BLOCKS AND CHURCHES ON WHEELS: A ROMANIAN ENGINEERING MIRACLE

In the 1980's, Romania, ten-story apartment blocks were lifted from their foundations and carried away like urban ships sailing on an ocean of steel rails. It seemed like magic, but it was only the brilliant lucidity of an engineer’s mind: Romania was accomplishing what other countries wouldn’t even dare to dream. The operation of moving entire buildings—these “vertical migrations” of concrete giants—became a technical spectacle unlike any other. No other nation had relocated so many massive structures, over such distances, in such a short time. It was the moment when concrete learned to walk, and cities realized that their fate was not set in stone. At the centre of this marvel stood Eugen Iordăchescu—the engineer who tamed weight, who freed buildings from the inevitability of demolition, and returned to them a future. An architect of salvation, a “conductor of immovable movement,” the man who proved that sometimes a single good idea can save not just buildings, but entire fragments of a city’s memory. That triumph of Romanian engineering remains, even today, a lesson in technical courage and practical imagination: proof that when intelligence meets determination, even apartment blocks can take flight.

Moving Block A2 in Alba Iulia.

Eugen Iordăchescu: The Engineer of Heaven

Eugen Iordăchescu was the Romanian civil engineer “responsible” for moving numerous buildings in Bucharest and across the country. Known as the “Engineer of Heaven,” he invented the Romanian method of building relocation. A graduate of the Bucharest Institute of Civil Engineering (1953), he earned his doctorate in 1984 with a thesis dedicated precisely to the technique of moving buildings—a subject that would define his entire career. He worked as a design engineer and later in management positions at the Bucharest City Hall and the Proiect Bucharest Institute, playing a key role in the urban development of Bucharest before and after the 1977 earthquake. His technical contributions include the seismic isolation of the accelerator at Măgurele. Iordăchescu initiated and coordinated the relocation of 29 buildings, including 13 churches, saving them from demolition. His method became a unique landmark in global engineering.

The “Matchbox” System

This method emerged in a tense context, when the systematization program threatened the demolition of valuable urban buildings. Instead of destruction, Iordăchescu proposed a stunning solution: moving entire buildings, complete with their structure, finishes, and sometimes even residents. His technique involved lifting the building onto a solid platform of metal beams—a giant “matchbox”—supported by hydraulic presses that allowed millimetre-precise elevation. Once set on this “mobile bed,” the building was slowly moved along rails, even just a few centimetres per hour, yet enough to save it. The achievement remains extraordinary: eight- to ten-story blocks, weighing tens of thousands of tons, were relocated without cracks in walls, structural deformation, or damage to utilities. Everything was executed with impeccable technical control, a precision that transformed the impossible into an almost surgical operation on the city.

Ceaușescu and Post-Earthquake Systematization

Bucharest trembles. Dust hangs over crushed buildings, over abandoned gardens and courtyards. It is 1977. The 7.4-magnitude earthquake left dozens of collapsed buildings, hundreds damaged, and more than 1,500 dead. Amid the chaos, Nicolae Ceaușescu raised his eyes and proclaimed: “Complete restoration of the capital!” To specialists, it sounded vague but promising. For Bucharest, it would become a juggernaut erasing the past. The safest seismic zone was analysed; Uranus neighbourhood on Arsenal Hill was spared. Bucharest transformed into a massive construction site. Giant cranes danced among buildings, demolishers shook the earth, and thousands of structures disappeared in clouds of dust. Hills, neighbourhoods, churches, elegant villas, modernist blocks, gardens, and Neo-Romanian houses vanished. Tens of thousands were uprooted from their homes, carried elsewhere, like extras in a play that wasn’t theirs. In their place rose the People’s House—a gigantic palace, a symbol of the dictator’s grandeur, a concrete and marble monster in the heart of the city. Romania remained isolated. Bucharest, with its visual history, architecture, and culture, would never be the same. This tragedy was not only Romania’s but also Europe’s. Architect Gheorghe Leahu described the human drama in his book Disappeared Bucharest: the city was dominated by cranes and demolishers, blocks rolled over gardens and centuries-old trees. Courtyard life was obliterated; people crowded vertically, subjected to uncivilized schedules: hot water for only a few hours, freezing winters, work from morning to night, no Saturdays off, working Sundays. “We are losing our identity. We are soldiers in a blind army of workers, our joys completely stolen,” wrote Leahu. Bucharest became an apocalyptic movie set: dust danced, concrete rose, fell, and shifted, and people watched helplessly as their city disappeared beneath their feet. This was the “brave new world” of the 1980's.

