timidly.
By Easter, there was still a long way to go until either Lucien or
Marian were ready to go back home to Romania and we invited
Maria and the boys home for the long weekend; it would give
them a break from the hospital. With Nigel's and the Sisters'
blessing they stayed three weeks in the end. Patreascu spent his
whole time trying to protect them from the dangers of fires and
electrical points, just as we had had to do with him when he first
became mobile and curious. They could not return to the Sisters'
home in Birmingham because building work was still under way
and there was too much risk of infection from all the dust. During
the remainder of their stay in hospital the Sisters visited them
every day and Patreascu and I came up once a week together and
I came up on my own again mid-week. Once they were discharged
we had some lovely times every Saturday with the Sisters, Maria
and the boys at the Birmingham house. I often asked Patreascu if
he might prefer to do something else but he always insisted on
going to Birmingham to see his friends, to help them get up and
walk.
Maria 'the glasses' became a dear friend. She had always
dreamed of going to London and seeing a show, so John agreed
to take her for a day out, visiting Cats, taking a tour of the City
and going out to dinner afterwards. She told me it was the most
wonderful day of her life. I was awfully relieved when she came
back - Marian was a terribly difficult child to cope with. He was
not at all self-motivated, unlike most of the visiting children, and
expected, almost demanded in his silent way, that he get the
constant care a baby would, right down to not wanting even to
clean his own teeth. He had big, velvety brown eyes and almost
everyone fell for his idle ways. He was so big that it was virtually
impossible to lift him onto a changing mattress and there was no
physical reason why he couldn't use a potty and then the toilet.
But life had been so hard on him he really couldn't see much
point in doing anything beyond lying around, eating, sleeping or
staring at the ceiling. The floor seemed very secure to him because
there was nowhere for him to fall to. Persuading him to take a little
exercise and gain some independence was very hard, although we
245
did eventually get him walking to the bathroom and cleaning his
own teeth, after what must have seemed to him like endless
nagging. I had on several occasions had to suggest to Maria that
she take Patreascu downtown for a McDonalds when I thought
the strain of looking after Marian might be proving too much.
It's a favourite place with both the children and their carers. The
staff are always helpful - carrying trays or pushing wheelchairs and
try to make our visits special. I had been shown how much
Marian was capable of when he put his mind to it by Sally
Braithwaite, the physiotherapist from Brays Road School. When
we were becoming particularly fed up with him she wheeled him
out into the hospital car park in his chair.
'I'll show you what he can do if he has to,' she said, and set
the chair rolling down a steep hill. Horrified, I was about to run
after him and catch the handles but she held me back. Sure
enough, after he had looked round and ascertained that no one
else was going to help him, his hand shot out and stopped the
chair's speeding progress as easily as if he did it all the time.
Marian couldn't be more different from Lucien who was supposed
to do fifteen minutes physio every hour but was so keen he would
try to cram sixty-five minutes into every hour.
People used to think we were wicked for forcing Marian to get
up and walk on Dr Nigel's instructions, mainly due to the theatrical
protesting he was expert at. Whenever he came to our house
he used to systematically collapse and go over the top of his
zimmer frame, landing in a heap on the floor. We were so alarmed
when he kept doing this and bruising himself that I rang Dr
Nigel. 'Great!' he declared. 'That boy has an acute sense of selfpreservation.
He won't do anything to endanger himself. He's
just making a protest. Every time he does it pick him up and he'll
soon learn that he has to stay upright.'
'But he could really hurt himself,' I protested.
'I rather hope he will,' Dr Nigel replied. 'That way he will give
up flinging himself about and concentrate on what he's ruddy
well here for - to walk.'
We did as we were told and Nigel was right: eventually Marian
stayed up and walked. He is still able to muster up sympathy by
looking up at some unsuspecting person with his huge brown
eyes and giving a little wail of pain and exhaustion, persuading
them to carry him, but not far for he is very heavy.
Maria also came with John, Patreascu and me to the church
246
service at which I was accepted into the Catholic faith. I didn't
tell anyone else in the family about it because I thought they
might laugh at me. I had been very nervous about having to stand
up in front of everyone in the church, even though there were
three of us doing it. Father Sean had talked me through a practice
run and assured me that he would prompt me if I went wrong. It
was an exciting and special evening, the candles flickering and
whole place alive with love and an exhilarating vibrance. We all
sang loudly and joyfully and I felt so happy and complete that
when I first took Holy Communion I thought I was going to
faint. Patreascu clapped when it was my turn and called, 'That's
my mum!' and everyone joined in and applauded with him.
When we got home around 10 p.m. I could see that Denise and
Janet (from Abbey National), who had kindly agreed to come
and look after Marian and Lucien, were very relieved to see us
back. Denise and Janet had been out to Bacau so they knew what
to expect, but an afternoon and evening alone with Marian and
Lucien (who had been waving his willy at them all day) had
proved almost more than their nerves could stand and they were
exhausted.
Having decided we were all starving we discovered that Maria
had never eaten Chinese food and was under the impression that
they ate worms. So we ordered a take-away from the end of the
road and stayed up talking into the small hours of the morning.
We all felt too high to sleep.
John Hickman spent a great deal of time with the boys, ferrying
them back and forth to Brays Road School each day, and I thought
it would be nice for him to accompany them back to Romania
and enjoy the excitement and pride that the triumphant return
always engendered. He jumped at the chance.
During my October 1994 visit with the medical team, the
Sisters asked if we would like to come and celebrate Mass with
them at Gisteni, the Adult Institute. I was very pleased to accept
because I would have the chance to see children who had transferred
from Ungerini at eighteen. I had not seen them since. I was
disappointed every time I visited Ungerini to find that more
children had gone to Gisteni.
I had not visited Gisteni since my original trip there with the
Norwegian Red Cross, but the memories were still very vivid. It
had been as appalling as Ungerini, yet worse still because there
were nearly five hundred adults in residence. And no running
M7
water, no light bulbs, no mattresses on the few beds and not even
a blanket each! Almost as bad as the total physical and mental
deprivation was the total lack of anything to do. I remembered
being incredibly fearful of the noise, the screaming and so afraid
that someone would hurt me.
I was pleased to find that Gisteni was better than I had remembered;
there had been definite improvements but there was still a
long way to go.
As we drew into the gates hundreds of the patients came rushing
towards us. The Sisters helped Father Mihai set up an altar under
a big tree and the patients and village people began to gather. The
patients joined in the singing and praying as best they could and
were very much enjoying themselves. It looked just like a scene
from the Bible. Father Mihai obviously had a great affinity for
the people. His services are the only recreation the patients have
and a welcome influence from the outside. I wondered what
would happen once the snows came - already it was almost too
cold to be outside even if only for a couple of hours on a sunny
day.
It is Father Mihai's dream to build a small church so that
services may be held throughout the year. A friend of mine,
Marcus Beale of MB A Architects has designed a simple church
for Father Mihai and his unusual flock - so maybe, if God is
willing, and the money comes, it will happen...
