[3]
By
Published: 2007
Category: Memoir [4]
When I first encountered Jacques Sandulescu, I was a pasty college kid whose idea of exertion involved a highlighter and a textbook. Jacques was twice my age, a giant, rock hard, with hands that swallowed pens whole. Romania was deep in his past, as was his career as a professional boxer; in l968, when we met, he was a Greenwich Village bar owner.
Like Big Daddy Lipscomb --- the legendary giant of a football player who used to help opponents up “so the children won't think Big Daddy's mean” --- Jacques was a calming force in every room he entered. You couldn't imagine trouble erupting with him around; he was that big and strong. And, at the same time, peaceful --- he had the kind of calm only people who have passed through fire seem to know.
It wasn't until I read his book that I understood the horror Jacques survived.
“I was arrested in Brasov on my way to school,” his book begins. And right there your stomach sinks. Because you know what's coming: a terrible story, told in unadorned prose.
Well, brace yourself, you're about to be devastated.
As “Donbas” opens, Jacques is 16 years old, 6 feet 2 inches tall, 180 pounds. He's the youngest person in the box car filled with Romanians that the Russians are shipping east in January of 1945. But his youth vanishes fast when he watches guards execute some would-be escapees. On one hand, he envies their death: “no more cold, misery, hunger.” On the other, he wants to live. Which means he'll have to escape.
This is a book about noticing everything, paying sharp attention, looking for an opening. His first conclusion: Don't try to escape in winter, don't think you can get out of Russia without knowing Russian.
But after a few days of working in the coal mines of Donbas (now considered part of the Ukraine), his thoughts turn from escape to survival. The work is wet and cold. A cave-in could come at any time. Exhaustion, exposure, hunger --- death comes in many forms here.
I have never read an account of work in a mine that made me so claustrophobic. I found myself reading faster, as if getting to the end of a particularly horrible shift would provide some relief. But it didn't --- above ground, there were sadistic guards and icy winds. “Many prisoners died,” Jacques reports matter-of-factly. “Over half the camp. Four hundred and fifty weak and sick weren't suffering any more.”
Jacques is comparatively well off. He is strong and uncomplaining, a good worker. He gets privileges --- when he goes to nearby homes for dinner, it's a delight to read as he eats and eats and eats. But he's never fooled; there's always a power-mad guard around the corner. And one does beat him so badly he almost dies. Which makes it all the more satisfying when, with the permission of a senior officer, Jacques stomps that sadist mercilessly. “It was a good feeling while it lasted,” he says. I think even a pacifist would agree.
After two and a half years, his luck runs out. Jacques is trapped in a cave-in and rescued only by a friend's heroic efforts. He fears his legs will be amputated. It's winter, but so what --- he must escape. His legs are running with pus, he is a mass of sores, but he slips onto a train, hides in an open coal car and begins the slow, freezing ride to the West.
Books like this have a built-in handicap --- we know the author survived. Only the best of the breed make us forget that there's a happy ending. And this is the best; reading these pages, you will feel cold and hungry, raging with fever, wet and dispirited. But mostly, you will feel Jacques Sandulescu's spirit, his unyielding insistence on life, life in free air, life at all costs. And, after you put his book down, you will, literally, take a deep breath.
To buy “Donbas” from Amazon.com, click here. [5]