Moldova in the 2022 Eurovision Song Contest

The Eurovision Song Contest is not something I would normally pay attention to, but these are not normal times.  This year the money was always on Ukraine to win, and rightly so.  A surprise was the UK coming second after a disastrous run in recent years (a positive result possibly also partially connected, albeit obliquely, with the situation in Ukraine).  However, another song caught my eye, and while it was not the Romanian one, there is a clear connection to Romania.

Zdob şi Zdub and the Advahov Brothers performed the Moldovan entry Trenulețul (The Train).  It was not written for the contest but was originally released in December 2021 as a promotion to celebrate the reopening of the rail connection between Chișinău and Bucharest.  Ostensibly about connecting people, which is entirely within the Eurovision ethos, it is also about the link between Moldova and Romania.  Roman Iagupov, the lead singer of Zdob şi Zdub, has denied any overt political intent, maintaining it is about the musician’s life, but it is difficult not to read a broader significance into the lyrics:

Merge trenul, parcă zboară
Dintr-o țară-n altă țară
Merge și nu poate pricepe
Care țară? Unde-ncepe?
Țară veche, țară nouă
Parcă-i una, parcă-s două
Ba aparte, ba-mpreună
Parcă-s două, parcă-i una

The train’s going, it’s like it’s flying
From one country to another
It is going but can’t understand
Which country? Where do you start?
Old country, new country
It’s like one, it’s like two
Separately, together
It’s like two, it’s like one

It isn’t only the train that finds the border arbitrary.  Despite Iagupov’s assertion to the contrary, perhaps made in order not to fall foul of the ostensible Eurovision ban on political content, the song can clearly be seen to emphasise the common heritage of Romania and Moldova, symbolised both by the railway and by the amusing appearance in the promotional video of a carpet featuring the portrait of Stephen the Great, a hero in both countries.  It also combines past and present musically in its style and with the refrain – sung in English – of ‘Hey ho! Let’s go! Folklore and Rock’n’roll’, emphasising both local tradition and a western-leaning (in these times meaning anti-Russian) focus; as the words say, ‘the train’s route is East to West.’

Jauntily upbeat and very funny as it is, it takes little effort to see that the Moldovan song reflects unhappiness with Russia’s behaviour, especially as there have been hints Moldova might be in its sights, after the possible annexation of the pro-Russian breakaway region of Transnistria to create a new front from which to attack Odesa.  Russian propaganda, not noted for its subtlety, has been making the preposterous claim that Moldova, Ukraine and Romania are planning to invade Transnistria, as if those countries haven’t got enough to think about.  There have been false flag explosions in Transnistria (which hosts Russian ‘peacekeepers’) blamed by Tiraspol on Ukraine.  Meanwhile, the Kremlin has trotted out the familiar line about the Russian population in Moldova being ‘oppressed’, an assertion previously used as a pretext for interference.  Any timetable to take over Transnistria and then possibly Moldova has been slowed, if not derailed, by the mixture of Ukrainian fortitude and Russian ineptitude witnessed in recent months, but the danger has not completely receded and there are still concerns in Moldova about Russia’s intentions.

So what of the Romanian effort in this year’s contest?  Performed by someone who goes by the corporate-sounding name WRS, it’s enjoyably light and poppy, and will certainly get the guests out on the dancefloor at a wedding.  But it is bland, with no national character I could detect, and is mostly sung in English, with a chorus in Spanish for some reason.  Trenulețul, by contrast full of character, is actually more Romanian than the Romanian one, which says much about Moldovan identity and aspirations.

In the event, Moldova finished a respectable seventh, with 253 points, reflecting Zdob şi Zdub and the Advahov Brothers’ ability to combine a serious theme with entertainingly energetic music (Romania came in eighteenth, with 65 points).  It may be that an unintended consequence of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, among a number, will be unification between Romania and Moldova: if the Moldovan Eurovision song is anything to go by, the train has already left the station.

The Accident, by Mihail Sebastian

The Accident (Accidentul, 1940) was Mihail Sebastian’s final work published under his own name.  Its elegiac tone belies the author’s personal turmoil and the extraordinary political situation through which he was living as a Jew in an increasingly authoritarian anti-Semitic state.  Its production was even more traumatic for him as he lost the original manuscript and had to rewrite it.  Although it was the fourth (and last) of his novels, it was the first to be published in English, in 2011.

