— Your novel with autobiographical undertones, The Ghost in the Mill, has recently been reissued. Could you tell us the story behind this book?
The Ghost in the Mill has recently appeared in my author series at Litera, alongside Lizoanca at Eleven, Occult Beds, and The Checkered Shirt.
This is my central novel and the first one I ever wrote, although I was unable to publish it until two decades later. I wrote it toward the end of the dictatorship, between 1986 and 1988, when publication was out of the question. It wasn’t only the content that posed a problem, but the conditions under which one was even allowed to publish.
I went on to write other books, and The Ghost in the Mill finally saw print in 2008. The current edition, with a preface by Paul Cernat, is a critical one: it includes notes, a scholarly apparatus, a biography, and an author’s confession.
— The action takes place during Easter, in the communist period. What was special about that particular Easter?
That is true. Many parts of the novel are autobiographical. I remember that Easter very clearly—almost four decades have passed since then. It was 1986, and May 1st happened to coincide with Easter. This was an event in itself, because religious holidays were not officially observed, whereas May 1st meant a short vacation, marked by celebrations in support of propaganda, typical of communism.
But it was precisely then that the Chernobyl explosion occurred. When the announcement was broadcast, I was absolutely convinced it was a lie—one of the frequent manipulations of the dictatorship. I believed they were trying to keep people indoors, out of fear that crowds might gather around churches.
In The Ghost in the Mill, the story unfolds during those days, within a small community where everything takes on fabulous proportions. Preparations for Easter take place under the shadow of Chernobyl, in an atmosphere oscillating between magic and the harsh reality of those years. Everything was confused in that historical moment, and this confusion becomes the dominant tone of my novel.
“Ahead, wrapped in the midday light of April, red flags fluttered here and there, and among them the militiaman glimpsed with emotion the white wings of the ghost, which sheltered him from within the mill’s walls and gave him confidence in life. It was tethered to the clear sky above the sandpaper road, and to Grigore it seemed to sway in rhythm with the cooing of doves.”
(The Ghost in the Mill)Beneath the fantastic surface of the fiction lie historical realities: the appearance of a white cloud, the tension created by the announcement of the nuclear disaster, earthly desires, and communist obligations related to celebrating May 1st—all blended into a ghost story.
— How was Easter celebrated under communism?
Most people kept the tradition: they dyed eggs, fasted, and on Easter night gathered in socialist living rooms for small parties. Few went to church at that time—not because it was forbidden (by the 1980s that was no longer the case), but because it had become unfashionable; people were atheists “by conviction.”
I remember wandering the streets that night, curious to see what was happening around Bucharest’s churches. Activity was limited, usually involving a few elderly people, always inside. At the first Easter after the Revolution, people gathered outside Colțea Church, on the sidewalk—mostly intellectuals of the 1980s generation. They stood there quietly, not in great numbers. Then, within a few years, an explosion of religiosity followed.
Literarily speaking, Easter—with all its symbolism—remains the celebration of spring. Literature has drawn from it its picturesque quality, its atmosphere of trust in life, something I myself have done in other writings.
— Bucharest in the Phanariot era is one of your favorite subjects. Since we’re talking about Easter, how did Bucharest residents prepare for the holiday in those times?
The social role of the holiday was far more significant. Since entertainment options were limited, holidays naturally moved to the forefront. During the Phanariot period, Orthodoxy was reinforced through rituals and forms imported from Greek culture—by “forms” I mean, first of all, clothing. This explains the heightened sense of splendor associated with Phanariot Easter.
As this was a period of transition out of medieval life, there was also a more visceral appetite for the miraculous. Preparation for Easter therefore began not only with church rigors such as fasting, but with older beliefs tied to rebirth: the horses of Sântoader, diabolical in myth, symbolically linked to the călușariand to Pentecost. Easter stood at the center of this cycle of awakening life and vegetation. Religious importance was always marked by mythical meaning, giving rise to social traditions: new clothes, ritual dances, and lavish feasts.
Luxury in Bucharest reached remarkable levels during the Phanariot era. Shopping lists show that Easter brought major renewals: carriages, lace, and porcelain arrived from Vienna; silks, tobacco, and jewelry came from Istanbul.
Bucharest residents adored outdoor parties, and among their favorite places was the island of Saint Elefterie—an elevation surrounded by the branches of the Dâmbovița River, accessible by two bridges with railings and ornaments. Later, Filaret and other areas became popular as well. People sat on the grass, feasted, talked, and sometimes listened to lăutari. Others went to Obor for games and contests, such as throwing weights or climbing grease-smeared poles. Shadow theater (karaghiozi) could also be seen there.
The real parties, however, took place in boyar courtyards, under canopies and in pavilions. According to cookbooks of the time, food was abundant—especially minced dishes seasoned with almond flour, cinnamon, and plenty of sugar, sprinkled even on roasts. Wine was popular, but liqueurs were preferred, with afion (opium liqueur) holding pride of place.
— What dishes were prepared? (We know one of your characters was a great cook.)
Easter has always centered on lamb as the sacrificial animal. Ciorbă, drob, and roast lamb were indispensable. Eggs were used in many ways, including a dessert called oușor dulce: boiled egg whites filled with sweet creams, sold on the street. Doughnuts, cheese tarts, and pies were also common.
The cozonac was probably adopted through the Phanariots, as its Greek name (kozonaki) suggests, where it referred to a doll-shaped cake.
— Which churches were most prominent during the Phanariot era?
Nearly every Phanariot ruler had his own church, which then became the favorite of the elite. Each guild also had its church, where they received the Resurrection. Biserica dintr-o Zi belonged to barbers, while musicians went to Caimata. But the most beloved was Sărindar, which served for a long time as the city’s ecclesiastical center—a kind of urban omphalos.
— How did Bucharest residents dress for holidays?
Everyone had at least a new pair of șalvari for Easter. Women wore very fine trousers, tight at the ankle or raised to the calf, topped with straight dresses with wide necklines, sometimes with yokes. Over these came the anteriu, often striped, then shorter jackets with detachable sleeves and richly padded cuffs. On their heads they wore various adornments, especially beaded caps and airy scarves.
Men wore șalvari ending below the knee, fine silk leggings, shirts with wide sleeves, small neck scarves, short jackets, and long slit anterii. The eighteenth century was marked by monumental ișlic hats, worn even by merchants; social distinction lay in the material. Later, long silk scarves called cealmale, often from Malta, became fashionable. Footwear ranged from slippers to leather boots, some imported, others made locally by cobblers near Saint Friday’s Market.
These were garments of the wealthy, imitated as best as possible by all classes. I still remember a vest covered in pearls. Jewelry included pearls, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds; traders settled for jasper.
— Faith often mingled with magic and superstition. What were the magical places of Bucharest?
At the city gallows, near today’s Eminescu intersection, witches came to cast away citizens’ sins. They performed incantations and ritual purifications, then threw the collected evils—symbolically or literally—into the intersection, guarded by the ghosts of the hanged.
Certain churches were dedicated to magical requests: at Cutitul de Argint or Olari people commissioned prayers for love; Zlătari was the church of curses, carefully written and read by priests for a fee. Bridges were used for wishes, and above all, the Cotroceni Forest sheltered the afflicted.
— How do you imagine your own characters spending Easter?
I see Mărmănjica wandering through the forest in search of the magical flower, under the gaze of the invisible man who also narrates Homeric. I see the Depraved Man staring out the window, Pâtca roaming Lipscani in search of Murta Street, and Silică preparing saltă from lamb intestines—fried and salted, the equivalent of today’s chips.
