Blue Danube to Black Sea Day 7: "The Sea! The Sea!"

Friday 31 May
We have been on board this ship for a week. Our life outside it seems distant. The community of passengers is developing structures: foursomes who stick together at mealtimes, couples who choose tables where they can be on their own, people who socialise in the lounge over tea or drinks, people who tend not to very much, camera people, book people, birdwatching people, talkative people, silent people, clubbable people, solitary people... all human life is here. It's part of the richness this fortnight, and it’s fascinating to observe.

There has been a thunderstorm tonight. At dinner, we discussed whether a ship on water is a safe place to be in an electrical storm. I hazard a guess that a ship, like an aeroplane or car is a Faraday Cage, so if it were struck, the charge would simply be carried round the vessel. But I’m unclear where the water underneath us comes into things, As I write about this, the peace of our cabin is shattered by a colossal thunderclap. I call that exquisite timing. I do not sleep, so I go to stand behind the curtain and look out at the storm. Lightning flashes dramatically above the river. It is raining heavily. And yet our ship glides on without the slightest hesitation or tremor. It’s uncanny how little sense of motion there is when you are not actually looking out at a changing landscape. After an hour the storm subsides. I retreat to my bed but not to sleep. There has been so much mental stimulation, so much information to take in. I need head space to process it all.

We arrive at Cernavoda at lunch time. The town sits on the right bank at one end of an impressive cantilever bridge that used to carry road and railway from Bucharest to the port of Constanta which is where we are headed for today’s excursion. Our guide is humourous and knowledgeable and can talk for Romania. There is nothing in Romanian geography, history, culture, economy, politics or social gossip about which he doesn’t have something to say. It is fascinating and tiring in equal measure. However it is genuinely interesting for the third time in this tour to hear a Romanian speak about the Ceausescu years. The freedom with which Romanians vent their feelings about the Ceausescus is remarkable. It’s not too much to say (in the words of the psalm) that they hate them with perfect hatred, or at least, the memory of them. Yet again we are told that when their bodies were examined after their trial and execution by firing squad, there were three times as many bullets in Elena’s body as there were in his. Ahab was bad, but Jezebel was infinitely worse - that seems to be the popular feeling.

I wonder what this hatred is storing up for years to come. Last night’s TV documentary was an American film that as far as it could, stuck to the evidence about the Ceausescus’ careers and didn’t try to interpret. But I was shocked at the way it all ended, with a hastily convened trial in a back room and summary execution for genocide that had already been decided on by the Romanian generals. The lack of judicial process, including the possibility of appeal, not to mention the indignity with which the couple were treated in the last hours of their lives recalls the terrible treatment of the Romanovs at Yekaterinburg after the Russian Revolution. Of course the crimes of power and privilege against the led should always be called out, named and condemned. But even their worst perpetrators (and Ceausescu was indisputably one of them) have human rights, however much they have denied them to others. And among them is the right to be treated with dignity, which is what due judicial process is designed to safeguard. As to their punishment, I’m not going to comment on that except to say that it wouldn’t surprise me if the far right of the future exploited this history, as the far right in Germany is doing in the case of Hitler, claiming that all was not necessarily as black as it was painted at the time. Romania saw the only violent overthrow of a communist regime in 1989. Therein may have been sewn the seeds of trouble in the future.

Constanta is old Tomis, a very ancient place that became a key port and stronghold in Roman times. Its heritage from antiquity is said to be considerable. But I am not expecting the charmless urban sprawl our coach has to toil through to get to the historic centre, nor, when we get near enough to see it, industry on this scale, including a colossal port complex reminiscent of Calais or Rotterdam. This is Romania’s principal port on the Black Sea, one of the largest in the whole of Europe. As we drive through the suburbs we notice a number of damaged buildings. War damage? someone asks. So our guide reminds us of the deadly earthquake of March 1977 that was felt right across Eastern Europe and that killed more than 1600 people in Romania and Bulgaria. There was another in 1986, less terrible but still resulting in widespread damage. I had not realised that we were venturing into an earthquake zone, so forgetful I become once an event has passed out of the news cycle.

We are decanted from the coach at an open space where great slabs of ashlar and occasional Corinthian columns from the Roman city lie scattered around. It’s no way to treat historical artefacts, but I quite like this casual way of allowing people to wander at will among the relics of their past. Across the square is a nice sculpture of Romulus and Remus being suckled by the she-wolf. Our guide says that citizens here are intensely proud of their classical origins, for “we are not called Romanians for nothing”. We walk down the pleasant pedestrianised Main Street. Pavement bars and cafes are thronged with people of all ages. There is a lively resort feel to this place. But the buildings symbolise the contradictions of Eastern Europe. Fine colonial style architecture sits cheek-by-jowl with brutalist office blocks, apartments and hotels from the Ceausescu era. “It will take generations to put all this right” says our guide. “How do we recreate the loveliness of this historic old town that our parents remember so fondly?”