The accident in question happens to Nora, a 34-year-old teacher of French.  On the 18th of December, 1934, she jumps off a Bucharest tram as it is still moving, slips, and falls over on the pavement, briefly stunning herself and hurting her knee.  A crowd gathers, out of which a man picks her up and unenthusiastically helps her to her apartment.  He is Paul, a lawyer, who is still in shock from the end of an intense relationship with Ann, a rising artist and a manipulative and unfaithful lover.  The breakup has left him obsessing about her and feeling apathetic about life.

Meeting in such unusual circumstances will have implications for both Nora and Paul.  Nora is an independent spirit, sensitive to others, and relaxed where Paul is tightly-wound.  After Paul helps her, then abruptly leaves her flat, Nora seeks him out.  She learns it is his 30th birthday, not an event he was planning to mark, and she decides to organise a surprise celebration for him.  They sleep together, but still he is emotionally absent.  She is concerned that his disengagement, marked by an annoying habit of shrugging his shoulders, hints at a suicidal impulse, but she also finds something worthwhile in him.  It is obvious she is far better for him than Ann was, if he could only see it.

Despite having known him for such a short time, she makes it her goal to rescue him from his depression, and the obvious way is to teach him to ski, something he had never done before.  Overcoming his ambivalence, she kits him out and takes him to the mountains near Brașov in Transylvania for the Christmas holiday.  It is a popular winter sports region and they find it difficult to secure accommodation.  They finally board with a Saxon pair who have a troubled family history, a young boy, Gunther Grodeck, and his gruff older companion, Hagen.

As the four become closer the story expands, with Nora extending her calming influence to Gunther as the four (and dog) absorb the peaceful atmosphere of the mountains and develop an affection for each other.  Initially resistant to instruction, Paul gradually learns to ski, and in its freedom is able to let go of his personal obsessions by rejecting his isolation.  Then, under Nora’s tutelage, he has to learn self-discipline, and to temper his wild feeling of freedom with the skills necessary to ski safely.  He has to learn balance.

So, after a few hiccups and some backsliding, with Nora frequently convinced Paul is going to leave, and Paul not sure whether to stay either, putting them into a state that is ‘together, yet alone’, the therapy proves successful.  Paul is seduced by the pleasure of skiing, an antidote to his unhealthy self-absorption and city-bred ennui.  He has learned to live in the present and not be weighed down by the past. 

At the end of the holiday, a chance meeting with Ann in a Brașov cafe demonstrates to all concerned that he has been cured of his obsession, now appreciating the difference between self-centred and deep selfless love.  The novel ends on an optimistic note with Paul purified by his time in the clean mountain air (it is no accident Nora’s surname is Munteanu, containing munte – mountain) and free of Ann’s unhealthy influence.  At the dawn of the new year, Paul and Nora are able to look to the future, not realising how few years of peace are left to them.

Stephen Henighan, who translated the novel, supplies an afterword outlining the cultural and political environment, and the trajectory of Sebastian’s career, as the context for a discussion of The Accident.  He points to a subtle hint of the coming conflict at the end of the novel when Paul does not appreciate that a bland headline in a Hungarian-language newspaper is a harbinger of the political deterioration during the rest of the decade.  It was the beginning of a period that was to end in tragedy for Sebastian; after the privations he had experienced during the war, the loss of his livelihood and the betrayals of friends. he died in a traffic accident, in 1945, aged 37.

In contrast to the impending catastrophe, as well as the romantic story of Nora and Paul, Sebastian depicts Romania at peace, before war and dictatorships blighted it for half a century.  It is a place where Romanians and Saxons live side by side, while maintaining their ethnic identities.  Bucharest, ‘the Paris of the East’, is thriving and cosmopolitan, full of life, like any other European capital.  Skiing and the mountains of Romania were important for Sebastian, becoming more so as his personal situation worsened, and he transmits this love through the story of Nora saving Paul from himself.

Although I have never tried it. I’ve always thought skiing possibly one of the dullest sports one can engage in, but having read Sebastian’s exuberant descriptions of skiing as a social activity I can now see its merits.  Not enough to want to strap on a pair of skis, admittedly, but I understand why Nora thought it would be good for Paul: vigorous activity can be an antidote to a feeling of dejection, distracting the sufferer and encouraging a positive attitude.  Paul was lucky to meet Nora in his hour of need, and even luckier that she possessed the cure for what ailed him.

