DICTATORSHIP BEGINS WITH THE ALPHABET BOOK
- angelogeorge988
- Apr 16
- 16 min read
Skipping classes to become “intellectuals” on literary expeditions to the city centre bookshops. What better way to replace those endless hours of praise for Ceaușescu? With a bit of luck, we might even stumble upon adventure novels, detective stories, or science fiction.
Let it be clear: the communists set out to use culture—books in particular—as a tool to brainwash the people. Their goal was to make the population forget its own traditions and heritage, in order to indoctrinate it with communist dogma. This is what happened in every country where the communists came to power, including Romania. But like communism itself, this theory—no matter how brilliant it may have seemed—failed in practice. Culture, and especially books, became a stronghold of resistance against the system, against communism itself. What follows is the story of the “journey” of the book: from an instrument of subjugation to a symbol of defiance against the communist regime. As we saw it—and lived it—as teenagers during Ceaușescu’s reign.
The School of Lies, Lesson I: Stalin
Communism was truly born in 1917, in Russia, with the Bolshevik Revolution. Here, the theory of Marx and Engels was put into practice in the real lives of an entire people. The result: the most brutal dictatorship the world had ever seen. Under the pretext of giving power to the people, it was in fact concentrated in the hands of a single man—Stalin—who ordered unimaginable atrocities. At the same time, the regime’s propaganda machine worked to convince people they were living in the best of all possible worlds. To achieve this goal, people had to learn to read and write. They needed to be able to read the propaganda and write what was “necessary”—texts that glorified the communist regime, of course. But at the start of 1918, apart from a handful of nobles at the Tsar’s court and a few intellectuals, most Russians could neither read nor write. The communists were thus forced to embark on a monumental task: the mass literacy of the population. Soon after, communism was “exported” by Russia across Eastern Europe—by force, with tanks. Once in power, communist regimes began a campaign of rapid literacy, followed by ideological indoctrination through the school system, all following the Soviet model.
First You Erase, Then You Control
It is important to understand that the communists did not educate the people out of kindness or in their best interest. They did it to indoctrinate them, to ensure they would accept the communist regime not only out of fear—but willingly. People were illiterate, but not uneducated. Traditions, customs, stories, and legends were passed down orally, from generation to generation, from one community to another. It was, of course, a popular culture—but one that was rich, well-defined, and deeply rooted. This culture upheld a way of life and a value system that stood in stark contrast to what the communists sought to impose. Hence the need to eradicate it, through two major actions: literacy and indoctrination. Schools were opened even in the most remote villages, and the entire population was compelled to attend classes to learn reading and writing. Naturally, the textbooks were adapted to distill the teachings of the Communist Party. So was the literature.
Indoctrination Through Literature
In communist Romania, censorship began with the banning of pre-war literature, though a few exceptions were made. At the same time, a massive translation campaign was launched to promote Russian authors—Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, but also Leonid Leonov, Sholokhov, and others associated with the "socialist realism" school. Alongside these, new works were published under the banner of proletcultism, a literary current strictly aligned with the directives of the Communist Party. These texts were written by authors lacking any real literary talent—such as Alexandru Jar, Anatol Bakonski, and Nicolae Tăutu—names long since forgotten.
It quickly became clear that this method was ineffective for indoctrinating the population. As a result, the Party changed its tactic: starting in the 1950s, it began translating works from the Western literary canon. But not just any works. The focus was on authors such as Stendhal, Balzac, Flaubert, and Dickens. At the top of the list was Zola—though not J’Accuse, of course, only Gervaise and other novels of the same kind. All these works followed a similar ideological line: they depicted a decaying bourgeois society and an industrialisation built on the ruthless exploitation of workers. It didn’t matter that they referred to a bygone era, that they were outdated, or that the changes they described had already taken place by the early twentieth century.
Communist propaganda used these works to support the thesis that capitalist society was in a state of progressive decay and destined to be replaced by the communist regime. Considerable resources were devoted to persuading people of this idea—primarily through strict control over the books that were published.