Later in October, Maria came up to me very coquettishly and
announced that her boyfriend had asked her to marry him. She
invited us to the wedding. I really wanted to go but we were
running out of money by that stage and it was hard to justify the
costs of so many flights to and from Britain. As I was going to be
over there collecting a child before the date of the wedding my
husband John very generously suggested that I stay on with John
Hickman for the celebrations, and what celebrations they were.
It meant being away from Patreascu for ten days which was hard,
but I felt I owed it to Maria.
The Sisters dressed the big girls up for the occasions. They even
managed to get Valentina to exchange her usual tomboy outfit
for a dress. Everyone was wearing fur coats and make-up and
looked very elegant. Maricica, who had the body of a ten-yearold
and the face of an ex-boxer was also in a fur coat, with huge
hoop earrings which she was very proud of. Doamna Patreascu had made flower garlands for everyone.
248
Just as we were ready to leave we realised that the weekly
gypsy market had set up in the mud track outside the home and
we weren't going to be able to get the van up to the gate. There
was no way we could get the children all the way down to the
van through the market stalls, so we had to go out and plead
with the stall holders to move back and let the van through. Once
they understood the gravity of our problem they were very helpful
and cheerfully waved us off.
Maria's village is called Valea Mari and lies about twenty
kilometres outside Bacau. The children sang all the way up to
this scenic little hamlet with its picture-book church. When we
arrived Maria, who hadn't known if I was going to be able to
make it or not, was overcome with excitement. She was standing
arm in arm with her husband-to-be as we drew up and shyly
introduced us. He was a handsome young man, prematurely
greying and with his hand resting formally inside his suit as if he
were Napoleon. The Romanians are always very dignified and
proper when it comes to photographs and traditional ceremonies.
After the ceremony we lost Valentina for a while, only to
discover her standing between the bride and groom for the official
photographs, a large grin on her face. She had exchanged her
dress for some rather fancy trousers!
The reception was held in a local co-operative hall, a beautiful
building with dark wood walls and floors and dozens of tables
groaning under the weight of a feast which Maria's family must
have been preparing for days. There were all the traditional foods
of the countryside; soups, meats, rice wrapped in vine leaves,
pickled tomatoes, hot chillies and bowls of raw garlic cloves. As
we came in we were given glasses of Tsuika and slices of traditional
bread. I don't usually drink Tsuika because it is too
potent for me, but it was so cold I wanted to find some way of
warming my bones.
The band, consisting of an ancient accordion, drums, saxophone,
keyboard and guitar, immediately struck up the fastest
music imaginable and Valentina came up and grabbed me, growling
at me to come and dance with her. For a moment I held back,
afraid of making people stare, then, warmed by the Tsuika and
the smiles of the people around us, I melted and headed out onto
the dance floor with her. The room erupted into clapping and
cheering and the party was off. Everyone was so quick to start
enjoying themselves and so courteous to the old people it was a
2.49
joy to watch. They all seemed to be able to dance wonderfully,
even the largest, most cumbersome-looking women and the most
gnarled old men. They whizzed their partners around at a terrifying
speed, the men whistling to one another through their
teeth. The dances were a mixture of formation Latin and traditional
Greek dancing. All the men wanted to dance with me.
'No, no,' I kept protesting, 'dance with her.' I indicated a very
slim, pretty English woman volunteer who had come with us.
'No,' one of them shook his head. 'She looks like something
left over after dinner. We want to dance with a real woman.'
'They say you are too young,' I shouted to the other woman
as I was swept back out onto the floor.
After a while Maria's father wanted to go back to their home
because he didn't feel well and they invited us to join them. It
was a wonderfully warm, simple house and they made us very
welcome, bringing out their prize jar of Nescafe and making us
some powerful coffees. I felt very proud to be so much part of a
community which just a few years before had seemed so alien
and shocking.
250
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A New Life
*
IVly life has now changed completely. I no longer work at the
Abbey National, my time being fully occupied with helping the
Sisters with their work with the poor, the handicapped and, above
all, the children of Romania, and with looking after our new son,
Patreascu. To begin with I was learning as I went along, an
enthusiastic amateur, but now I like to think I am wiser in the
way I work. I also have a religious faith which not only means a
lot to me but is a tremendous practical help too.
John and I continue to struggle through all the bureaucracy
and expense involved in the adoption process (the legal costs
could run up to £25,000, we are told). It cost £2,000 to have a
home study conducted by the Social Services and have the authorities
come up with seemingly endless petty observations, one
report even saying that we weren't suitable because we were
both 'morbidly obese'! My doctor wrote back asking for further
explanations since he didn't understand what they meant and
confessing that he found us 'plump but quite happy'. Tony
Hughes, our solicitor, has been a life saver on many occasions when
the formalities seemed endless he was always positive and
reassuring, and when we expressed our concern at the likely cost
of the adoption process, he and his partners at Linnell's kindly
waived the fees for his services.
We have even been on television! Patreascu was invited to see
the Blue Peter studios, and spent the day with DianeLouise
Jordan, the programme's effervescent, fun-loving and kind presenter.
They got on famously and have become firm friends.
We all appeared on Hearts of Gold - Patreascu not only took
over the studio but captivated everyone too. It was as if he had
251
been appearing on television all his life. The crew loved him and
said something very special happened in the studio that evening.
Everyone at the BBC was marvellous, making it a very special
and memorable day for us - if somewhat of a surprise.
After struggling to master it for several months, Patreascu
learnt to read. When he suddenly read a whole book to Mrs
Tholen she sent him to Mrs Finkenrath, who was so thrilled she
insisted he go and interrupt every class and read to them. All
afternoon they told me they could hear loud cheers as he went
from room to room and they were so proud of him.
Patreascu wanted to learn the trumpet at school but we were
afraid the polio might have damaged his lungs too much.
However, James, the trumpet teacher, told us he managed to make
enough noise to stop the whole school and is now having trumpet
lessons in the Annexe - as well as learning the violin.
We had always intended to take Patreascu back to visit the
Sisters and see his country when we could afford it and, of course,
as soon as we felt sure that the Romanian authorities would let
him back out and the British let him back in. In the baking heat
of the summer of 1995 it finally all came together. Some time
before, I had approached a British Airways captain, Len Gruber,
whom I had met on a Tarom flight, asking for a free flight for a
young man the Sisters were sending over for eye operations.
During a telephone chat, Len asked when I next planned to visit
Romania and I told him of our dream and that we hoped it would
happen next year. He asked me why I hadn't asked for free
airfares for us and I admitted that I couldn't honestly say it was
a matter of life and death - just that we thought it would be nice
for Patreascu. Commending me for my honesty he said he would
see what he could do and came back to us a few weeks later with
the news that he had tickets for all three of us to travel. Things
like this do not happen to us! There was only a week for us to
prepare ourselves and the day before we were due to fly out we
went down to the Romanian Embassy in London so that John
and I could get visas.