Black Sea, by Caroline Eden

Caroline Eden’s Black Sea: Dispatches and Recipes, Through Darkness and Light (2018) describes a tour of part of the regions bordering the Black Sea, including Romania.  The book combines an account of her travels with historical background and discussions of food, interspersed with recipes. She gets to Constanța after an exhausting 17-hour bus journey from Odessa, arriving just in time for Romania’s Navy Day celebrations (15 August), and she gives a colourful description of the festive atmosphere.

 Strolling around, she looks at the port city’s buildings, including of course the Casino, ‘a strong contender for the finest wasted building in the world,’ as she puts it.  A historical interlude describes the meeting in Constanța of King Carol I and Tsar Nicholas II on 14 July 1914, part of which took place in the Casino, and not forgetting to include details of what they ate, a menu heavily influenced by French cuisine.  There follow eight recipes representative of Romanian cooking.

 Unfortunately, Eden’s heart does not seem to be in Romania.  Its chapter is the shortest in the book, she spends a greater number of pages on the recipes than on the place, and she devotes more space than is necessary to the proprietor of the guesthouse she stays in and a chap from whom she buys an intricately carved wooden spoon.  She writes about other outsiders who wrote about Romania and its food – Sacheverell Sitwell, Patrick Leigh Fermor and William Blacker – though not specifically the Black Sea coast.  As a result, there is not much to be learned about this part of Romania from her brief stay, and soon she is off, with bigger fish to fry elsewhere.

Carpathia: Food from the heart of Romania, by Irina Georgescu

The title is something of a misnomer because Irina Georgescu’s beautiful book, published in 2020, covers cooking from all parts of Romania.  Now resident in the UK, she draws on her homeland’s cuisine which reflects its complex history, with influences as disparate as Turkish, Greek, Hungarian, Saxon and Slav.  The resulting volume is a labour of love.

 After the introduction, an appetiser setting out Georgescu’s stall and noting that Romanian food has been largely ignored, the book is divided into sections covering: small plates, starters and salads; breads and bakes; borș and ciorbă; main courses; desserts; and pickles, preserves, compotes and drinks. Additional sections are devoted to seasonal influences and superstitions in Romanian cooking; Romania’s culinary heritage; and Romania’s cultural values, emphasising tradition and artisanship, and a strong regional identity.

 All recipes are clearly set out, and although some look a bit tricky, many are easy to do, so the book will appeal to all levels of competence.  Occasionally there is a slight adaptation to take into account availability of ingredients, but generally they are presented as handed down from generation to generation.  Weights are given in imperial and metric.  Beautiful photographs are sprinkled through the book, showing both the dishes and evocative Romanian scenes.

 In addition to the recipes, we are told about Georgescu’s family, the challenges of the communist period, and the personal influences that shaped her love of cooking.  A need for versatility was caused by years of shortages and having to make the most of a little, using cheap ingredients.  The philosophy was to waste nothing – hence the use of offal, though many of the recipes are plant based.  Faced with uncertain times, there is much to be learned here about cooking economically.

 The Romanian devotion to family and friendship, and dining as a communal activity, are evident throughout.  Georgescu has documented what is largely an oral tradition, recipes passed down from mother to daughter (though Georgescu’s father is not exempt from kitchen preparations).  Every page evokes her love of her country and transmits it to the reader.  Even though she was born in Bucharest there is a romantic ambience, with the pastoral never far from the surface.

 Reading Carpathia is like being immersed in a travel guide, allowing the reader to tour Romania through its food.  One finishes it knowing more than about what Romanians eat, it is a window on the national identity.  The book is at once an act of memory and a connection from east to west.  Georgescu hints that one of her purposes in writing it was to help outsiders get to know the Romanians better and dispel misconceptions, and she has achieved that ambition, in addition to celebrating a cuisine possessing many delights.

Roumanian Fairy Tales, by Mite Kremnitz

‘Into the saddle then I sprung, this tale to tell to old and young.’

 Starting typically with ‘Once upon a time, something happened.  If it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be told,’ this collection of 18 Romanian fairy stories was compiled by Mite Kremnitz (1852-1916).  German-born Marie Charlotte von Bardeleben Kremnitz was a friend of Queen Elizabeth of Romania, who wrote as Carmen Sylva, and they collaborated on a number of literary productions.  Kremnitz’s Rumänische Märchen, Roumanian Fairy Tales, was published in Leipzig in 1882, and in an English translation in 1885.  Kremnitz did not do any field work to collect the stories, which are drawn from Romanian authors.

