THE COUNSEL OF AN OLD MAN

Cornel Bălan’s life was unfolding quite comfortably. He had a three-room apartment where he lived with his wife and two daughters, and for many years he had worked as a foreman at the steelworks. Under the communist regime, he enjoyed a fairly good standing in society.

But behind this respectable life there was another occupation of his—one that some of those who knew him better looked upon with horror: he was, as people used to say, an informer for the militia. In his free time he would frequent restaurants and beer halls, drinking with acquaintances and strangers alike, listening carefully to the conversations around him. Some he would deliberately draw out, trying to find out what they did for a living or whether they were involved in anything illegal that could be reported. Most of all, though, he listened for anyone voicing discontent with the communist regime. If someone let slip a complaint after a few drinks, Cornel would pretend to share his dissatisfaction and coax him into speaking more freely—only for that same man to wake up the next morning with the militia at his door.

Those close enough to know whispered that Cornel was paid monthly for his denunciations. From time to time he was even invited to lavish restaurants, to parties attended by high-ranking officers from the secret police and the militia. Cornel felt flattered to move in such elevated company. He believed he had climbed to a superior rung of society and became convinced that no one could compare with him. He came to despise his coworkers, who had no access to such elite circles. In time, he noticed that even some of his superiors were afraid of him; they did not dare speak harshly to him, often assigning him easier work and doing their best not to provoke him.

One of his greatest pleasures, in secret meetings with his mistress, was to boast about his exploits. He never realized that the woman, after listening with delight, passed his stories on to others in her own circle.

The years went by, and Cornel’s notoriety increased as word spread about his connections with influential officers. People began coming to him with gifts, hoping he could use his ties to the militia on their behalf. Cornel would keep part for himself and pass the rest on to the officers, managing to “help” some of those who came to him. His reputation as a man with powerful connections grew considerably.

By 1986, nearing fifty, Cornel was deeply satisfied with his life. True, there had been a few unpleasant moments. Once he had been threatened by the relatives of a man caught stealing from a factory. That man, drunk one evening in Cornel’s presence, had spoken too freely, and Cornel had immediately reported him. When the relatives later threatened Cornel, he denounced them as well, and they were forced to apologize in order to avoid further trouble.

Cornel had been born into a humble peasant family. His father had once owned many sheep, and Cornel had grown up tending them with his brothers and sisters. Later, he left the village for the city, where he studied and changed the course of his life.

His father’s name was Călin Bălan, a decent old man with a strong sense of justice, tempered by life’s hardships and rich in experience. In time, the villagers began telling the old man what Cornel was doing, how he was ruining people’s lives by sending them to prison.

The old man was outraged when he heard such things. He could hardly believe that one of his sons had sunk so low. He knew from experience that the officers of the militia and the secret police were merely using Cornel as a tool. The moment he ceased to be useful, they would discard him—or worse, frame him and send him to prison themselves. He knew very well how such men looked upon their informers: with cold contempt. What grieved him most was the thought that his son was destroying other people’s lives.

Shaking his head, he asked his wife,

“How can Cornel not see the evil in what he’s doing? What happened to him in that city, that he could fall so far?”

The old man sent word to Cornel, asking him to come because he wanted to speak to him about something very important. Cornel received the message in puzzlement. What could Father want now? It never crossed his mind that his father might be indignant over his collaboration with the militia. To him, it all seemed perfectly normal, even praiseworthy—an important service to society.

One fine summer afternoon, Cornel arrived at his parents’ house with his wife and daughters, accompanied by another family who were friends of theirs. His parents welcomed them warmly, delighted to see their granddaughters. They all sat down at a rich table laid out in the cool shade of the trees. Cornel, knowing his father well, sensed that although he was trying to appear cheerful, something was troubling him deeply.

After the meal, the old man asked Cornel to come inside so they could speak alone. They sat facing each other in the large front room, which Cornel’s mother always kept spotless. Through the open window drifted the scent of summer, and from outside, beneath the trees, came the murmur of voices. For a moment, Cornel felt himself carried back into childhood, to those years of hardship but also of joy, to the many beautiful moments he had lived in that place.

His reverie was broken by his father’s voice.

“I’m very upset with you.”

“Why, Father?” Cornel asked, startled.

“Reliable people, who have no reason to lie to me, have told me that you’ve become an informer for the militia—that you’re paid for it, that you ruin people’s lives. I know it’s true. Don’t lie to me. Tell me the truth.”

“Wait, Father! Don’t listen to gossip. People say all sorts of things. I’m only helping to uphold the socialist order. Don’t you see how much life has improved, how much progress has been made? These aren’t the days when you got up at dawn and worked till night for a crust of bread. Things are different now. I’m doing my part, fulfilling my duty, that’s all. How can you take the side of those who stand in the way of progress? Just give me their names, and I’ll make sure they never trouble you again. Who are these scoundrels, Father?”