'And where is the young man's passport?' the Consul asked.
'Actually,' I said, 'he's Romanian,' and I explained something
of his story. The Consul was so impressed that we were actually
taking Patreascu back to see his country and experience the
culture which had previously been denied to him that he called
the Ambassador, who was equally thrilled. They told us that
2,52
almost no one thought to take the children back and they went
out of their way to ensure that we would have no trouble with
bureaucracy at the Romanian end. It was going to take a few
hours for our visas to be processed and so Patreascu and I went
out into Kensington Gardens. The heat was almost overpowering
and the sight of the fountains was too much for Patreascu, who
stripped down to his underpants and dived in, looking like Sabu
the Elephant Boy. All sorts of people stopped to talk to him as he
played in the water, his joyfulness infecting everyone who passed
by.
The next day we flew out after only a few hours' sleep. The
BA staff were marvellous and treated Patreascu like royalty. His
obvious excitement and anticipation were infectious and set up a
carnival atmosphere on board. Patreascu spent the whole flight
helping with drinks and looking after everyone - with the flight
crew's blessing.
Patreascu was received by the Romanian authorities like a
returning hero. I was nervous that we would have our usual wait
at Bucharest Airport while the Sisters tried to find someone to
collect us - often in the past I had sat there for four hours or
more, never doubting that they would come for me eventually.
They had told us that Gerry, Dom Patreascu's son, would pick us
up. He was a lovely man who often worked for the Sisters and
whom we had asked to be one of Patreascu's godparents. To see
him waiting for us, towering head and shoulders above the crowd,
was wonderful because it meant we could escape the hassle of
fighting our way past all the taxi drivers, money changers and
unofficial porters touting for business. When he saw his godson,
Gerry wept.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon by the time we left
the airport and the journey was a nightmare of traffic jams and
accidents, but Patreascu was beside himself with excitement at
every cow, chicken or goose that crossed the road. It was midnight
by the time we reached the home and the Sisters, who always rise
at 4.30 in the morning, had retired to their convent for the night.
As we drew up at the high metal gates I saw a light on upstairs someone
was watching out for our arrival. As the gates were
swung open we heard shouts of, 'Bevey, Patreascu, John!' and
children in nightclothes spilled out onto the balconies above. I
was terrified that in their rush they would hurtle headlong over
the edge. As the van came through the gates they ran up and
253
clung to the sides. The carers were joining the throng and even
Bobby the dog came out barking his greetings. One of my
volunteers, a tremendous girl named Heather, had stayed up to
greet us too. Gerry drove slowly forward until he was eventually
bogged down in a sea of bodies. We opened the doors and
tried to get out as the crowd grabbed at us, kissing and
cuddling and shouting their news and greetings. They threw
clouds of petals over us and hung home-made garlands of
flowers round our necks. They were all crying with joy at the
sight of Patreascu who was wide-eyed and nervous at the noise
of the onslaught.
I felt myself being carried towards the building by the crowd,
my feet barely touching the ground as they insisted we come in
and eat before being taken to our accommodation. I noticed
Illeana standing at the back of the crowd. I had been worried
that she would feel resentful at seeing us returning with Patreascu
as our son. She came forward hesitantly once the crowd began
to calm down and handed us a painting she had done of our
house in England, the dogs and cat. She had obviously put a lot
of time and trouble into it and was happy to see us, wanting to
make us feel comfortable.
The Sisters had decided that it would be better if we stayed
together as a family for most of the month rather than splitting
us up in dormitories as usual. So they had arranged for us to
move in with Tante Chiriac and her husband Gheorghe, who
lived in a little peasant cottage beside the home. I had often
looked out at this primitive but, picturesque smallholding on
previous visits, but had never been inside.
Once we had been fed we were taken round to the dark, tiny
cottage and greeted by Tante Chiriac and Gheorghe. Patreascu
was very shy with this rather awe-inspiring old woman with her
incredibly wizened face and hands and her gold teeth flashing in
the dim light. The little wisps of hair which peeped out from
under her red headscarf looked dark brown, not grey, but I knew
her to be in her seventies. She wore a flowery frock and pinny.
Gheorghe wore rough denim working trousers and shirt and
when he took off his working cap he revealed a fine head of curly
grey hair. They sweetly told us that the house was ours for as
long as we wanted to stay and that they would be sleeping in
their summer kitchen, which was a few yards away. Tante showed
us through the three little rooms with the choice of beds set up.
2.54
We decided that Patreascu should stay with me since he was
rather unsettled by his strange surroundings.
Tante then took us out into the dark to show us where the
toilet was, through the grape vines, past the pigs, the fruit trees,
the chickens and the dog, which seemed anxious to have a piece
of our ankles. I couldn't believe it but we had forgotten to pack
a torch. The loo was just an old shed with a hole in the ground
with some boards to stand on and I couldn't quite imagine how
Patreascu was going to manage since he only had one good leg
and was therefore unable to squat! He was absolutely terrified of
falling down the hole and the situation became impossible a few
nights later when he got diarrhoea. It was pitch black without
even any moonlight. Eventually we found the hut and I braced
myself with one hand holding the side of the shed and the other
holding Patreascu's gammy leg out straight, like a Cossack dancer.
He squatted on his good leg, one hand gripping onto me and the
other holding the shed for grim death - no way was that child
going to risk falling down the hole - and we started to laugh so
loud I'm sure the Sisters must have heard us in their little convent
house on the other side of the wall. On the fifth visit of the night
I decided the toilet was too much of an ordeal for him and let
him use the garden - well away from the veg'.
When I owned up in the morning Tante told us not to give it a
second thought and to let him use the garden if he ever had
diarrhoea again. She was full of good advice about what he
should eat and drink to get rid of the tummy bug and proceeded
to throw buckets of water down everywhere, ignoring my protests
that I would make good the garden.
Finally, she pumped up some ice-cold water for us to wash in
and then they both retired to leave us in peace. During the night
Patreascu and I were both bitten by thousands of mosquitoes. By
the end of our stay we did not have a scrap of skin which hadn't
been infected, while John was not bitten once.
When we woke the next morning the sun was streaming
through the vines, onto bunches of ripening grapes hanging above
the simple wooden table with its brightly coloured table cloth
and chairs. The cottage, which had seemed so dark and scary
when we arrived, now seemed like paradise. The place where we
had washed ourselves the night before was now in full view of
the road so we obviously couldn't wash more than our extremities
there during the day, but John happily set about shaving in the
255
cold water. A huge old enamel bowl stood on an ancient iron
stand and Gheorghe held up an old mirror so that John could see
what he was doing.
'Good morning,' a voice came from beside him as he concentrated
on his chin and he looked up to find himself staring
over the wall at Sister Fabiana, dazzling in her white and blue
sari. She introduced herself and then saw Patreascu and became
very emotional.