 The 18 stories are: ‘Stan Bolovan’, ‘The Wonderful Bird’, ‘The Twins with the Golden Star’, ‘Youth Without Age and Life without Death’. ‘The Little Purse with Two Half-Pennies’, ‘Mogarzea and His Son’,’ Cunning Ileane’, ‘The Princess and the Fisherman’, ‘Little Wild-Rose’, ‘The Voice of Death’, ‘The Old Woman and the Old Man’, ‘The Pea Emperor’, ‘The Morning Star and the Evening Star’, ‘The Two Step-Sisters’, ‘The Poor Boy, Mother's Darling Jack’, ‘Tellerchen’ and ‘The Fairy Aurora’.  Several were also published, in different translations, by Andrew Lang in his series of colour-coded fairy books, and some have been included in other collections.  

 They comprise the usual elements of fairy stories: the upright hero, often the monarch’s youngest son or a lad of lowly birth, setting out on quests, having adventures, doing valiant deeds, facing ordeals and overcoming evil, perhaps marrying a king’s daughter and inheriting the kingdom.  There are castles, dragons, fairies, enchantments, witches, virtuous daughters, wicked step-mothers and lazy step-sisters; humble folk attempting to get rich, and people of all classes hoping to remedy childlessness.  It is a universe where virtue is rewarded and injustice punished, even if there are many bumps along the way.

 Offsetting the fantastical elements are occasional assurances the account is true.  ‘I was present at these events, and now tell them to those who listen,’ ‘Whoever knows anything more may continue his story,’ and of course ‘If it hadn't happened, it wouldn't be told.’  Regularly there are variations on ‘if they have not died, they may be alive now.’  And perhaps in some dimension they are still alive: the tales certainly are alive, in that they have a timelessness which keeps them fresh.

 In a satisfying compilation, the one story which sticks out because of its complexity and length is the final one, ‘The Fairy Aurora’.  This is not a traditional tale but was written by Ioan Slavici (who contributed a number of stories to the book, including the opening ‘Stan Bolovan’) and published in 1872.  He claimed he had heard oral versions, but its literary feel jars when contrasted with the others’ simplicity of style.  He wrote ‘The Poor Boy’ specifically for the book, though again he said he set it down ‘just as it was related to him by the peasants.’  It seems unlikely no polishing went on, rather like those domesticated ‘folk songs’ sung by a baritone accompanied on the piano.

Epic Bike Rides of the World, by Lonely Planet

This 2016 Lonely Planet book covers a couple of hundred bike rides, most of which will appeal mainly to the committed cyclist with a good level of fitness (they are ‘epic’ rides after all).  Divided into Africa, the Americas, Asia, Europe and Oceania, 50 routes are described at some length, each followed by three brief ‘more like this’ suggestions.

 There is an account of one relating to the Danube, but it is confined to Austria.  Romania features very briefly in a ‘more like this’ section with a ride in Transylvania, the ‘this’ being the covered bridges of Vermont  Not particularly like the Făgăraș Mountains one would have thought; the link being they are ‘falling leaves rides’ to make in autumn.

 The suggested route starts in Bascov (near Pitești) and ends at Bâlea Lake, a distance of 73 miles.  Travelling in the autumn enables the rider to appreciate the ‘colour-infused Carpathian mountains.’  One can also appreciate the wildlife – including, we are informed, bears, lynx and wolves (this will probably put off a lot of potential tourists who contemplate the defensive properties of lycra against large predators).

 The writer recommends whizzing along the Transfăgărășan, though generous insurance cover and a sturdy helmet are surely advisable for anyone doing so.  While the reader is initially assured that the region goes beyond the vampire/creepy castle clichés, the section ends with a reference to Poenari Castle and Vlad the Impaler as inspiration for Dracula.

 As these supplementary routes are not listed in the contents, anyone idly picking up the book and scanning the front matter is not going to realise it is in the book; nor is there an index.  Of course, attempting any of the suggestions is going to require a lot more information, but the purpose is more inspirational than practical, and visiting Transylvania outside the peak tourist season to enjoy the beautiful colours is a useful idea.