The Șerban Vodă Block

Some of the most impressive operations took place in the capital itself, turning the city into a living engineering laboratory. The eight-story block in Șerban Vodă was shifted 55 meters sideways, gliding with uncanny grace along metal rails, like a ship changing docks. The spectacle becomes truly striking when imagining what this operation meant in 1980s Bucharest. Engineers lifted the entire building on a carpet of metal rollers, like a giant sled, with hydraulic jacks beneath the foundation capable of moving thousands of tons of reinforced concrete millimetre by millimetre. Residents were not evacuated: some made breakfast, others watched from windows as their block literally slid past a stationary one, glasses in cabinets clinking with each impulse of the system. The move took hours, but preparations lasted weeks. To avoid cracks, engineers used a handmade sensor system, affixing thin paper strips to stairwell walls that would tear if dangerous vibrations occurred. Not a single strip broke. In the end, the block was perfectly aligned in its new location, only millimetres from the planned position—a demonstration of precision and ingenuity rare even today.

Republicii Street Block

It was July 1985, early morning, when the construction site on Republicii Street buzzed with activity. Marian Ștefan, site manager, along with engineers Aurel Apreotesei and Virgil Vasilescu, coordinated the relocation of a three-story residential block, with a pharmacy on the ground floor, known to locals as the “Pharmacy Block.” At 11:47, pumps activated the two hydraulic cylinders that would push the 1,700-ton block, fully detached from its old foundation and encased at the base in a concrete beam. Placed on 31 bogies, the building moved at 7.4–7.6 meters per hour—a remarkable achievement for the time. The pushing force per cylinder was 11 tons, and teams of workers meticulously monitored everything, from wheel positions to the slightest vibration. Residents continued their daily lives: telephone, water, electricity—all utilities remained functional. After three hours, the block had advanced 11 meters; after a full day, 50 meters; by 5:30–6:00 p.m., it had reached its new position. The permanent foundation was constructed with precision, and residents adapted quickly, amazed by the engineering spectacle and the operation’s safety. Eugen Iordăchescu himself oversaw the site, having initiated and coordinated the relocation of 29 buildings, including 13 churches and monasteries. His achievements included saving Schitul Maicilor, Olari Church, Saint Elijah Church, Mihai Vodă Church and its bell tower, the Synodal Palace, Antim Monastery, Petru Iacob Church in Reșița, Saint John Church, Saint George Church, Saint Stephen “Stork’s Nest” Church, the sculptural ensemble at Domnița Bălașa Church, and Râmeț Monastery Church. The Republicii Street operation remains an engineering premiere on one of Bucharest’s main thoroughfares—a feat of precision, courage, and skill, moving thousands of tons of concrete calmly and safely under residents’ astonished eyes, with respect for history.

Alunișului Street Block

On Alunișului Street, a ten-story colossus weighing over 10,000 tons was moved to make way for a new boulevard, without a single significant crack in its structure. But the true measure of achievement lies not in numbers but in the almost unbelievable execution. The building was placed on metal shoes and lubricated rails with a special graphite-and-oil mixture, turning it into a massive train without a locomotive. Hydraulic jacks pushed the structure in millimetre pulses, like a giant mechanical heartbeat, synchronized perfectly to prevent imbalance. For every incremental advance, engineers descended to the basement with flashlights and mirrors to check wall responses. Residents remained inside—a detail unimaginable today. Some recalled making coffee as the block slid slowly, almost imperceptibly; others joked they’d exit the elevator on another street. One grandmother on the seventh floor said her porcelain figurines “vibrated like in an earthquake, but without an earthquake.” Ultimately, the block reached its destination with astonishing precision, engineers recording only minor plaster cracks—normal for a building literally moved through the city. This operation remains an example of technical boldness and professionalism, a feat that today seems more like a film scene than 1980's Bucharest.

Block A2 in Alba Iulia

The morning of May 27, 1987, brought unexpected excitement to the Romanilor Plateau in Alba Iulia. Block A2, a 7,600-ton colossus, roughly 100 meters long, 17 meters high, and 12 meters wide, was preparing for an unprecedented journey. Engineers had raised a massive concrete platform beneath it, reinforced with beams and hydraulic presses capable of supporting the full weight. The block was cut into two sections to facilitate movement along the inclined axis, each placed on 31 specialized bogies guided by impeccably aligned metal rails. Residents, remaining inside, watched as engineers monitored every detail: wheel positions, beam alignment, force per hydraulic cylinder precisely measured at 11 tons. At 8:35 a.m., a heavy hum filled the air, and the concrete giant lifted slightly off its old foundation. Hydraulic trolleys pushed the block at a steady 7.5 meters per hour, each movement carefully synchronized to prevent wheel edge friction or deviation. Sensors and measuring rods under the floor and on walls monitored every millimetre of the sections’ positions.

