Letters to a Young Gymnast (13 page)

Regardless of what was said between Ceausescu and his most trusted adviser, Bela recalls that when he arrived at the committee headquarters in 1980, he was forced to stand before a table of men and explain why
he had disturbed the Games, spoken to the Western media (Bela told an ABC affiliate reporter that the Games were corrupt), and insulted our “Soviet friends.” He was told that he'd humiliated Romania and Ceausescu, and his life was threatened; the possibility of imprisonment for his “crimes” was also raised. I was not there, but I can say that Romanians have gone to prison for lesser offenses.

Meanwhile, I went with the flow and didn't talk to anyone about the Games or make any comments. I was settling down to life in Bucharest.

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The Struggle

Life in Bucharest after the 1980 Olympics was, at best, mundane. I was going to school, supporting my brother, who was living with me and also at school, and
trying to survive through the second half of each month because I was so broke. I'm not proud of this, but you should know the truth, my friend: My situation bothered me a lot. If I'd always lived my life as a “regular” person, I never would have known any different. But I'd won numerous international competitions and made my country proud, and I still had nothing.

Life isn't fair, I knew that . . . but in addition, it was exhausting. An acquaintance used to get me clothes because she worked in a clothing factory; I'd trade fruits and vegetables every day so that I could figure out what to make for dinner each night. To this day, I don't have recipes for anything, I just improvise with what's available. I'm a good cook, very inventive. If a friend had a little extra fish, I'd trade it for a piece of cheese. It was a constant challenge. I was twenty and felt the weight of my life as well as my family's, and at times it was overwhelming.

The only “special” groceries I received were two loaves of bread from a friend who worked in the bread factory. This was a favor but not a government favor. Getting food was extremely difficult for everybody. We had an old neighbor, Aleca Petre, who must have been seventy, and he used to wake up at 4:00 A.M. and stand in line at the grocery store in the freezing winter weather, waiting to see if there was anything on the shelves. Usually, there was only mayonnaise, mustard, and beans. That was it. He'd bring us a few bottles of milk and on rare occasions a piece of meat. I'd always invite him to join us for meals, even though we didn't have much. That is the way Romanians are: We share what we have.

Not a day went by that we didn't share something with our neighbors. We used to joke that we'd borrow each other's old meat bones to make soup. It was a tragic
and difficult life for everyone. People would have been happy if they could just have put something on the table for their kids to eat. Meanwhile, all of the good food in our country was being exported. I later came to understand from newspaper articles and books that it was Ceausescu's way of filling his coffers and paying off the debt he'd incurred on behalf of our country (I'll tell you more about that later, if you are interested). I realized when I left gymnastics just how lucky I had been. When I was training, I ate incredibly well by comparison. It's no wonder I still find it difficult to complain about those days, as I was so much better off than most everyone else. But when my gymnastics days were over, I was left in the same unhappy position as the rest of the people of my country.

Life was unfair and difficult, but I still considered myself to be lucky because I had the opportunity to attend school. That meant I could get a job outside of the factories. The sports diploma at the university was a four-year program, but students didn't have to attend lectures; instead, they took books and assignments home and then took exams with the rest of the student body at the end of each course. While at the university, I got my first job as a choreographer for a dance team. It was there that I met Nicu Ceausescu, who worked in the same building. A lot has been said over the years about my “relationship” with Nicu, President Nicolae Ceausescu's son. Even you asked if I was his girlfriend toward the end of my gymnastics career and later, when I worked as a coach for the government. It is one of the tamer questions I've been asked about Nicu.

I can say that Nicu and I were acquaintances and that he seemed to be a nice guy. It has been written that he
was a wild drinker and a womanizer. I don't know if any of that was true. What I heard is that he helped a lot of people. Many mysteries surround him, but it is not my place to judge. People gossip; they are interested only in the bad things, the mistakes others make. It is human nature to try to knock down anyone the public perceives as having climbed too high. Nicu was born to an elevated position. He was Nicolae's son, and for that, he paid a very high price, especially toward the end of his life.

I have never talked in detail about Nicu because there isn't much to say. I'm not interested in the speculations about our so-called relationship, and I hope that you will respect that. People speculated about us because we were seen at some of the same receptions and parties, but there were always ten or twenty other people there, too, and we were never alone. So, let me make this very clear—Nicu and I were never boyfriend and girlfriend.