Conversational Romanian Quick and Easy, by Yatir Nitzany

In his series of language books, of which Conversational Romanian Quick and Easy: The Most Innovative Technique to Learn the Romanian Language (2020) is one, Yatir Nitzany believes he has found a novel way to pick up the basics of a language with little fuss.  In this very short book he imparts the method he used, one he believes will work for anyone who follows it carefully.

His breakthrough came thus.  He was attempting to learn Spanish and, as do many others, found his progress frustratingly slow.  One day he realised that every language has a core of essential common words, and if these can be mastered it is possible to communicate adequately with native speakers.  He worked out what those words were in Spanish and ended up with a list of 350 most likely to be spoken in real-life situations.  These were capable of multiple connections with each other and, once memorised, were the means to generate enough sentences to be able to hold a conversation.

Putting the idea into practice, he found within a week he could converse in Spanish, and he went on to further study, using his technique as the basis to expand his understanding.  Then he applied the principles to other languages, including Romanian, realising they were all amenable to the 350-word method.  He was able to learn them with ease to a reasonable standard (the key words here being a reasonable standard).

The method is simplicity itself.  The reader learns batches of words which are then shown in sample sentences to assist memorisation.  As the learner progresses through the sets, words learned earlier reappear in the sample sentences to reinforce them.  Nitzany warns that each set must be mastered before going onto the next, then returned to regularly for review, until all 350 words are firmly memorised.

This is not a complete language-learning course; Nitzany concedes it is a method to allow the novice to be able to converse without frills, though it provides a platform for further elaboration.  It does not teach the fine points of grammar, and only the present tense is employed, but he argues these are unnecessary to get by and can be learned later.  The important thing is to be understood and this, he says, the learner scrupulously sticking to his method will be.

It sounds great for those with no prior knowledge, particularly useful for holidaymakers who wish to do more than ask for a couple of beers in a bar, or want a head start before embarking on a course.  So, does it actually work as claimed?  In my opinion, probably not.  Any method promising that a language can be picked up by rote learning really has to be overpromising.  There is no indication how Nitzany chose this particularly group of words as the key 350 in the entire language, and the selection feels subjective rather than based on a quantitative linguistic analysis.

Despite the book’s title, without some structure, trying to learn 350 words by constant repetition is not going to be easy and is certainly not going to be quick.  As for innovative, this is rather like a paper version of Memrise’s online flashcards, but duller.  The sample sentences help, but they are full of brackets with singular/plural and masculine/feminine constructions which look confusing and add complexity to the task of comprehension.  Some grammar rules are provided, though they are of limited help without more explanation

The likely outcome of following this process is that the learner will be able to perform well in recognition/recall tests of the individual words, but not be able to generate novel sentences fluently with roughly accurate adherence to standard syntax and without butchering word endings.  Learning this way, slavishly memorising lists of words for the recommended 30 minutes a day, sounds absolutely tedious and will likely lead to demotivation.

It would be interesting to know whether anyone has relied on Nitzany’s approach to master the basics of any of the languages he covers, of which there are over a dozen, plus quite a few Arabic dialects, and can hold a conversation in real situations.  He claims ‘hundreds’ of learners have used his books successfully but I haven’t found any testimonials to support it.  If anyone wishes to try learning the Nitzany way, it is best utilised in conjunction with other approaches that provide greater variety of practice.

The Snows of Yesteryear, by Gregor von Rezzori

Gregor von Rezzori’s 1989 memoir, originally published in German, portrays his family during a momentous period of European history.  He was born in 1914 at his mother’s estate in Bukovina, which at that time was in the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  He lived for his first few years in Czernowitz, the provincial capital, his family belonging to that class of administrators any large-scale colonial enterprise requires for its smooth operation.  The First World War forced the family to leave Czernowitz for Trieste, then Austria, before they could return to their home city.

 In 1919, following the Empire’s collapse, Bukovina was occupied by Romania, becoming Cernăuți.  Rezzori and his German-speaking family lost their status and became outsiders in their own country, disliked and treated with a measure of suspicion by Romanian authorities keen to flex their nationalist muscles.  His parents’ upper-class attitudes were archaic in a society alien to the one they had known, yet ironically they were considered outsiders in Austria because of their provincial background, their existence a reminder of humiliating defeat.