'Please,' she said, 'don't come over to our home yet. I will call
you when we are ready for you.'
Patreascu remembered Sister Fabiana, describing her as Sister
'who is not brown'. She was the only non-Indian Sister before he
left to come to the UK.
Tante Chiriac prepared us a breakfast of bread and salami and
ice-cold water drawn straight from the well, apologising that she
had no coffee and proudly showing us an empty jar which she
had been given by a British volunteer some years ago but which
was now simply an ornament. She and Gheorghe could only eat
and drink things that they could grow or raise on their land and
coffee wasn't one of them.
When Sister Fabiana called us across we could sense the excitement
in the air. As we turned the corner we saw that balloons
and garlands had been strung between all the buildings; the carers
were all in their national costumes and there were chairs set out
for a show. The children were waiting for us and then all began
singing and dancing. Doamna Anna, one of the largest of the
carers, bustled me inside, stripped me and insisted on cramming
me into her national costume: a wrap-around skirt and white
blouse, both covered with intricate embroidery, and a brightly
coloured headscarf. It was a very tight squeeze indeed.
I felt ridiculous and I never know quite what to do in such
situations, but I could see the children were looking forward to
a party and so, tacking a sickly grin onto my face, I did my best
to dance to the frantic Romanian popular folk music as the
children got up to join me. The music played, carers and Sisters
danced, the sun shone, the sky was blue, the garlands and balloons
swayed in the gentle breeze and the neighbours poured in with
little gifts of flowers and fruit. Patreascu forgot his uncertainty
and got up and danced and danced. He whirled around with
Illeana, his eyes alive with excitement and wonder that all this
was for him, that he was so special to these people. The Sisters
Z56
broke open the chocolate and the children had orange squash, a
rare treat. The whole compound was alive in a celebration of
Patreascu's life. I looked across to Sister Fabiana and mouthed,
'Thank you.' She just raised her eyes to heaven and mouthed
back, 'Thank the Lord for Patreascu.' The whole morning was
very emotional as carers who remembered Patreascu as he had
been got to grips with the reality of the new Patreascu.
Eventually he spotted the toys in the playground and wandered
off to amuse himself. Initially he had been too shy to leave our
sides but before long we had lost sight of him. When it came to
lunchtime we discovered him in with the other children eating
the rice dish they had been given and trying to show Szulita that
it would be better to use a spoon than to dig her fists in, gently
wiping her fingers on a cloth.
All through our stay Patreascu loved to help the Sisters in their
work; washing up, mopping the floor, going to market with them
and helping to hand out bread and jam and milk to the poorest
of the local children, who queue up in their hundreds each day
for what is probably their only meal. He used to spread jam on
the bread and pour the mugs of milk, smiling tenderly at each
child, making sure they didn't gulp it down or spill it in their
haste to quell their hunger pangs. When he worked in the soup
kitchen he ladled up the soup with such an infectious smile that
no one could resist smiling back. He loved all the Sisters and
adored Sister Bartholomeo's smile - perhaps she reminded him
of Sister Ida, the first person ever to show him kindness and to
believe in him. The Sisters would even take him out with them
on visits to the poor, the old and the sick. They encouraged him
to be wild and free and high-spirited to show the workers how
children should be when fit and healthy. When he returned to
school after the holidays and the teachers asked him what his
favourite thing about the trip was he said, 'Washing the chapel
floor with the Sisters; it was great.'
One afternoon in August there was great excitement and the
Sisters said that there was to be a concert that afternoon. Ashley
and Ana-liese, now happily married, had seen a group of Romanian
folk musicians play in Switzerland and had persuaded them
to come to Bacau to play for the children. It was a rare treat.
Seats were put out in the compound - enough to accommodate
all the carers and their children, the home's neighbours and
residents. Sitting in the heat of the late afternoon sun, the music
257
was fast and exciting. Patreascu made as if to get up and I pulled
his arm to get him to sit down again. Sister Fabiana whispered
laughingly to me, 'Bevey, let him go, let's see what he does.'
Well, Patreascu danced and with what vigour! If only Mrs
Woollard could have seen him, how proud she would have been.
Patreascu twirled; he jumped; his dancing was terrific and his
thin and wasted left leg did its best, splint and all, to keep up
with the rest of his body. All the children clapped, loving his
impromptu performance. Everyone was delighted with this spontaneous
and uninhibited expression of joy. The musicians, the
Sisters, the carers, the neighbours, but above all, his friends,
begged him to go on.
It was very special - a tribute to enjoying life. Patreascu picked
up a toy panda and began to dance with that, clowning around
for the children, lost in the music, revelling in his friends' response
to his comic turn. The children laughed so hard they fell onto the
floor. Patreascu gently pulled them up and onto his makeshift
dance floor. Felix, one boy who had laughed so much he cried,
snatched the toy away and began dancing around, copying Patreascu.
Soon we were all up and dancing.
It was a super afternoon with an air of jubilation - we were all
one with each other, sharing something quite precious, a sense of
overwhelming togetherness, and at its centre was Patreascu, full
of life and love.
Patreascu soon informed us of his intention to marry Sister
Fabiana at the earliest opportunity. It only took him a couple of
days to pluck up the courage to propose formally. When she
explained that she was already spoken for, for she was married
to Christ, he was disappointed but happy, declaring Jesus to be a
fine choice of husband.
I recalled my last visit when I helped Sister Bartholomeo with
the soup kitchen. She had asked me to sing with the children to
entertain those we were feeding. I had been reluctant until I saw
the joy it brought to audience and singers. Seeing Patreascu
entertaining his friends had reminded me of this. I shouldn't stop
him expressing his love of life, for it proved to the locals that
these formerly neglected children were capable of great joy, of
having fun, just like them.
One day Sister Fabiana reprimanded me for scolding Patreascu
as he was screaming at the top of his voice in the paddling pool.
'Oh, Bevey, let him enjoy himself; let him teach our children to
258
enjoy themselves too. Let him be himself.' I was concerned that
Patreascu had been teaching the children to water fight and run
around screaming, but this was what the Sisters wanted - to see
their children play freely, released from the restrictions of their
disabilities. They wanted the children liberated from the memories
of Ungerini, shown how to live life to the full, and they
believed that Patreascu was the man for the job. Sister Fabiana
also explained that she wanted the workers to realise that this
normal childlike behaviour - even misbehaviour - was good for
the children. If she was happy then I was happy too ... Even
when at nine one evening, when everyone should have been
settled for the night, the Sisters quietly indicated I should peep
into the boys' dormitory - there were the two Luciens, Felix,
Marian and Patreascu having a giant pillow fight. How we all
laughed, delighted to see such natural exuberance from boys who
had once been unresponding to anything but hunger or pain.
'Patreascu is an example to everyone of what can be achieved
with these children if they are made to feel loved and part of a family,' Sister Fabiana told me. 'Even the priests are amazed and
cannot believe that he was once a child here. It helps them to
understand why we do what we do because we believe that many
other children could be helped like this.'
