Caught in a revolution
by Michelle Mazel
The Jerusalem Post (part 1 and Part 2, December 2009)

This was December 21, 1989, the day winter starts officially. In Bucharest, the weather was still unusually mild and children were lamenting that there might not be snow on Christmas.

Grown-ups had other worries. The Berlin Wall had fallen and with it the last communist regime in Eastern Europe - bar Romania. The situation had been tense for a number of weeks with unconfirmed reports of flare-ups in the provinces, the most serious having been clashes between police and demonstrators in the city of Timsoara.

However this was communist Romania and reliable information on what had actually happened was hard to come by. Political pundits predicted that Nicolae Ceaucescu, who ruled the country with an iron fist, would soon put an end to the unrest. Most foreign diplomats had felt they could safely leave the capital to spend the festive season at home.

Even the Israeli embassy was unusually depleted. A senior diplomat was in Paris for a conference, and the head of administration was in Israel for personal reasons. The ambassador, Zvi Mazel, had remained, and as his wife I stayed too.

On that fateful day - a Thursday - Ceaucescu, just back from a state visit to Iran, decided to address what was touted as a "spontaneous" rally of supporters from the balcony of the party headquarters. A sizable crowd has assembled and television crews from all over the world were there to demonstrate that the old dictator is still very much in control.

And then the unthinkable happened: Angry boos and catcalls followed, while banners calling for an end to the dictatorship were raised. A white-faced and shaken Ceaucescu was seen fleeing into the building by millions of people in Romania and abroad. There was rejoicing in the streets of the capital - but not for long. Tanks and troops moved to strategic positions in an impressive show of strength which confirmed the general belief that the protests were a flash in the pan and that order would be swiftly restored.

Back home, we vainly tried to get some news. There was no Internet at the time, no satellite television, no cellphones and not even direct phone communications: Calls had to go through the international exchange and it took literally hours to get connected - even for the ambassador. We tuned in to Kol Yisrael, but on that Thursday evening all we got was the live broadcast of yet another Maccabi Tel Aviv basketball game.

Morning brought renewed sunshine and blue sky. Gunfire had been heard throughout the night and the city was uneasy but calm, as if holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen; people went to work.

At the embassy it was business as usual for what was the last working day before Christmas for local staff, while at the residence a couple of workers were tearing down one of the bathrooms and the kitchen prior to much needed renovation.

Our faithful cook was hastily frying the last batch of doughnuts we aimed to take with us to a group of some 100 new immigrants from the Soviet Union waiting in Bucharest for their Sunday flight to Israel. On the night of this Friday, December 22, we were to light with them the first candle of Hanukka. Or so we thought.

NEEDLESS TO say it was not to be. Just before midday, the mood turned ugly and there was renewed gunfire. No one knew what was going on, so we were all keeping a wary eye on the television screen - which remained desperately blank until just before noon. Suddenly a speaker appeared and told a shocked nation that a state of emergency had been declared, and that the minister of defense had committed suicide.

I was about to call the embassy to talk to Zvi about what was happening and ask him what it meant when there was a new and even more startling announcement: Ceaucescu and his wife have fled. They were picked up by an army helicopter and were on their way to the north of the country. There was rejoicing on the small screen, speakers formerly known as staunch communists were now repudiating the fallen dictator and extolling democracy.

Their enthusiasm was slightly premature. Once again, something was happening. The guards posted outside the residence were gone. The head of the security detail protecting the ambassador formally took his leave saying that he hoped to resume his duties "later." It wouldn't happen: He would be killed during the fighting.

We did not go to light a candle with the immigrants that night though the doughnuts came in handy.

Instead, we found ourselves within the not-so-safe walls of the embassy building, once the town house of a rich Jewish merchant, while what seemed like a full blown war raged all around us. The sound of gunfire was drowned out in the roar of cannon as the Romanian revolution got really under way.

It seemed as if that Friday, December 22, 1989, the day Nicolae Ceausescu fled Bucharest in an army helicopter and the Romanian revolution started in earnest, would never end. Confusion was total. Nobody knew what was going on and who exactly was shooting at whom. The only source of news was the television, where events were literally broadcast live.

A succession of TV presenters wearing armbands the color of the Romanian flag were earnestly expressing their joy at their new freedom, while explaining that for years they had worked under duress - all the while uneasily watching reports about Ceausescu's faithful regaining ground.

In the first few hours, the fate of the battle raging in the country hung in the balance. Would the ragged bands of heroic civilians, poorly armed and trained, be able to overcome the forces of the Securitate, the dreaded security apparatus wholly devoted to the dictator? Suddenly a triumphant yell resounded in the studio: "Armata e cu noi!" (the army is with us). That was the turning point.