 Then further upheaval took place with the Russian occupation in 1940 and the eventual partition of Bukovina between Romania and the Ukrainian SSR, Cernăuți becoming Chernivtsi.  The city, diverse before the Second World War, had hummed with a multi-ethnic vibrancy that was lost after the upheavals of conflict and ethnic cleansing, along with its particular sense of identity.

 The book, subtitled ‘Portraits for an Autobiography’, is structured as a series of five sketches of individuals that combine to provide a group portrait of Rezzori’s family and their influences on his life.  In their combination we learn about him, as the narrative moves back and forth through the decades, treating each in turn.

 His mother was physically attractive but self-absorbed, insisting early in her marriage that her delicate health required regular cosseting away from her husband in the Alps and in Egypt.  She was interfering and overprotective of her young children, perpetually disappointed by life, her loss of status, and particularly by her two husbands, both of whom she divorced, though the second seems to have been a perfectly decent man.  Having been brought up in a culture where roles were predetermined, hence her marriage to an unsuitable first husband, father of her children, she struggled to adapt to the loss of certainty that came with the changing situation in Europe.

 Father was obstinate, distant emotionally, unfaithful and often away from home.  While anti-Semitic, he possessed an aristocratic disdain for the petit-bourgeois Nazis.  He was an obsessive hunter and murderer of wildlife on a massive scale.  Yet he was cultivated and worked for the Romanian Orthodox Church, advising on the preservation of artefacts.  He may have favoured his daughter, but some of Rezzori’s happiest childhood moments were spent in his company.

 His sister was four years older, and while he loved her she overshadowed him growing up, and he could only look on with envy at her easy intelligence, certainty about life, and the companionable rapport she enjoyed with their father.  She was always careful to remind Rezzori of her seniority and her memories of early family travails he could not have known at the time.  Her memory was preserved by her death at the age of 22, falling ill despite her mother’s neurotic worries about childhood ailments.  Rezzori was robbed of any opportunity to become her equal, leaving her memory as a yardstick for all his future actions.

 In addition to his immediate family, he bookends the chapters with portraits of two individuals who had a significant influence as mother surrogates.  Cassandra, his nursemaid, was of uncertain origins, uneducated, speaking a mishmash of languages that could barely be understood, and was so earthy they had to burn her clothes when she arrived.  More authentic than his blood relatives, she transmitted a love of folk tales to her young charge and anchored him, until he outgrew her.

 Finally, there was Mrs Strauss, known as Bunchy, the warm, nurturing Pomeranian governess who had once been a friend of Mark Twain’s.  A gifted teacher who inspired lifelong devotion in her charges, she was able to manage the Rezzori family adroitly.  She gave Gregor the necessary perspective to assist his development as a young man.

 In recalling the group, Rezzori’s memories range from amused and affectionate to exasperated, overlaid with melancholy, as summed up in the title derived from François Villon’s Ballade des dames du temps jadis.  He is detached when writing about his parents, ambivalent when writing about his sister, and warm when writing about Cassandra and Bunchy.  The sections devoted to his family members are only headed with their family relationships to Gregor (‘The Father’, ‘The Mother’, The Sister’), while those devoted to Cassandra and Bunchy are headed by their names.

 Family dynamics, notably his parents’ unsatisfactory marriage, intersect with larger political forces, particularly the growth of Nazism.  They were a damaged family in damaged times.  Rezzori charts how his family coped after the First World War, but there is always in the background the knowledge of the dramatic changes a new war and its aftermath will bring.  A sense of loss pervades the book, both personal and geographically, his family dispersed or dead, their fortunes declining.  The glowing quality to the account of his childhood throws later events into relief.

 There is a stylistic unity to the memoir until the end, when he recounts a visit to Chernivtsi as an old man.  In 1989 he was able to return for the first time since 1936.  Describing his trip in an epilogue, he sees fewer physical changes have occurred in the intervening years than he had expected; but with the loss of the minorities and the establishment of its unambiguously Ukrainian identity there is a dullness in place of the vibrancy he remembered.

 But then, what place can ever compare with the mythic quality with which we imbue our childhood?   Rezzori concedes he had invented his own Czernowitz, and nostalgia brings disappointment in its wake.  In these last pages literalness crashes into the delicate web of reminiscences of a lost age he had woven.  While Rezzori stared at a new world and struggled to map the city onto the one he had conjured up in his mind, his vivid description of the old has brought it alive for the reader and ensured it will endure forever on the page.