The Silent Machinery of Censorship
Once in power, the Communist Party took control of publishing houses, bookstores, and libraries. All works that failed to align with its ideology—that is, the vast majority—were destroyed. But unlike the Nazis, the communists were more subtle: they didn’t burn books in public squares for all to see. They simply removed them—quietly, without spectacle.
Soon after, the population was informed that distributing or even possessing such books could lead to severe punishment. Publishing houses were shut down, only to be reopened once the regime had secured full control over what could be printed. Their number grew from three in 1948 to twenty-four by 1972. A specific censorship system was put in place. Its goal was clear: no work that failed to conform to—or dared contradict—the teachings, standards, and ideology of the Communist Party was to be published. In theory, the system functioned flawlessly. In practice, things were more… complicated—especially as the number of writers and literary works continued to grow.
The Writers’ Union: Privilege and Obedience
Between the two world wars, Romania was home to many remarkable writers and poets, some of whom gained widespread fame and success. When the communists came to power, these voices were pushed out of literary life. Some chose exile—like Eugène Ionesco, Paul Goma, Mircea Eliade, and Émile Cioran. Those who remained faced persecution, such as Lucian Blaga, Radu Gyr, and Ion Caraion. Tragically, many ended up in prisons or concentration camps—among them Nicolae Steinhardt, Mircea Vulcănescu, Petre Țuțea, and Păstorel Teodoreanu. A small number of writers, particularly those with leftist sympathies, chose to collaborate with the communist regime, compromising themselves artistically in exchange for privilege. Among the most well-known were Zaharia Stancu, Mihail Sadoveanu, and Camil Petrescu. New writers also emerged—naturally, those who wrote what the Communist Party wanted to hear. Most were mediocre, but a few had genuine talent, such as Ștefan Augustin Doinaș and Eugen Jebeleanu. Following the Soviet model, the Writers’ Union was established. Those who wrote and were published became members. To encourage literary production, members were offered significant perks: massive print runs, generous royalties, "creative retreats" in villas and castles, and trips abroad—mainly to other communist countries. In time, the number of writers grew exponentially, to the regime’s satisfaction. The Party saw its plan materializing: an ever-expanding body of literature promoting—whether explicitly or subtly—the official ideological line. However, censorship couldn’t keep up with this literary boom. As a result, some authors began to write works that increasingly strayed from the regime’s expectations. This deeply irritated Ceaușescu, leading to a swift fall from grace for many once-favoured writers.
The Decline of Literary Favour: Writers and the Ceaușescu Regime
In parallel, Ceaușescu deemed it necessary to make budget cuts in order to fund projects he considered grandiose — though others saw them as megalomaniacal. From that point on, considerable efforts were made to limit the publication of new books and to reduce the print runs of those that were approved. In this context, to stem the emergence of new writers, the Writers’ Union stopped accepting new members and began gradually reducing authors’ royalties and the other privileges its members had enjoyed. Moreover, an increasing number of writers began producing works that showed less and less deference to the official line of the Communist Party and to Ceaușescu himself — among them, Mircea Dinescu and Ana Blandiana. Even those who had long praised the regime and Ceaușescu were not spared from falling out of favour, as illustrated by the case of poet Adrian Păunescu. Once the regime’s official bard, he was banned from all public performances at a time when he and Cenaclul Flacăra had become immensely popular across the country — a popularity that threatened to eclipse Ceaușescu’s own authority.
Reading
In interwar Romania, people read, but only a minority devoted themselves to literature, while the majority read only what was necessary. The mass literacy campaign carried out by the communists after taking power made reading almost mandatory. To encourage reading, a real infrastructure was created: bookstores and libraries appeared everywhere, and meetings with writers were frequently organized in schools, factories, as well as in villages and remote areas. Being known as someone who read a lot became a social distinction, similar to nobility. Recommendations for promotion to various positions also included references to an individual’s interest in reading. Thus, people became accustomed to reading.