It meant that part of the establishment was throwing its lot in with the insurgents. The problem was that there were not enough troops in the capital and while reinforcements were being rushed in, the Securitate made an all-out effort to crush the uprising. The first step was to try and take over the television building, thus silencing the voice of the revolution. The battle raged for hours.

Just before midnight, a soldier rushed in with unbelievable news: Far from planning his comeback from the safety of some secret location, Ceausescu, having been betrayed by the pilot of his army helicopter, had been arrested and thrown in jail together with his wife. Since, however, there were no pictures of the couple, many people believed it was a ploy to discourage his followers and convince them to lay down their arms. They were wrong: It was true.

Needless to say, Israeli representations the world over do not as a rule have comfortable bedrooms for the use of the diplomats. I spent that first night lying on the faux Persian carpet in his excellency's stately office, my head resting on one of the cushions taken from the small sofa (the ambassador had the other one). I did not sleep well. More than the bright flash of mortar fire or the dull thud of cannon, it was the uncertainty of the situation which was keeping me awake. How long would this go on? What was going to happen?

Diplomatic immunity was not going to help if things got really bad, as another ambassador's wife was discovering that very night. Sharpshooters were targeting the brightly lit television studios and soldiers were returning fire. The British residence, situated next door to the television building, was caught in the crossfire.

The ambassador himself was safe in the embassy building, but his wife was trapped in the house with the children who had come from England to spend Christmas with their parents. They managed to creep down to the basement where they huddled together for a long time, waiting for a lull in the fighting to make a dash for the street. They escaped just before dawn - not a moment too soon. A direct hit set the mansion ablaze. It burned to the ground and with it all the family personal effects - from clothes to mementos and family albums.

We had no such drama and I eventually drifted to sleep until a new round of artillery fire started in earnest. It petered out by mid-morning for no apparent reason. Among the many rumors floating around that Saturday - the wildest being that there was an atomic bomb under the party headquarters and it could be triggered by remote control - was that Arab mercenaries were allegedly pouring in to help repress the revolution. The angry crowd would pounce on blameless passersby with a Middle Eastern appearance yelling "terrorists."

TWENTY YEARS ago there were hundreds of young Israelis in Bucharest studying medicine and dentistry, and roughly half their number were Israeli Arabs. Not all had gone home for the long end-of-the year vacation. Many of those who had remained found themselves suddenly the target of hostile manifestations and came to seek refuge at the embassy. By mid-afternoon there were 50 of them milling in the courtyard and the waiting rooms. Fortunately they had brought a little food with them, because by that time we were running out of supplies and could give them nothing but apples and a few remaining doughnuts.

The good news was that the US embassy was hard at work trying to organize the orderly evacuation of nonessential personnel to neighboring Bulgaria - less than 40 miles away - and was ready to include whoever wanted to in the convoy due to leave the next day. Most students decided to go.

Night fell on a wounded and bewildered city. Was the fighting abating or was it just wishful thinking? On the morning of December 24, the evacuation started and the embassy regained a measure of calm - a calm which slowly spread to the city. Our driver showed up. With the blessing of the head of security, who came with us, we decided to make a quick trip to the residence to replenish our stocks.

Roadblocks manned by what appeared to be very young fighters had been set at major intersections. Our car was stopped again and again, and once the driver was ordered at gunpoint to open the trunk. There was nothing in it but a case of grapefruit which we had intended to send to a sick friend. The youngsters looked at it with wonder.

Grapefruits in communist Romania were not a common sight. Zvi had an inspiration: "Take them and have a merry Christmas," he said. He did not have to repeat it. In less than a minute, the three fighters were making off at top speed for home, each clutching a few of the golden fruit to his chest.

Romanian demonstrators take to the streets in December 1989. ('1989 Libertate Roumanie' by Denoel Paris)

As the day went on, it seemed as if heavy artillery had ceased completely and only occasional gunfire was heard. The army was taking control and meeting less and less opposition: Now that Ceausescu was in jail, his supporters were losing the will to fight. With no less than six armored personnel carriers having taken position to protect the residence, we went home for a good night's sleep.

The next day - December 25 - was Christmas. At noon, there was a sudden hush. A grey faced speaker told the country and the world that the dictator and his wife, having been found guilty of innumerable crimes by a special tribunal, had been condemned to death and executed on the spot.

That night, snow began to fall at last.

The writer is the wife of former ambassador Zvi Mazel. She is the author of Ambassador's Wife published in 2002, a personal account of the eight years she spent in Cairo with her husband.