PăcătoasaTeodora/Sinful Theodora

Directed by Anca Hirte, this 2011 Romanian/French documentary was filmed at the Văratec Monastery in north-east Romania.  Teodora is a 24-year old novice in the Romanian Orthodox Church and the film follows her journey to full membership of her convent after 11 years as a probationer.  Having shown the requisite discipline, obedience and piety, the mother superior deems her ready to embark on the next stage of her spiritual journey.  Teodora’s only concern is that she might be told her name has been changed, as she loves Teodora and would like to keep it if possible.  Even that, though, she would be willing to sacrifice if necessary.  Mother superior teasingly holds off until the last minute, but allows Teodora to retain her name.

The admission to full membership is of course cast in the form of marriage to Christ.  The sexual repression inherent in the vow of chastity paradoxically holds within it an erotic component (frankly not helped by the scene in which a standing priest puts his stole over the kneeling Teodora whose face is thus uncomfortably close to his person).  Much of the language is the same that would be used when referring to an earthly lover.  Teodora is repeatedly reminded by her mentor, an older nun assigned to guide her, that this is an irrevocable step: she confirms her commitment and professes herself ready.  She acknowledges her sins, for we are all sinners, and asks God’s forgiveness.

 While Teodora’s preparations for her wedding are the focus, an incidental portrait of the convent and the surrounding community emerges, though it is difficult to know how representative it is of daily life, especially for those who have taken their vows.  The nuns do agricultural work, but it doesn’t seem to be a big part of their lives.  Theodora reads a lot, they have fun out in the snow, and there is much inconsequential and somewhat self-conscious chat, the nature of which hints at their narrow existence.  It emerges that adopting the religious life is not always popular with family, and stories are told of parental resistance to a young woman’s desire to become a nun.  Teodora has no such problems, and as a novice is still able to mix with family, eating meals with them, and they support her wish to enter the order.

 Singing is a significant component for the nuns, as is bell ringing, during which a couple of sisters work up an attractive glow.  There is also drumming, which is a surprise and feels more pagan than Christian, one of the nuns using hammers on a huge block of suspended wood to beat out a hypnotic rhythm.  Hirte is not afraid to focus a tight close-up on sensual full lips singing, representing the sublimation of earthly desire into selfless religious celebration.

 When Teodora takes her final vows and is accepted as a full member, it is a community event, with a large lay attendance to watch, and record, the ceremony.  However, it is a wedding without the trappings of vanity which accompany a secular ceremony, with the bride emphasising her sexuality and desirability.  Instead, she is dressed in the regulation black shapeless garment, redolent of mourning, not joy, designed to hide those earthly aspects seen as the sinful counterpoint to her spiritual essence.  Far from being the centre of attention when approaching the altar, she is hidden within the voluminous garments of a sister as she creeps to where the priest is standing, to show her subservient status.  At the wedding breakfast, while the priest and the other nuns tuck in, Teodora sits in the corner, ignored and not eating at all.

 How Teodoora came to be chosen for the film is unclear, but her outward beauty carries within it a sense that it is an index of inner purity (she manages to look ethereal even dressed in her unflattering habit).  Her selection may have been by chance, or it could have been a calculated choice made by the Church hierarchy to show how much she is giving up, thus how pious she is, and by implication that the Church is worth that degree of devotion.  Her renunciation of the secular world is all the more striking for it.  One wonders how the film would have worked with a less photogenic participant, and quite how poignant it would have felt.

 Hair features prominently in Păcătoasa Teodora, as she has beautiful locks her fellow nuns groom a lot.  Just as hair frames the face, Teodora’s frames the film, which opens with her tresses being brushed and expertly plaited.  At the very end we return to the same scene, and see why: the long plait is cut off: to mark her transition from novice to nun.  A key marker of femininity is excised as a reminder that a nun’s priorities lie elsewhere.  It is an indication of a propensity to view the film in symbolic terms that a few strands of silver in Teodora’s hair in a close-up become freighted as a hint of earthly decay.

 Perhaps it was not intentional, but the close-ups of Teodora’s face put me in mind of Carl Theodor (how appropriate) Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, but where Falconetti’s face is agonised, Christ-like in her suffering, Teodora’s is calm, serene, her vision turned inwards much of the time as, in modest pose with downcast eyes, she contemplates her forthcoming wedding.  These are two vastly different views of unwavering commitment, but they achieve similar levels of intimacy.