The old man frowned, his face darkening with anger, ready to flare up. But he mastered himself and recovered the calm that had always characterized him. He decided not to answer Cornel’s arrogance with wrath, but with patience and wisdom, hoping that he might awaken at least a spark of remorse in his son’s soul.

“Cornel, you speak of duty—your duty. But to whom, Cornel? To a dictatorial and oppressive system that has tormented and killed so many people in the prisons of Jilava and Aiud? Those who suffered there were remarkable people: priests, pastors, intellectuals who refused to bow to communist doctrine. I’m a simple man, with only a few years of schooling, but I’ve always loved to read, to listen to the news, to stay informed, and to talk with people. You see, even wise Solomon, when he wrote his proverbs—though God had given him wisdom—went among people in disguise, listening to what they said, discerning what was true and what was worth keeping. At what point in your life did you lose that discernment, so that now you call the breaking of God’s commandment, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’ a duty to be fulfilled? Don’t you see how far you’ve fallen? As your father, it is my moral duty to pull you out of the pit you’ve sunk into. Come to your senses, Cornel—what you’re doing is not right.”

“How can you talk like that, Father? What you’re saying is absurd! And I beg you, don’t go repeating such things to the villagers. If you do, not even I will be able to protect you. You’ll get yourself into serious trouble. I know you’ve been listening to Radio Free Europe, and I know that Father Nicoară—whom they transferred after reports were made about what he was doing—has been filling your head with nonsense, even giving you books that aren’t exactly Orthodox. Don’t you see? You’ll bring shame on me too. Stop it, Father—don’t go on like this!”

“Cornel, you’ve gone badly astray. The communists took my sheep and my land. I worked my whole life on the collective farm, and now I get a miserable pension. It’s true, for you city people there have been opportunities, you live comfortably, you send your children to school. At first glance, communism seems to be building a good future for people. But the great problem is this: they trample underfoot all the divine and human laws by which the world ought to be governed. That is why they will not last, but will fall. It won’t be I, a frail old man, who brings them down, but God, against whom they have risen in rebellion. And know this as well: every human dominion that rises against God will collapse in the end. Then the kingdom of the Messiah, prophesied in the book of Daniel, will be established on earth, and only those who have done good will endure. The rest, no matter what rank they hold in society, will fall and perish. Why won’t you heed my counsel, Cornel, and stop harming others?”

“And what, then, are we supposed to do with those who refuse to help us build a better world under the communist vision, and instead do nothing but destroy what we’re trying to build? Should they just be left unpunished?”

“You will never build a better world, because you don’t know how. And more than that, Cornel, I believe you haven’t understood your place in society. You are not a judge, nor a prosecutor, nor a militiaman. Leave it to those appointed to punish wrongdoers to do so. As for you—if you can’t do good in society, then at least do no harm.”

“But Father, it’s impossible to reason with you. You and your old-fashioned ideas! Can’t you see that times have changed? What world are you living in?”

“You have a wonderful family, Cornel, and that gladdens my heart. Your daughters, if I understand correctly, are both studying medicine. They respect you. But think—what will they say when the day comes that they learn their father is an informer? Or perhaps the whispers have already reached them. Still, you refuse to see. Don’t take the communists too seriously; they will not last forever. Neither will capitalism, nor any other human order. Even the papacy—which for centuries has fought against the pure teaching of Christ—will fall and be destroyed. Eternal is only the kingdom of the Messiah, which at the end of all things will be established upon the earth.”

“Father, let’s stop this discussion—it’s going nowhere. We’re just going in circles. When I was a child, and later a young man, you guided me as you thought best. But now I’m a grown man. I choose my own path in life. Don’t meddle in my affairs anymore. You’ve even managed to anger me. I came here today in good spirits, and you’ve ruined my mood.”

“Perhaps in the displeasure I’ve caused, some spark of remorse will be kindled in your soul for the evil you’ve done, and you will seek another road in life. I hope so, and I will pray that the words we’ve spoken bear fruit in your life. I like to believe that, despite your resistance, I have sown good seed in the soil of your heart. But at least tell me this—do you still believe in God? When you were a boy, I taught you to pray, and sometimes I saw that it even gave you joy.”

“I believe, Father—in my own way. Now let’s put an end to this. It leads nowhere. Better that way...” Cornel said, getting up and walking back out to the others.