We enter Ovid Square. The Roman poet was exiled here by Augustus in 8AD, never to return to his homeland. He’d been accused of being implicated, or at least knowing about, a conspiracy to assassinate the emperor. Ovid hated this remote, uncivilised place, this end of the Empire where the Traianic Wall ran into the Black Sea. Coming as we do from the northern edge of Empire with its more famous wall, the liminality of this place carries weight. Ovid is depicted standing in his square, looking out over the Black Sea. So here is where I set eyes on it for the first time. Another sea!  I can’t help thinking of Xenophon’s famous story of the returning Greek mercenaries following their bitter experience of fighting in the Persian Expedition. “The sea, the sea!” they cried, θαλαττα, θαλαττα! as they clambered over a mountain pass. And there it was, there it is, not just any sea but *this* sea, Πόντος Ευξεινος, the “hospitable sea”, so named, presumably, to rob it of the stormy terrors its reputation as the “Black” Sea held. Today it is all hospitality: calm and clear on this hot early summer day, and indisputably blue in contrast to the turbid milky brown of the Danube which we have got used to on our cruise.

We visit the Archaeological Museum which is housed in the former Bishop's Palace. It's an imposing nineteenth century building that would not serve well as a town hall in a proud Yorkshire industrial town like Halifax or Bradford. The treasury contains an absorbing assembly of Roman glass, jewellery and sculpture including the legendary Sea-Serpent of Tomis, this fierce reptile prudently roped off. It’s said to be unique in Roman sculpture, but it’s hard to photograph because of the typed 5” by 3” catalogue card casually propped up against it telling us what it is in Romanian, German and English - but not Russian. That fact suggests how Romania has turned towards the west since 1989. 

Upstairs, noting the fine staircase as we walk up it, there are extensive displays about the early history of Romania, everything displayed in pot-pourri fashion just like old-fashioned provincial museums use to be in my childhood. It’s endearing even if it obscures the story the museum is trying to tell. It’s a bit like a medieval library where books are stored not according to subject but size and available shelving. There’s an impressive array of large amphorae and sculpture from the imperial era. Best of all is a room dedicated to Christian Constanta including decorated stones from Christian burial sites, and the prize exhibit, a fourth or fifth century burial chamber complete with marvellously executed paintings including what appears to be a eucharistic meal, Emmaus-like, on the far wall. It reminds me of Rublev’s famous icon of the Trinity in Moscow. It’s moving to think about the resurrection faith of these early Christians as they looked the grave squarely in the face and demanded, “Where O death is your sting?” It belongs to the same world as the catacomb Christian burials we have seen at Pécs. And there’s something miraculous about it.

On the top floor we reach modern Romanian history, particularly the world wars and the communist era. But I’m absorbed by an exhibition about the construction of the Danube Canal which debauches into the sea here at Constanta at the end of its 64 kilometre journey from Cernavoda where the ship is docked. We have crossed it on the hour’s coach journey here. In the early 1950s, the worst period of Eastern European communism, up to 20000 political prisoners (including the nobility, politicians with incorrect or suspect or undesirable opinions, and clergy) worked on it. It’s thought that several thousand perished. No wonder it’s known as the Canalul Mortii, the canal of death.

This exhibition is their memorial. We see maquettes of men dressed in concentration camp uniform excavating the canal, a typical hovel showing how they lived (i.e. existed) on the site for years on end, and most movingly, large marble tablets on which are listed the names of those who died - hundreds of them, but surely only those whose names are actually known. “Some there be that have no memorial” - some, or more likely, many. Very many. Near the museum is an unpromising modern building housing in situ an immense mosaic from a floor that was excavated on this rich site. Amphorae scattered across it act as a foil for the beautiful patterning. But the building itself is in a sorry state and scarcely does justice either to the artistry of this fabulous exhibit or its conservation. Yes, decades rather than years are what it will need to return Constanta what its history is crying out for.

Passing an immense early twentieth century mosque, we enter the Orthodox Cathedral. Its dark but colourful interior is decorated throughout with beautiful images. We linger inside to watch the faithful of all ages queue up to kiss the icons. As both young and old, single people and families, make the sign of the cross, some of them touching the ground first in memory of their baptism and their mortality, we witness an intense piety at work. Many of them will come here day after day, and however brief their visit, however casual they seem to be as they await their turn, the veneration itself seems all-absorbing. It’s powerful to behold. Priests are on duty in case anyone wants to consult them. One of them goes over to an elderly woman who wants to take a photo of the icon of the Virgin Mary she has just kissed but doesn’t know how to turn her flash off. He helps her, touches her lightly on the shoulder as he hands back her compact. It’s a simple and touching action filled with humanity and Christian courtesy. Outside the Cathedral we find an ancient graveyard with more Roman stones, including one with a Christogram on one side and a primitive cross on another.

The sea front is elegantly designed, complete with the legendary art nouveau casino that is behind metal fencing crumbling away and waiting to be loved. People stroll along enjoying the sunshine. The sea is calm, blue and clear. Children paddle. Kids skateboard. Lovers embrace. We enjoy ice-creams. Above us, cumulus piles up in immense towers. There will be storms again tonight. As we drive into Cernavoda I notice more derelict buildings. One of them, a warehouse whose roof looks as if it could collapse at any moment, carries a sign in English, “Keep out. Seismic threat.”