Searching for Truth in Books and Music
When Angelo, George, and I were forced to attend school, brainwashing through education had reached its peak. Like all previous generations, we had teachers who were nothing more than mouthpieces for Communist Party propaganda. But more than ever, they now taught us very little of their subject matter, instead bombarding us with official propaganda. According to them, we lived in a perpetual miracle. Each lesson almost invariably began with news and stories about our booming communist economy, Romania's achievements, and Ceaușescu's "precious instructions." But don’t imagine it was easy to follow this top-down enthusiasm when we saw the store shelves empty of any products every day and when we suffered under the constant terror of the regime. This discrepancy between what they taught us in school and the reality we lived led us to search for refuges. We found them in rock music, martial arts, and books, which allowed us to escape the system's constraints and have our own intellectual adventures. The events you will read below are not invented but lived, though some may seem unbelievable. But in those years, reality itself defied logic.
An Unplanned Lesson
From the first year of high school, we had the habit of skipping classes to read. In the late autumn of 1985, on an unusually warm day, we found ourselves in the thicket near the student entrance, where we had built a small bastion of intellectual freedom. Angelo was sitting in the shade, between two bushes, holding an Agatha Christie detective novel. I, George, stayed outside, being the first to stand guard. Which I did, but with Jules Verne's The Mysterious Island in hand. In the middle of reading, the suspense was so intense that I completely forgot about my duty. At a moment of utmost literary concentration, I was suddenly yanked from the island and harshly brought back to reality: someone had grabbed my ear. It wasn't a pirate or a mysterious castaway, but the very supreme authority of the high school — Comrade Spulber, the principal feared by all students. In an instant, I tried to salvage the situation. I coughed discreetly, sighed, maybe even rustled the pages, hoping to warn Angelo, but nothing worked. Just as the detective was discovering the criminal's fingerprints, Angelo sensed a presence beside him and heard a seemingly gentle whisper: "What are you doing here, student Angelo?" Angelo responded naturally, like the exemplary student (which he wasn’t!), without lifting his gaze, without thinking: "Reading!" Then he realized. He froze. He swallowed. He looked up and stared directly into Spulber's eyes. It was too late. In his office, the principal gave us a speech about "the values of communist education" and how "the high school is not a place for decadent bohemianism." That was our first visit to his office. We, quite scared, promised to be good students from then on. In reality, this commitment quickly became a good joke, given the lesson we learned: if you're going to skip class to read, at least choose a better lookout! Or a better reading spot.
The Secret Library of our Adolescence
We read a lot during classes: we hid books under the desks or covered them with textbook covers. The math and physics teachers, the most vigilant ones, tried to catch us and force us to follow their lessons. Seeing how well we pretended not to understand their lectures, they eventually gave up. It probably seemed more useful to them to see us reading than to face our blank stares while they tried to explain the beauty of differential equations. Sometimes, the book was too captivating, and the teacher’s voice, singing praises of the regime, was too annoying. In such cases, we simply skipped classes and went to read in peace in our intellectual refuge, a secluded corner of the school. After the principal discovered our hideout, we simply moved to the school library. We strategically befriended the librarian, a dull woman who, probably, had also found her refuge in books as a survival instinct. We went there during breaks, sneaking between the back shelves where no one could find us, neither teachers nor other students. The librarian, initially skeptical, eventually accepted us, undoubtedly grateful to have such loyal readers. Our relationship with the library faded as we finished reading the books and left to find new ones elsewhere.
