The Eighth Tribe, 1980 (7. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1980-07-01 / 7. szám
REPORTER TAILED BY SECRET POLICE EDITOR’S NOTE—The world has heard a lot about the “independent” foreign policy pursued by Romania’s President Nicolae Ceausescu even though he belongs to the Soviet bloc. Rather less is known about his autocratic rule and his feared secret police. London Sunday Times correspondent Michael Dobbs has just made a 1,000-mile tour of the country—unwillingly in the company of scores of persistent security men. Following is the report he is submitting to Ceausescu’s security chief, Tudor Postelnicu. Copyright: 1980 Sunday Times, London BELGRADE—Dear Mr. Postelnicu: You will no doubt be receiving a detailed report on my tour of Romania from your agents. I thought it might be helpful, however, if I jotted down my impressions of their performance and suggested how it might be improved. I must admit I was impressed by the scale of your operation. I calculate that at least 150 plainclothes agents and 75 cars, with backup from the uniformed militia, were deployed to keep track of me during my 10-day stay. Fresh teams of radiolinked cars lay in wait for my battered red Volkswagen as it approached each big city. Your men spelled one another off in day and evening shifts. When I went out for a walk, I was followed on foot. My hotel rooms were searched. When my girlfriend went out alone, she too was followed. I do not know whether you found the results worthwhile. For me, it provided a valuable insight into the workings of your department and its ubiquitous presence in Romanian life. Now for particular comments: My chief criticism of your agents is the incompetence of their attempts to be inconspicuous. Some of their ploys were ingenious, but time and again they gave themselves away by exaggerated behavior. At times their efforts to pass themselves off as average Romanian citizens were worthy of an inept amateur dramatic society. In contrast to the friendly helpfulness of ordinary Romanians, your agents usually replied with negative grunts when I tried to talk to them. If asked a simple thing such as the way to the nearest police station they would rush off in the opposite direction. When followed, either on foot or by car, they would flee away even faster: amusing for onlookers, but hardly good for the prestige of your force. I cannot imagine what your agents thought 1 would do had I succeeded in getting close. They frequently behaved as though I intended to stick poisoned pins in them. One agent, assigned to watch me drink Coca-Cola at the roadside cafe, actually fled into a wood when I approached him. I never saw him again. I hope he did not injure himself. Your men in the delightful Hungarian-accented city of Cluj in Transylvania were particularly talented at drawing attention to themselves. One flattened himself theatrically against the wall of an alley as we drove past. Another tried to hide behind a concrete electricity pylon. I appreciate that it is sometimes difficult for your agents to blend into a background of say, Moldavian peasants in traditional costume in a village church, and it’s bad luck when a five-year-old child rejects the company of a secret policeman pretending to be his father. Still, I do feel you could instruct your agents to act more naturally. On the other hand, I must compliment you for using women agents. The first time they appeared, it confused me, since I had become so accustomed to seeing your Dacia cars occupied by two or more grimfaced men in artificial leather jackets or crumpled suits. The women’s technique of rapid wig-changing and of ducking behind seats was impressive. The increasing number of women in the security forces is no doubt partly a result of the enormous influence of the president’s wife, Elena Ceausescu. As you know, she has demanded greater representation of women in all walks of life. I am glad to see that your department has responded. I was also impressed by your agents’ devotion when I toured a special exhibition in Bucharest glorifying Ceausescu. (I and three agents were the only people present.) They lingered, apparently spellbound, in front of huge portraits of the 62-year-old leader wearing the Romanian tricolour round his waist and holding a sceptre in his hand. A third replied with a wounded “Who, me?” in English when accused of listening to my telephone calls at the hotel reception desk. Each exhibit had been presented to the president as “homage” on his 60th birthday. The gift of the union of composers was a set of tapes containing songs in his praise. I noted that your own ministry, in common with many others, gave him a model of the house where he was born in the village of Scomicesti. It was all in appalling taste, but fascinating for a student of personality cults. Despite my criticisms, it must be put on record that your department was notably more efficient than any other Romanian institution with which I had dealings. I succeeded in eluding your agents at most three or four times — once when I resorted to the classic spy-thriller trick of jumping off an under-THE TRANSYLVANIAN QUARTERLY VI
