The morning before Pentecost, two double coaches pulled into the prison courtyard, and we were all taken there to get our civilian clothes. The joy of seeing each other was huge for all. An encouraging sign was the release of the socialists, headed by Motaş and Stănescu.

But where were they taking us? We didn't know and couldn't begin to guess. Just like the detainee song says: “Will we ever go, will we be going soon? / No one knows where, no one knows when.”

The train we were attached to went toward the Olt Valley. We’re going to Aiud or Gherla, we told ourselves. The next day we passed through Blaj, but the cathedral bells weren't ringing, and the Metropolitan of Blaj, Alexandru Rusu, my former teacher of religion from the high school in Blaj, together with his four young bishops—Todea, Hîrţea, Ploscaru, Leluţiu—were sad and deep in thought. Frenţiu and Bălan of the old-timers, as well as Ionel Suciu, my dear desk mate, one of the youngest, had died.

After fifteen kilometers we came to Cisteiu station, across the Târnava river from my village, Obreja. I shouted out the window: “This is Professor Mărgineanu of Obreja, whoever can hear me, come to the station at Podul Mureş or Teiuş, I want to hear news of my mother and brother.”

“What are you doing?” Ionel Mocioni said. “That snake Silber is going to rat on you, like he did with Pătrăşcanu.”

At Podul Mureş, a man approached the window of the coach and yelled: “Professor, I am a man from Cisteiu.”

“Is my mother alive?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Is my brother back?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about my family in Cluj?”

“They are all in good health, they’re waiting for you.”

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear brother, I will never forget you all my life for the good you’ve done today, it's been eight years since I’ve heard anything about them. Tell them I am in good health.”

“Good day, professor, and keep believing in the justice that's going to come,” he added when the train left.