Books as Trophies: Skipping School and Culture
Towards the end of our second year of high school, the literary resources available to us—the books in our parents’ homes and the school library—were no longer enough to satisfy our hunger for reading. This is when literary expeditions began, to the bookstores in the city center, during school hours, of course. What better way to replace that time spent listening to endless praises for Ceaușescu? With a bit of luck, we could find adventure novels, detective stories, or even science fiction, and occasionally Western literature, as well as books that contradicted the official propaganda line but had somehow slipped past the censors. There was a price to pay, however: in order to buy such a book, you had to purchase a package containing two others and pay three times the normal price. Usually, the second book was a work celebrating the Party and/or the dictator Comrade Ceaușescu. The third was something like "Cultivating Communist Corn Varieties" or "Using Milling and Planing Machines in Romania’s Socialist Machine-Tool Industry." Another advantage of the bookstores in the city center was that authors would occasionally visit. They would mingle with regular people and sign autographs, true trophies for us. Signed books held a special status. Thanks to them, we were no longer just schoolkids who read; we were part of a cultural elite. Bonus: we could even sell them for a better price at the Obor market.
Obor: The Universe of Banned Books
It was 1987, and apart from a few buyers and vendors, the market was quite empty on weekdays. However, on Sundays, it transformed into a much livelier place than an oriental bazaar, becoming a parallel universe where you could find everything – products and goods that no longer existed, if they ever had, in official stores. Obor had become an essential destination for obtaining books. These were the ones that could no longer be found in bookstores and libraries, either because they had been published in limited editions to save costs, or because they had become undesirable for the communist regime and had been removed from shelves. There were also books that had escaped the vigilance of the censors, despite contradicting the official line of the Party. And, of course, there were outright banned books, which were not officially published, but printed by hand or simply photocopied. We would go there to sell books and gather money to buy the ones we hadn’t read yet.
The Night of the Great Literary Heist
Saturday night was, as usual, the night of the great literary heist. In our homes, the shelves of our parents' libraries underwent mysterious changes. The classics, like Balzac, Flaubert, or Goethe, disappeared, making room for dubious volumes, titles like "Irrigation Strategies in Bărăgan" or others from the packages we were forced to buy. These were the filler books, the necessary rejects that kept up appearances and prevented our libraries from looking like warehouses ransacked by thieves specializing in classic literature. In fact, they served a purpose. Besides masking the traces of our meticulous theft, they were also useful for another reason. If someone came to visit, they were the first line of defense. Anyone who glanced at the bookshelf would only see volumes about "Strategies for Increasing Sugar Beet Yield" and would think we were responsible citizens. A full bookshelf, even if filled with propaganda junk, was less suspicious than a disheveled one. And we knew that, somewhere, hidden among the dusty covers and embarrassing titles, were the books that truly mattered. The operation was one of finesse, and on Sunday mornings, we presented ourselves at Obor, ready for trade.
Books as Merchandise: Illegality and Culture
Among wilted vegetables and packets of seeds, our dealers take their places at the market stalls—protected by the militia or the market boss in exchange for a proper bribe. With leathery faces and eyes that scan faster than a Giurgiu customs officer, they weigh the goods. The Decameron? Good, it’ll sell. Xenophon? A bit risky, but fine—I’ll give you 30. Goethe? Hmm, kind of dangerous, but useful for the right buyer. After selling the most valuable titles, we head to the “junk market,” that peculiar universe where everything is for sale and nothing is illegal—just “negotiable.” The location? A disused railway line behind the market, where rusted tracks bear silent witness to deals as creative as a five-year plan. On either side of the rails, like soldiers of subsistence trade, the street vendors line up. No stalls, no display windows, no polished counters. Just a blanket on the ground—maybe a thick newspaper for the finer volumes. And us? We’ve got our imaginary bookshelf, full of books—from literary classics to adventure novels. The volumes are laid out neatly on the pavement, waiting for a buyer with refined taste and cash to spare. And the buyers come. Some leaf through them, skeptical. Others know exactly what they’re looking for. They glance at us, weighing us up. We’re teenagers, but serious. A deal is struck. Money slips discreetly from one hand to another, and the book continues its journey—perhaps to a library less vulnerable to juvenile theft. And so it goes. Each book finds a new home, and we’re left with heavier pockets and minds already set on the next round of literary acquisitions.
