Copsa Mica

by Gerard

Copsa Mica is a place that does not easily lend itself to inspiration. Or smiles. Its people, at least around its sullied train station, wear numb if not permanent press frowns. The post-Communist rule has, though, shut down the carbon burners. Now, the once-blackened snow is at least a dirty gray. But the brightness has yet to return to the eyes of these Romanians. Most shuffle slowly, their heads bowed. Eye contact with Westerners is avoided.

Our train had just left behind the industrial filth when I heard a muffled commotion in the aisle behind me. I turned cautiously and out of the corner of my eye saw a young gypsy boy working the half-empty car. Both legs were gone below the knee, but as far as I could see, his spirit and smile were somehow intact.

He was smiling although he was having a tough time moving through the car. It was jerking from side to side as the train picked up speed. He was yet to get into it's erratic rhythm. Meanwhile, few passengers were willing to acknowledge him, much less give him a handout.

It was a blistering summer day and the breeze from the open windows only served to create a dusty cloud inside the foul compartment. Yet, the boy wore a wool turtleneck. I felt uncomfortable for both of us. Eventually, he made hisway to where my son and I sat across from one another. As he engaged Travis, I noticed the scales of dark carbon encrusted on the boy's neck. I had never seen a dirtier human being. Perhaps this is why he wore the sweater; he was embarrassed by his plight. I had never experienced anyone who seemed to face a more depressing past, present or future.

Yet, there was that smile.

But as the two began to converse in his native language, the pleasant grin of the boy turned into an even wider-brimmed curvature. Clearly and genuinely, he was happy and even more so because someone, an American, actually was willingto talk to him. Never mind any money he might also receive, this interactionwas gold. As I watched, I couldn't help but be struck by this young man's demeanor. If he could be so positive in his dire circumstances, what right did I have sitting here ruminating about my life?

I had come to Transylvania, in the half cradle of the magnificent Carpathian mountains, to visit my son. I had not seen him for a year, since he had left on a study grant. But if the truth be known, I had come to pout. How dare the firm pass me over for promotion?

But now, seeing this beggar boy chatting so pleasantly with my son, I felt rather silly about my mid-life anguish, real or conceived. Although I could not understand their conservation, it was cheerful but brief. The young gypsy laughed sweetly, and finally offered a demure thank you, or 'multumesc', when Travis put several hundred lei, Romanian currency, in his hand. The boy turned and smiled at me, his eyes saying, "I will not bother you. Your son has made me rich. If not in money, in spirit."

As the boy left for the next car, I was left confounded. I turned to gaze out onto the country side, now dissolving into a greener lush the further we escaped the scar that is Copsa Mica. What a paradox to find such an inspiration in such a depressing setting I thought. A title and money seemed trivial. Travis, having spent this last year emersed in the good and bad of eastern European culture, softly began to explain something that will forever haunt my soul.

"Gypsy parents often take their small children to the train station, lay their tiny arms or legs across the tracks and let the trains run over them," he said sadly. "They believe their deformities will create more sympathy when they become beggars..."

I did not hear any more, his words fading out and my emotion fading up. I later heard Travis explain that he wasn't sure that had been the case with this boy. But it didn't seem to soften the impact. I wasn't really sure how long it took us to get to the next town, Medias. All I could think about was this little gypsy boy, his youthful exuberance in spite of such possible cruel fate.

We had 45 minutes to kill before the night train to Budapest. During the layover, we spotted the boy waiting on another track, presumably for the return trip to Copsa Mica. We went to him. Travis pressed him into another conversation as well as an additional 3,000 lei into his hand.

It wasn't out of pity that we engaged this boy further, but because we wanted something more from him. We wanted more of that smile and his soft, gentle nature. He beamed, we laughed although I hadn't the slightest idea what was transpiring. All I know is that I was happy seeing this boy happy. And after a short time we were once again on our way, he on his. I knew I would never see him again, yet I would in my mind the rest of my life.

Shortly after settling into our sleeping compartment I again asked my son what was discussed during our second conversation, especially towards the end when things seemed to turn somewhat somber.

He had told Travis his name was Christy...short for Cristian...that he was 12 and that it had been the Medias station where he had lost his legs.

Yes, Copsa Mica is one of the darkest places on earth. But where one of the brightest souls does shine.