She has said since that after Patreascu's visit several of the
carers started to take children to their homes for weekends in
order to give them a little of the family experience that Patreascu
had had. A school inspector called while we were visiting and
spent a long time questioning Patreascu and having his school
reports translated. After we left. Sister Fabiana reported that their
school had been allocated more teachers. I honestly believe that
taking Patreascu back for the summer has had more impact on
the area than almost anything else we have done over the last few
years.
After two weeks, John had to return to England because of
work commitments and we were all very sad to see him go.
In the warm light of day Patreascu was no longer scared of
Tante Chiriac and adored everything about the smallholding. He
never tired of pumping up well water for her, feeding the chickens,
preparing next year's seeds or helping her to bathe her two pet
pigs each lunchtime. Tante Chiriac treated the animals as if they
were her children, even though they were there to provide next
year's meat supply. When one of the pigs hurt his leg she and
2.59
Patreascu would spend hours massaging it each day, and when
he finally got back onto all four feet they cheered and clapped
and insisted on bringing the Sisters round to view the miracle.
Each night the pigs were let out for recreation and would be
waiting by the gate for Patreascu's return. Tante and Gheorghe
drove a pre-war motorbike and sidecar, rumoured to have been
left behind by the Nazis. Patreascu did try and persuade them to
take Goitsa, Tante's favourite pig, and himself out for a spin. I
am sure she would have loved to had she not been concerned the
pig might get hurt!
Being there for such a glorious summer we were able to take
the children on many wonderful but simple outings, where Patreascu
was able to fuss around them with sun creams and hats,
making sure everyone was included in the fun and got something
to eat. We visited a mineral pool as dark as chocolate and viscous
as the Dead Sea which I toppled into fully clothed, landing
completely spreadeagled and unable to right myself. After a few
seconds of polite silence, everyone collapsed laughing, me
included. Once I had got used to the strange sensation of being
unable to sink I started to tow the children around in the water
and eventually had them all sitting on top of me as I bobbed
along.
'Oh, Bevey,' Sister Bartholomeo laughed. 'The children are so
lucky to have you, so many of them can ride on you at once.' I
must have looked like a cruising whale.
We picnicked and walked and when, one day, the terrain
became too rough for Tractor Lucien, who could still not walk
and relied on his tractor to get around, Patreascu limped off to
fetch a tow rope and gladly pulled him along like an ancient
Egyptian slave boy. The other children are so non-judgemental of
one another that Patreascu completely lost his self-consciousness
about his splint and scarred leg. He cast off the long trousers he
had insisted on wearing for so long, and no longer worried about
covering the splint with a sock. I asked him what had made him
change.
'Having a splint is a good thing. Mum,' he said. 'It helps me
walk. If I hide it no children will see it and they won't know it is
good and they might be frightened or embarrassed to wear one.'
What he didn't realise was that not only were the children watching,
but virtually the whole of Moldavia. People were able to see
that wearing a splint was an indication of physical disability, not
2.60
mental disability. He was helping to tear down the very real fears
and beliefs of the local people which had held back the progress
of handicapped children so badly in the past. Patreascu embodied
the benefits of what the Sisters had been saying for years: treat
the children with humanity, as you would your family - all they
need to lead normal lives is a little extra assistance. The sight of
Patreascu's face, shining with love and joy, which shouted out,
'Hey, I'm glad to be alive,' showed more than anything why these
children are worthy of our love and our time.
One of the workers, Felicia, was to be married during our stay
and we were invited out into the country to the wedding. This
was even more traditional than Maria Ochelari's wedding, with
the bride's family partying in one house and the groom's in
another, the two sides finally coming together with a great deal
of tradition and drunken theatrics. Patreascu mistakenly downed
a glass of Tsuika, thinking it was water, and then went on to have
four glasses of wine and water before wondering why his 'legs
felt funny'. At one moment he reappeared round a corner after
spending time with some local boys, rather expertly smoking a
cigarette. Soon afterwards he disappeared off to groom the cows.
Being allowed to milk them was the greatest treat for him. The
guests were wonderful with the children, dancing with them all
afternoon and evening.
During the proceedings Illeana, now nearly twenty years old,
met a young shepherd boy who very formally asked me if he
could dance with her. I agreed and acted like a traditional Sicilian
grandmother, watching them out of the corner of my eye, but
staying an extra half-hour because Illeana seemed to be having
so much fun. As we were leaving in the van the boy appeared on
a horse and cart with his friends. He looked very dashing as he
drove up. We opened the door so that Illeana could say goodbye
and he gallantly tossed in a garland of flowers. I had seen them
kissing earlier and he had asked me if he could visit her. I told
him she lived in an orphanage and he would have to ask the
Sisters' permission.
'Did you like that boy?' I asked her once we were driving off.
'Yes,' she said, 'but I would never go out with a shepherd boy
because they are too rough and drink too much.'
Illeana has blossomed so much since the surgery on her eyes,
she's developed a real personality. She is still very aware of where
she is and of everyone's differences, but she is much more tolerant.
z6i
She goes to school every day and then has light duties in the girls'
room upstairs. She also has a Saturday job, going by herself into
Bacau to clean for, and generally help, Johnny the dentist and his
wife, Cecilia. This gives her some much needed independence as
well as some pocket money. It is good for the children to have a
break from the home and talk to ordinary Romanians living in
family environments.
During our stay we went to Mass with the Sisters every morning
at seven, and Patreascu served as an altar boy. In the evenings he
would dance for Tante and Gheorghe, clowning around until
eventually the old man fell off the bed laughing. Tante called him
her 'mari schmecker' or 'big show-off boy' and when he kissed
her goodnight Gheorghe would make a huge pantomime out of
being jealous. One afternoon I returned to find Tante Chiriac and
Patreascu curled up together, fast asleep. Gheorghe winked at me
and we left them in peace to enjoy their well earned siesta.
One morning Patreascu made his way over to the home on his
own and knocked on the door. Sister Fabiana let him in.
'I would like to have a meeting with you. Sister,' he announced.
'What about Mummy?' she asked.
'No,' he was adamant, 'this is between you and me.'
'Very well.' She led him to her office. 'Would you like coffee?'
Once they were sitting down with their coffees he explained
his plan. 'Although I am very happy in England,' he said, 'my
brother is much older than me and sometimes I am a little lonely.
I would like to adopt another child from the home.'
'Who did you have in mind?' Sister asked.
'I would like to take them all but we don't have room,' he told
her, 'but I think that Crenguitsa would be the best.'
'What about Emily?' Sister Fabiana asked, having been told all
about his English friends.
'Emily I am going to marry. Crenguitsa would be my sister. I
only have a small bedroom but we could put in bunks and she
could borrow my clothes. She would need some dresses and girl's
things for school because otherwise the children would tease her
...' he paused to think for a moment,'... but of course I'd punch
them.'
'What about Mum and Dad?'