Life went on. The year 1989 came, communism fell, and Romania entered a period of transition. The old order was despised, democracy was expected to take root fully and bring prosperity and freedom. Cornel managed to adapt to the new times, just as some of the militiamen and secret-police officers with whom he had once collaborated did. He still went on denouncing people, though with greater caution; the times had changed, and so had the mechanisms by which society functioned.

His father had died shortly before the fall of communism. In the days after their conversation, Cornel had moments of hesitation, asking himself whether perhaps the old man had been right. But in the end he convinced himself that his father was outdated, trapped in strange ideas. Still, when communism collapsed, a chill ran through him at the memory of his father’s words. But he did not stop; the influence of his circle carried him along.

The years passed. His daughters completed their medical studies, began their own careers, and started families. Cornel, now nearing sixty, had no reason to complain—life was good.

It was then that a man named Chirilă was released from prison. Years earlier, Cornel had denounced him, leading to a complicated trial in which both Chirilă and the farm veterinarian where he worked were sentenced to five years in prison. Cornel had known him through his sister’s circle, and learned from her—and from Chirilă himself—that he and the veterinarian had been making a great deal of money from the farm by breaking the law, all while keeping up appearances. Cornel’s denunciation led to surprise inspections that exposed everything.

In prison, Chirilă found out that it was Cornel who had betrayed him, and he swore revenge. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with an iron will—whatever he set his mind to, he achieved. Worse still, while he was in prison, his wife divorced him, married another man, and took their little daughter with her.

Chirilă began shadowing Cornel, learning when he finished work and which bars he frequented. He kept his distance, careful not to be noticed. Sometimes, though, he made sure Cornel saw him—now and then even inviting him to sit down with him, pretending he held no grudge. Cornel always refused with one excuse or another. It was all a façade; underneath it, Chirilă’s heart was boiling with hatred, and he was quietly preparing his revenge.

One winter evening, after following Cornel to the entrance of a restaurant where he settled in with friends to drink, Chirilă went back home. Later that night, he set out again—this time for Cornel’s neighborhood. He knew Cornel would come home late, and the darkness of that winter night would serve his purpose. And in Chirilă’s soul it was night as well—darker than anything outside.

He knew all the alleys between the apartment blocks, and the route Cornel usually took home. Around ten o’clock, he took up position in the darkest spot, beside a cluster of fir trees halfway down the narrow lane leading to Cornel’s building. Hidden in the torn lining of his coat was a forty-centimeter piece of iron bar, cut from a larger crowbar. He also had a black mask to cover his face when he confronted Cornel. He was counting on the fact that, at that hour on a winter night, few people would be out.

At half past eleven, Cornel came down the lane, having been dropped off by car on a nearby boulevard after an evening of revelry. From his hiding place, Chirilă saw him coming. He was like a beast, seething with hatred and thirst for revenge. The street was empty. He pulled the mask over his face, stepped out from behind the fir trees, and gripped the iron bar, waiting. When Cornel came near, he sprang out.

Chirilă was taller and much stronger. Cornel recoiled in terror, thinking for a moment that it was a thief. Then came the voice—deep, furious—ringing out in the night:

“Your time has come, informer. Time to pay for all your wickedness.”

He grabbed Cornel by the chest with his left hand. Cornel struggled, but the grip was like a vise. With his right hand, Chirilă swung the iron bar and struck him twice in the head. Cornel collapsed to the ground, bleeding and groaning. Chirilă strode quickly away into the night, slipping between the blocks and keeping to the shadows.

A group of young people returning from a disco around midnight found Cornel lying unconscious where he had fallen. They immediately called the police and an ambulance. Cornel lingered in a coma for two weeks, then died.

The police opened an investigation, but soon reached a dead end—there were too few leads.

A month after Cornel’s death, well after midnight, Chirilă walked quickly through the cemetery. The frozen snow crunched beneath his feet. His face was troubled; he looked utterly worn out, in body and soul. He had eaten little and slept even less. Unlike the night of the crime, the cemetery was bright: snow covered everything, and the moon and stars shone strongly in the sky.

He stopped at Cornel’s grave, where he had already come more than once before. Breathing heavily, like a man carrying an unbearable burden, he stared at the cross and whispered:

“Oh, you wretch—you ruined my life twice over. How am I supposed to live with this crime on my conscience? I have to give myself up. I can’t carry this weight any longer—it’s consuming me.”

Then he turned away, his steps heavy, the snow creaking underfoot as he staggered among the graves. He walked with his head bowed, lifting his eyes only from time to time toward the brilliant winter sky, whose light seemed to guide him toward the atonement of his sin.

Eugen Oniscu is a Romanian writer currently living in Berlin, Germany. His work often explores moral choices, faith, and the struggles of individuals living through difficult historical and social circumstances. He is the author of several short stories and books published in Romanian and in translation.