The Secret Market of Forbidden Literature
We’re practical people—we know that a steady flow of merchandise is essential to our illicit literary enterprise. So we reinvest. The “junk market” is a sea of opportunity, and hidden among cheap trinkets from China and tangled piles of broken radio parts, there are treasures to be found. If you’ve got a sharp eye and steady nerves, you can uncover books that haven’t been seen in libraries or bookshops for years—if they were ever there at all.
Some of the titles? Still well-known today, proudly displayed in second-hand bookstores—like The Most Beloved of Earthlings by Marin Preda. Others have been forgotten for so long that no one even remembers they existed. One such gem: The Cat in Boots. A forbidden jewel, highly sought after—if you were lucky, you could grab it for next to nothing and sell it for a handsome price. A xeroxed edition, thick pages, a cover that looked like it was printed on a machine from another planet—but the content? Top shelf. We’d read it, pass it around, and then put it back on the market. We read fast, in snatches, at night, between “operations,” because no matter how passionate we were about literature, we knew that a book’s true worth could outstrip even that of money. Then, once we’d read and reread them, we’d pack them carefully, lay them out on the blanket over the railway tracks, and let them continue their journey—to new readers, new vendors. A closed circuit, but an efficient one. After all, nothing is lost—everything is sold.Or confiscated, during a raid by the militia.
Crime and Punishment – The Militia Edition
Everything we do is illegal, but no one seems particularly bothered by it. The “junk market” is its own ecosystem, a place where we all know the unwritten rules: no one asks questions, no one speaks more than necessary, and we’re all in the same boat. Here, competition doesn’t exist in the usual sense. Especially not with the ever-present undercover Militia agents—silent shadows drifting among us, pretending to be interested in the merchandise.
You can spot them if you know how to look. Their gaze lacks the genuine curiosity of a reader; it’s more like an opaque, tense lens, searching for guilt where others are just hoping to find a good book. Angelo and I have our own survival system. One of us stays at the “stall”—our modest blanket on the rusted tracks—keeping an eye on the goods, negotiating, selling. The other walks the market, observing. The shadow eye. If he spots something suspicious, he sounds the alarm—discreet but unmistakable—and within seconds, we’re on the move. Rarely has the warning cry “Raid!” caught us unprepared. In those moments, there’s no strategy but to run. No explanations, no regrets. We run until we’re breathless, until our feet no longer touch the ground but float. When the danger passes, we return. Sometimes we find the books right where we left them. Other times, a fellow vendor has gathered them up—market solidarity, the unwritten survival code. But there are dark days too, when the blanket lies empty and our tracks have been wiped clean by a grim-faced officer who, by confiscating Crime and Punishment, believes he’s arrested ideological enemies of the people. And yet, we don’t give up. Win or lose, we’re back the next Sunday. The junk market forgives no one, but it shuts no one out either. It’s a theatre of risk, an improvised reading room between two raids.A place where every book sold is a small victory.
Instead of an Epilogue
The events described above are real, even if today they may seem improbable. Yes, we sold books to buy metal music, but we also sold them to buy more books—especially the ones that defied the “ethics and equity of socialism.” For us, books weren’t just objects of trade; they were the invisible thread that kept us anchored in an absurd world. We smuggled them, hid them, lost and recovered them. Some we read in secret, out of a mix of curiosity, rebellion, and intellectual hunger. Other times, after selling them, we felt a pang of regret—a quiet remorse we tried to mend by buying them back, if we ever found them again. Life moved on. Today, the “junk market” is just a memory, and the tracks we once sat on have vanished into the dust of time. But the books from back then—the ones we negotiated over with pounding hearts and trembling hands—have stayed etched in our minds.
Officially, we were products of the socialist school system. Unofficially, we were self-taught survivors in a system that taught us, inadvertently, how to read between the lines and how to slip between the rules. That’s how we passed those four years of high school: fleeing through the pages of books, dodging—where we could—the stifling propaganda and daily absurdities. In a country where reality was warped at every news bulletin, fiction—with all its risks and escapes—seemed to us the most plausible form of truth.
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