'They think they are too old to adopt any more children, but
if we all keep praying I think it could happen.'
Though Sister Fabiana was careful not to encourage Patreascu
2,62
in his plan, he didn't give it up. When we got back to England, I
received a call from Mrs Finkenrath asking when the new child
would be arriving at St Monica's. 'What new child?' I asked.
Tatreascu has booked a place for Crenguitsa Peberdy.'
I explained that this was not going to happen; it was all in
Patreascu's mind. Mrs Finkenrath said she was disappointed as
all the staff and children were looking forward to having another
Patreascu in their school. We had to explain to Patreascu that we
were very lucky to be getting a chance to adopt him, but that it
wasn't possible for us to adopt another child because we didn't
have enough money. Mrs Finkenrath remarked one day that
Patreascu always looked clean and smart. Had she realised he
only had one of most items and the quick turnaround necessary
she would have been even more impressed. We didn't tell him
that we hadn't even enough money for his adoption and that was
why he had had to stop having violin and horse-riding lessons
for the last eighteen months, because we didn't want to worry
him.
'Also,' I told him, 'it would take a lot of work to help Crenguitsa.'

'I could help. Mum,' he insisted. 'I know what to do now.'
There is nothing physically wrong with Crenguitsa - she is a
very sweet and gentle six-year-old. I can remember the day she
arrived at Ungerini, terrified, her blue eyes wide with fear. Though
her mental capabilities are difficult to assess at present she progressed
a great deal during the summer of 1995 and is beginning
to speak. Sister Fabiana is encouraging her to mix more with
local children in the hope that she will improve more quickly
with their example to follow. Patreascu still prays that we will
adopt Crenguitsa one day or, failing that, asks Jesus to find her
another family.
Patreascu's mother, Elena, has always been kept fully informed
about our plans for adopting him and has always been very cooperative.
John and I really wanted to meet her but decided, with
the advice of the Sisters, that it might be too early for Patreascu,
that it could make him very confused. So John and I, Sister
Bartholomeo and Sister Marthe planned to go up into the mountains
to visit her while Sister Fabiana entertained Patreascu for
the day.
'If you are going out into the country,' Sister Fabiana said,
263
'could you take Maria to visit her family, to see if they would like
her to come and stay with them sometimes?'
Maria is now seventeen years old and, checking her records,
the Sisters discovered that she had arrived at Ungerini at the age
of six, along with her three-year-old sister, Mihaila. At first Maria
had been on our list to come to Britain for surgery. However,
with the aid of calipers alone she had managed to get up and walk.
Once she had overcome her fear of being upright, encouraged by
the Sisters and their 'resident walking expert', Szuzannah, she
had made so much progress that surgery was no longer necessary.
The more she walked the stronger and straighter her legs became.
At first the carers had thought me awful, making her stand,
holding onto the end of the bed; then walk a little, holding onto
my hands, sweating with a mixture of effort and fear. But the end
result was that she was eventually able to go up and down stairs
under her own steam.
Just that week Heather had, with love and encouragement, got
her to take a couple of steps without crutches. Mihaila was
a more serious case and was much lazier than her sister and
consequently less able to do anything for herself. Maria had
always sworn that she had a family but had been told at Ungerini
that she was imagining it. The Sisters, however, had managed to
trace them. Sister Fabiana had been tracing all the children's
families to see if they could be persuaded to visit the home, or to
have their children to visit them for the day or possibly even a
weekend. The great risk was that if the families said no the
children would have to face up to the reality of rejection once
more. Sister Fabiana asked me if I thought she was right to risk
this happening and I felt that if only one child could be reunited
with their family this way then it would be worth it. She said she
had reached the same conclusion.
All the time I had been at Ungerini I had always been puzzled
by the fact that families so rarely, if ever, came to visit their
children or take them out for a day. It had seemed rather shocking
to me that they were willing just to dump their children in
institutions and then forget about them. I was also curious to see
the sort of families and homes that the girls came from. The
Sisters also asked if we would look in on Shanti's mother and see
if there was any chance she could have her daughter to stay
sometimes. They are very keen to get as many of the children
as possible spending time with their families and, of course, if
2,64
everything works out happily, to be permanently reunited.
On the morning of the expedition Maria was dressed up in her
best clothes, made her face up and even painted her nails a bright
scarlet, and we set out in the van, with Gerry driving and two
Sisters to translate. We wound further and further up into the
Carpathians, bumping about on the rough tracks over terrain
which would have been impassable if the weather had not been
so dry. Several times we had to get out and push the van through
potholes and over boulders, with Gerry asking for new directions
from everyone we passed. Sister Fabiana had written to the family
about Maria but had decided not to wait for a reply in case the
letter had never arrived and now I could see why it might not.
Eventually, after many, many hours, we reached the little hamlet
where we knew the family lived. John stayed in the van with
Maria, and I went to the house with the Sisters. We were all
dripping with sweat as we made our way over the baked mud to
the ramshackle building.
Maria's mother and father came out to meet us, surrounded by
their eight children. None of them wore any shoes. They were
obviously puzzled to see us and invited us in.
'Do you have a daughter called Maria?' we asked.
'We did have,' they told us, 'but we believe she is dead. When
she was six, and her sister was three, the authorities decided we
needed help. So they took them away. They told us that they were
going to a wonderful place where they would get food and lots
of gymnastika. They said that once the girls had been taught to
walk they would be returned to us. We never heard another word
about them. We tried writing to them but the authorities denied
they existed. Eventually we found out they were at a place called
Ungerini and we wrote there, but they said the girls had gone to
a special school but they wouldn't say where and so we couldn't
trace them.'
They showed us the letter from Ungerini and I gained another
insight into the problems parents faced in tracing their children.
'This sort of thing happened all the time,' the Sisters told me.
'The authorities did not want working people to have their time
taken up caring for handicapped children; they wanted them out
in the fields or the factories.' I could see why so few families ever
came to visit the children of Ungerini.
'Your daughters are living with us in Bacau,' the Sisters told
them.
z65
'Bacau?' Their faces lit up. 'Then we could visit them?'
'Maria is outside in our van. Would you like to ... ?' Before
the Sister could finish her sentence the whole family had run
outside. John opened the door when he saw them coming and,
for the first time ever, Maria walked unaided across the uneven
ground into her mother's arms. Even the crusty-looking old father
wept to see her as she half walked and was half carried into the
house. The whole family seemed to have so much love for her.
John's face was full of joy, his eyes bright with tears.
When they had all calmed down a little Sister Bartholomeo
asked if they would like to have Maria visit for the occasional
weekend.
'No.' They were adamant and for a moment we were shocked. 'If it is at all possible. Your Worship, may she stay with us now
and never leave us again?'
We hadn't planned for this eventuality! Maria had no spare
clothes with her, just food the Sisters had brought for the family.