 One’s attitude to this film will in large part be influenced by prior views of the Church and of the cloistered life.  Those predisposed towards the Church are likely to find it uplifting, full of spiritual grace and service for the glory of God.  Those who are not will consider Teodora far from being a sinner and the wedding ceremony a parody shorn of the full implications of a union between two people, being one which can never be physically consummated; a waste that a young woman in the prime of her life should choose such a constrained existence and willingly forgo so much in this life, on the promise of one to come that may never materialise.

The Days of the King, by Filip Florian

The Days of the King (Zilele regelui, 2008), by Filip Florian, is the follow-up to The Băiuţ Alley Lads.  Moving further back in time, it covers the period 1866 to 1881.  Romania is in the slow process of throwing off the Ottoman yoke and finding its identity.  The two principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia are united, but in order to secure their stability and continued recognition by European powers invite a Prussian aristocratic army officer, Karl Eitel Friedrich Zephyrinus Ludwig of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, to become the Prince of the United Principalities.  He accepts, and after many travails eventually becomes King Carol I.

 While still in Berlin, Karl, then a mere captain of dragoons, has urgent need of attention for a nasty abscess in his gum, and he invites the dentist, Joseph Strauss, to follow him to Bucharest.  Accompanied only by his faithful and philosophically-inclined tomcat, Siegfried, Joseph leaves his bachelor lifestyle among his friends, says farewell to the Eleven Titties brothel, of which he is an habitué, and follows Karl in a convoluted journey across Europe (the Austro-Prussian War being in progress).  He establishes a practice in Bucharest’s Lipscani Street, even though Romanians do not greatly prize dental hygiene.

 The novel interweaves Joseph’s story with that of his adopted country against the backdrop of political manoeuvrings.  Joseph gradually makes a living and immerses himself in the city’s German community.  Meanwhile, the Prince undertakes the task of modernising and strengthening the principalities, imbuing in them a sense of nationhood, combatting corruption, and turning Bucharest from a dingy backwater with only one properly-made road into a capital worthy of an independent country.  Joseph witnesses the arrival of the railway, road improvements and, always symbolic of nationhood, the city’s first statue.  Siegfried, who possesses an almost mystical aspect, has his own narrative, and we follow his love life as well as Joseph’s.

 The Prince takes Joseph with him to Constantinople when he goes to see the sultan, during which Joseph administers him a tea brewed from fly agaric, leading to an amusing scene with the supposed vassal getting high and forgetting his royal etiquette; but he gradually distances himself, as Joseph is a reminder of events best forgotten, notably having procured for him the services of a blind prostitute.  A turning point in Joseph’s life comes when he meets and marries a Serb nanny, Elena, and they have a child.  They are deeply in love, though there are many things Joseph keeps from her.  Unfortunately, the Prince’s liaison with the prostitute leads to the birth of an illegitimate child, of which Karl is unaware, and Joseph’s desire to protect his reputation leads to a misunderstanding with Elena, who assumes the boy is her husband’s.

 The novel’s elegantly slow pace evokes the city’s character, and Joseph’s improving fortunes as Bucharest’s residents come to care about the state of their teeth.  He is a sympathetic character, and through him we see the changes over the course of the years as Romania begins to take its modern shape.  The German community integrates well, though that does not stop rioters damaging their property during the Franco-Prussian War as an expression of sympathy towards the French (an act for which the German victims exact an appropriate revenge).

 Joseph becomes a fully-fledged Romanian when, somewhat under pressure from his wife, he participates as a doctor with the rank of major in the Russo-Turkish war.  Significantly, when he has an audience with Karl, he speaks Romanian rather than German.  The novel ends in 1881 with Romania free of Ottoman control and taking its place as a fully-fledged kingdom, the prince crowned as Carol I.  As Siegfried’s long life comes to an end, marking the end of an era in more ways than one, indeed the days of the king have begun, perhaps Bucharest’s (not to mention Joseph and Elena’s) finest ones.

 Like The Băiuţ Alley Lads, The Days of the King was translated by the indefatigable Alistair Ian Blyth.  There is a useful section at the end of the book elucidating the novel’s political, military and religious background, and Bucharest’s topography, which helps the reader unfamiliar with this period of Romanian history understand the larger forces shaping Joseph’s life in his adopted land.