During those early years in Bucharest, I didn't date anyone very seriously, though the media had me engaged to an assortment of men. I'd go out and have a good time, but when I realized a relationship wasn't going to go that far, I'd stop it right there. I could always tell when something wasn't going to work. Prospective boyfriends would ask what had happened, what they'd done wrong . . . and I couldn't tell them exactly. It was just a feeling that things weren't going to work and that we should move on. With my husband, Bart, things were different. People say that in your life, you have one big love. Bart Conner is mine. My destiny was to be with him, but it took defecting and a lot of hard knocks before we ever truly met.

But back to my first coaching job. I did choreography for a folk-dance troupe. After years of learning the intricate
choreography and dance steps for my floor routines, I was well qualified for the job. I made a little bit of money, and for the first time in my life, I felt like an adult. Occasionally, I'd have neighbors over for some drinks. We Romanians like to party. We like life, and we live life. We never think ten days from a given moment because we know the world is so uncertain. In those days, if there was food on the table and something to drink, we were happy. In a Communist system, you never know what tomorrow will bring. Things can change overnight. You have to take your fun when you can.

In 1981, I received a telephone call from the Gymnastics Federation, telling me that a group of Romanian gymnasts was going to the United States to do an exhibition tour. The government wanted to raise $250,000 from the eleven-city show. They offered me $1,000 to join the group. For me, that was a lot of money (I made about $3 a day at my job), and I needed it, so I agreed to go. Since the government sponsored my job, there was no difficulty getting time off for the trip. And the government was going to make money on me, so the officials were naturally very supportive of my decision.

Bela and Marta, I was told, would be leading the tour. Whatever trouble Bela had been in after the 1980 Olympics, it seemed he was out of it by then. The director of the Gymnastics Federation would also be on the tour as head of the delegation, along with several undercover policemen (introduced to everyone as journalists), sent to make certain that nothing went wrong. The director was going to be in charge of our schedules, hotels, transportation, and even our passports. I would be allowed to govern my own time a bit . . . mostly because the tour was called “Nadia '81.” Without me, it wouldn't have happened.

I remember the best part of the trip was that we got to ride a bus with a group of American gymnasts. None of the Romanians could speak English very well, but we had a great time with the cute, blond guys. We listened to their music and tried to communicate, even though we didn't speak the same language. I spoke a lot to Kurt Thomas but remember thinking that another gymnast, Bart Conner, was cute. He bounced around the bus talking to everyone—he was incredibly friendly and fun.

I was not that unhappy in Romania when I went on the tour—my hardships were no more or less than anyone else's in my country. It never crossed my mind that I would ever live anywhere else in the world. Defection was not in my thoughts. I finally had a job and the adult life I'd craved for so long. Yes, I was poor, but I was getting used to it by then. Everyone was poor; everyone struggled. And I loved my country. I still do. When I went on the exhibition tour, I didn't know how unhappy Bela and Marta were (their school in Deva had lost most of its government support). But I will get to that later. Suffice it to say that I probably had more fun on that tour than I had during any other . . . until the end.

Bela recalls that he was forced to accompany the team on its tour, despite the fact that he was no longer the national team coach. He did not want to go because he was disgusted with the government and its treatment of him after the Olympics, but the director gave him no choice. He was also forbidden to speak to any foreign media. After his comments to the ABC reporter, the government was not taking any chances with him. Bela felt like the entire tour was a humiliation.

Throughout the tour, I reported to the director when I wanted to do anything or go anywhere. He was
fairly lenient with me, but I was always accompanied on my outings by one of our “journalists.” Still, I was allowed out to discos with the guys, as long as I didn't do anything dangerous (the director believed someone might want to kidnap me). I was given a long leash. At the time, I didn't realize that a long leash was still a leash or that it might tighten until I felt strangled.

What happened next is a blur. I can only tell you what I myself know for certain, which is that there was a big fight between Bela and the director. The outcome was that Bela, Marta, and Geza Pozsar, our choreographer, believed they had no choice but to defect from Romania because they feared for their lives and their families' safety. In a single night, the course of their lives changed forever.

My friend, you asked me about courage and the Olympics, and I have told you about the Karolyis' decision because it puts your question into perspective. To decide the course of your life and that of your family in one night, with no assurance of success, is unfathomable. Nine years later, I would know more about true courage when I, too, decided to defect. But I sometimes wonder, to this day, if courage is just another word for desperation.

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The Scream