Sister Bartholomeo said she felt they had been separated for so
long and their joy at the reunion was so obviously sincere, that
she couldn't bear to deny them this wonderful opportunity. She
felt sure Sister Fabiana would not be angry. When we said yes
they were overwhelmed and starting firing questions at me about
how they should look after her; should they carry her around
and wash her, for instance?
'Certainly not,' I told them laughingly. 'Maria must be encouraged
to walk and do these things for herself. Please, Maria, don't
allow your mother to run around after you.' From the adoring
look she gave her mother I did not think there would be many
problems.
'There is one thing,' the father said gravely. 'Everyone in this
family works.'
'That's good,' I said. 'Maria will be glad to help too.'
'There will no time for this--' he pointed to the make-up '--
and certainly no time for this.' He tapped on her nails. 'My wife
and daughters are beautiful enough without all that.'
'That is no problem,' I laughed. 'That was just for today
because it was a special occasion.'
Maria's parents asked about Mihaila and Sister Bartholomeo
told them that though she was too weak to return home, they
would be most welcome to visit her. I was thinking that, perhaps,
in time, the Sisters would be able to get Mihaila up and walking
266
too, and then she would also be able to go home to her family.
There is a little room available for family visits - the Sisters
realise that privacy is needed for parents to spend time with their
children. It can be daunting to have all the children rushing at
you at once. There are a few toys in the visiting room for the
other children in the family to play with, and little refreshments
are provided, for a lot of the families have to travel great distances
to reach Bacau.
After leaving Maria we stopped for a picnic and the Sisters
were in rejoicing mood. 'Doesn't it feel wonderful to be able to
do these things?' they wanted to know. 'Could any amount of
riches make you feel better than this?' I had to admit that I didn't
think they could. I had seen another family discovering a longlost
child at Gisteni on one of my visits and I couldn't help
wondering how many more of the children could go back to their
families if only the family knew where they were. Many, of course,
are far too irretrievably mad and institutionalised now to be able
to cope in a normal family home but undoubtedly they would
benefit from being visited by their relations - a little extra food
or even just a hug would do them a lot of good.
A chap at Gisteni (the Adult Institute) had been taken away from
his parents at seven. They had managed to stay in touch for two
years but hadn't seen him for eleven years. I was on the van with
his family as they took him home forever with them. His only
crime, barely discernible, was to be a little simple and slow to
speak and learn. What a joy it was to see their relief and their
happiness and their love for each other after all that time apart.
To be able to escape from such a place must seem like a miracle.
It was a different story when we visited Shanti's mother. Although
she was a pleasant woman it was obvious that she was not capable
of looking after a child like Shanti, even for a day. She told us
that the authorities had taken all her children away from her, but
she had a new baby. The house was a shambles and she had no
food for the child. The Sisters had brought provisions which they
gave to her.
Sister Fabiana had helped us to select some presents to take to
Patreascu's mother and his older half-sister, Mirella. We had some
shoes, a skipping rope and something for Mirella's hair, soap,
talcum powder and cream for Elena and some chocolate for her
z67
parents. Although they knew all about the adoption they had no
idea that we were arriving that day because there was no way of
contacting them. Like Maria's family, they were the poorest of
the poor, with no shoes. The grandfather had been to see Patreascu
once at Mother Teresa's but seeing how handicapped he was had
said, with sadness, it would be impossible for them to look after
him. Elena was blonde, which surprised me since Patreascu was
so dark, an attractive woman with troubled green eyes. She smiled
a lot but still seemed sad. She was wearing a simple summer dress
and her feet were covered with dust.
They told us they were ashamed to meet us because they could
imagine what we thought of them for abandoning Patreascu on
the first day of his life but they had genuinely believed they were
sending him to a place where he would be better looked after
than they could manage. 'But if you are going to ask us to have
him back,' they said, 'it is impossible.'
When they realised that nothing was further from our minds
they fired lots of questions at us and I promised to write once a
year and to send a photograph.
'What do you tell him about us?' they wanted to know.
'That you were just too poor to be able to look after him.'
They seemed comforted by this.
One day I am sure he will want to visit them and we will
certainly encourage him to do that when he is ready to understand
why his mother was unable to keep him and believed she was
doing the right thing by him.
The interesting thing about visiting Ungerini and Gisteni when I
am in Romania now is being able to see how the children who
didn't get to Mother Teresa's are developing. Lazy Lazlo, for instance,
now walks well and is a boisterous, good looking teenager.
Wilma, the first child that I saw when I arrived at Ungerini is
now at Gisteni. She always tries to look nice, wearing clothes and
shoes. She grabs my arm and pushes everyone else away, hating
me to kiss anyone else or shake their hands. I cannot see her ever
leaving the Institute, even though she is quite good at looking after
herself, because she has nowhere to go. It would be wonderful if
she could get herself some sort of little job, but who would have
her, who would give her that chance?
Marius was transferred to a State home for problem boys.
Apparently he was reluctant to go but the Ungerini people insisted
z68
because he was becoming too difficult for them. We've never
heard any more about him. Patrika is still at Ungerini and will
soon transfer to Gisteni. I should think he will be all right there,
although the living conditions are still appalling, because he is
big and hopefully won't get picked on.
Of those who we've returned to Mother Teresa's, Bacau,
Marian would still prefer to eat or lie down and sleep than
actually walk, but he is far too large to be treated like a baby any
more and the Sisters and carers work hard at making him do
things for himself and continue doing them, pushing him to
remain upright and walking.
Szuzannah still walks with crutches and probably always will.
She cannot read or write, but has learned to colour in and enjoys
that. She also loves to help the carer in her room to wash all the
girls' clothes and sheets. They stand at one of the three sinks in
the washing and drying room and wring out together. The outside
drying area is up a fairly steep staircase of uneven wood but she
manages to get herself up there and likes nothing better than
pegging out the washing in the fresh air. The Sisters don't mind
the children helping a little with household jobs, but it must never
get in the way of their education and they will never allow them
to be used as slaves.
Little Maria, who was one of the first children I looked after
in my room. Salon One, and one of the first to go to the Sisters,
now walks extraordinarily well considering her dislocated hips albeit
with a very curious gait. She has now moved to the upstairs
girls' room where she has to be more independent. She is beginning
to speak and still has her lovely big grin which grows even
wider when I sing the old Maria songs to her.
Valentina is also still at Mother Teresa's. She has learned to
read and write beautifully. She is able to do simple arithmetic and
having been introduced to the joys of cooking by Denise, is
employed part-time in the kitchen where she is extremely conscientious
about cleanliness and a very good cook. She enjoys
herself and still tends to be a trifle loud sometimes. When the
Sisters traced her family they were surprised to find that they
were not poor like the others but lived in a big house. They had
put Valentina into Ungerini when she was nine years old because
she was a bit slow. We can only imagine how that must have
affected the poor girl. At first the family thought the Sisters
wanted money from them for looking after her, but they explained
269
she simply wanted to meet them. She has written to them several
times and they did meet her once, but they have never made any
effort to see her again and do not reply to her letters. She was
so desperate to be reunited with her family and is obviously
disappointed, but although she becomes depressed sometimes,
she is always glad for other children like Maria who turn out to
be loved after all and have returned home.
Many of the hundreds of local children whom Dr Nigel helped
on his first visit are walking and independent and have not gone
to Ungerini. I wish that the staff at Salt 6c Son in Birmingham,
who sacrificed their time to make all the equipment which has
helped so many of them, could see the results of their work. Also
the many hospitals and others who donated wheelchairs and
walking frames and much needed equipment. The children's
walking and independence are the best possible and most tangible
result of their tremendous generosity. Dr Nigel's equipment got
the children up, and the Sisters' year-round dedicated physiotherapy
kept them upright. Initially, after much coaxing, the
children had consented to the physio' to please the Sisters. Then,
when they began to enjoy the freedom being upright gave them,
the critical point was reached - they now wanted to be up and
walking for themselves!
Madam Augustina has been removed from the office of Director
at Ungerini and replaced by a doctor. She has been given an
administrative position and, though it must have been a blow to
her self-esteem at the time, she now looks far more relaxed and
happy to have been relieved of the burden of having to answer
directly to the authorities. Adelina, the Chief Nurse, seems to
have more responsibilities now and she has appointed Lucia to
be in charge of the carers. Lucia is a strong and knowing woman,
and is very keen for Ungerini and the children to look good, so the
new set-up should work extremely well. Above all, the workers
respect Lucia and listen to her.
I am still trying to get sponsorship for Gerry Patreascu to come
to Britain and train in the construction of calipers, splints and
walking aids - I am sure it will happen, if not until early 1996.1
have been promised all the equipment for setting up an orthotics
workshop in Bacau, so it is only a matter of time until it opens. I
am also trying to get a prosthetics workshop up and running and
for other Romanians, alongside Gerry, to train as prosthetics
fitters and artificial limb-makers.
270
I was delighted to be able to help with one of the longer-term
projects during 1994 - Dr Irina Tiron has been able to come to
Britain for five months to supplement her studies in neonatalogy
at the Birmingham Heartlands Hospital. This proved a very
successful exercise and Dr Tiron is now sharing her new knowledge
with her staff and colleagues at Bacau Hospital, thereby
helping her many patients, drawn from the whole of Moldavia.
Dr Tiron made many friends amongst her colleagues in Birmingham
and I am happy to be making arrangements for some of
them to travel to Romania and help out at the hospital in Bacau.
Dr Nigel has now, after a long and full career, retired. He and
Moira still continue to help the children of Bacau and Moldavia
and visit Mother Teresa's as part of our medical team. Their son,
Jonathan, has followed in his father's surgical footsteps and is a
paediatric orthopaedic surgeon - he is also showing signs of
interest in travelling to Bacau to help out - taking part in Lucien's
and Marian's operations must have given him a taste for it!
As for Patreascu, there are many situations in which his leg
causes him huge physical problems. As there are no muscles on
the left side of his leg until the hip region, he cannot lift that leg
unaided and stairs are always a problem. There is no control over
the left knee and it can go in any direction, making going up or
down stairs potentially dangerous. However, we don't make a
big thing of it - it's like having a lump of wood, albeit one that
feels pain, to use as a prop to get about. He tries to run and
rushes around with a sort of skipping action, but he can't go as
fast as the other children at school - he's never going to be in the
school football team, which is his dream, but he joins in playground
games as best he can. His favourite holidays have been
spent in the Lake District where, despite his handicap, he hikes
across surfaces that would be ambitious for a child with two
normally functioning legs. He loves the scenery, the fresh air, the
waterfalls, the animals and the trees, and the freedom to roam.
He falls a lot, but is immediately up and off again.
More than anything, Patreascu likes to ask a constant stream
of questions on any and every subject. His mind leaps from
subject to subject, leaving me trailing behind. On a recent visit to
the Natural History Museum, I don't think he drew breath from
ten in the morning until they closed at six. 'Why do you ask so
many questions?' I asked. 'Well, Mum,' he replied, 'I have to
learn and this is what children do.'
271
Some of his questions are surprisingly insightful. 'Mum,' he
asked, 'the Sisters really love the children so much, don't they?'
'Yes, very much,' I replied.
'Then why do they send them away for adoption?'
'Well, it is because they love them, and although their home is
a happy home and the Sisters are like their mother and family,
the Sisters want the children to each have their own families, nans
and grandads, cousins, aunts and uncles, and above all the love
of their own mum and dad.'
Patreascu pondered on this for a few minutes and then said, 'Oh, it's a bit like God then, really. He loved his only son Jesus
so much, but he also loved us and sent Jesus down from heaven
to earth to help us, even though he loved Jesus and wanted to
keep him for himself.'
One day in the spring of 1995, Patreascu and I were sitting in
the car waiting for John, when he caused me really to stop and
think about the last couple of years and all that has happened to
me. Patreascu was watching a family of robins and telling me
which was the daddy, which the mummy and who all the children
were. His story was peppered with the usual quota of questions
that I tried to field as he went along. I was only half listening to
his happy chatter when he asked, 'Do robins cough?'
For a moment I was taken aback and then I thought about
where this child had come from; how far he had travelled from
such a sorrowful past, through pain and fear and struggle, and
realised that Patreascu truly epitomises everything I have come
to believe worthwhile. There is no such thing as a hopeless case every
child, every man and woman, rich or poor, healthy or sick,
is worthy of love, worthy of a chance at life. With laughter in my
voice I told him, reliably I hope, 'Well, I suppose robins do cough
if they're poorly!'
More such moments came during our summer holiday in Bacau
and Ungerini. These dear children, all my children at Ungerini
and Mother Teresa's, Bacau, had done for me just as much as I
may have done for them and they've repaid me a thousand times
over. I stretched out my hand to help them - an easy move for
me - and they responded to my touch with trust, a giant step for
them, accustomed as they were to rejection. How hard it must
have been for these children to let down their barriers, to overcome
their fears, to unfold and discard the protective layers they
had put up to guard against the mental and physical assaults
2.7Z
perpetrated on them during their short, sad lives. What courage
these children had - still have -1 feel humbled knowing them, by
the fact they have survived it all, for I am sure I would have given
up the will to live. This is not my story, it is the story of the
children and their struggle: they are the best possible testament
to hope, never to give up.
273
I should like to thank Dr Judith Darmady and Mrs Felicity
MacPherson of the Ungerini Orphanage Trust for giving me the
opportunity to go out to Ungerini and work with the people of
Romania and the children of Ungerini Irrecuperable Orphanage.
The orphanage at Ungerini continues to be supported by the
Ungerini Orphanage Trust and their dedicated team of helpers.
Beverly Peberdy continues to work for the people of Romania
through The Friends of Romanian Children, care of 78 Stokenchurch
Place, Bradwell Common, Milton Keynes, MKi3 8 BY.
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