Residents remained fascinated: glasses of water on tables did not move, doors and hardware remained intact. Workers operated like a Swiss watch: every command brief and precise, every movement calculated to avoid cracks or dangerous vibrations. After five hours and 40 minutes, Block A2 reached its new position, opening space for the planned boulevard—55.75 meters from its original site. The permanent foundation was completed with millimetre precision. The operation showcased Romanian engineers’ mastery: lifting and relocating a massive building, with residents inside, without structural damage. Rails, bogies, and hydraulic cylinders became symbols of technical possibility, and the spectacle remained in memory as one of communist Romania’s most impressive engineering achievements.

Church Relocations

But the most renowned moves were, undoubtedly, the churches. While not apartment blocks, these were massive structures with thick walls, old plaster, paintings, icons, and mouldings that could crack or fall with the slightest vibration. Moving an entire church meant transporting a fragile architectural organism intact, with stone bones and frescoed skin. The first major success was Schitul Maicilor, relocated about 245 meters. At the time, it seemed insane: an entire church lifted on metal beams, gliding slowly to its new site like a noble elder guided carefully through a mechanical ballet. The movement was so smooth that architects marveled not a quarter-centimeter of fresco detached. Next came the masterpiece: Mihai Vodă Church. Moved nearly 300 meters, lifted, rotated, and threaded between new buildings like a massive urban Tetris game. Engineers had to handle not only weight but also liturgical orientation—west, east, altar axis—everything executed with precision. Reports noted deviations of only a few millimeters, exceeding global standards of the 1980s. Specialists from around the world came to witness a medieval church floating peacefully through a sea of concrete—a rare technical miracle in an otherwise disastrous regime, demonstrating that genius and opportunity sometimes meet despite history.

Schitul Maicilor Church, the First Saved

Amid the grim wave of demolitions threatening Bucharest’s history, one engineer changed the fate of several monuments: Eugen Iordăchescu. Technical director at the Proiect Institute, he knew the city inside out—before and after the 1977 earthquake—and realized the regime’s grand plans hid true architectural tragedies. His revolutionary idea seemed simple but astonishing: building translation. Not demolition, not reconstruction—but a method to lift historic monuments, place them on wheels, and move them carefully to new locations, away from Ceaușescu’s obsessive gaze. Cheaper, safer, almost unbelievable. “We were 1,800 employees studying systematization for the future People’s House. In this 50-hectare area were several heritage monuments—churches or period buildings for which Bucharest was known as the Little Paris. Being close to this hot topic, I realized which would be demolished and proposed saving a few,” Iordăchescu recounted in a 1990s radio interview.

"The demolition of the Enei Church was a turning point. That’s when I felt I had to act," Iordăchescu recounted in a radio interview in the 1990s. His innovation began with an apparently simple image: a waiter carrying glasses full of liquid on a tray through a restaurant without spilling a drop. “That was the idea I started from—to create, at the base of the building, a concrete platform, a massive tray on which to support the entire church.” His ingenuity lay not only in the calculations of physics but also in the courage to imagine the impossible in an environment where any unconventional idea was met with suspicion. When the authorities rejected his request to save the Schitul Maicilor Church, located on the south-eastern wing of what is now the Palace of Parliament, Iordăchescu spent several evenings in isolation in his office.

With patience and precision, he drew lines, sketched plans, and explained step by step how an entire building could be moved without compromising its structural integrity. Before him stood the bureaucratic rigidity of communism: entrenched skepticism, fear of innovation, and the instinctive rejection of a solution that defied the regime’s conventional logic. Yet Iordăchescu’s ingenuity was not only technical—it was poetic. He imagined churches floating on concrete platforms like fragile ships navigating an ocean of concrete and pavement, preserving history intact in a city undergoing brutal transformation. This combination of clear thinking, courage, and inventiveness would turn the relocation of churches—later Schitul Maicilor and Mihai Vodă—into some of the most spectacular engineering feats in the history of Bucharest.

The Mihai Vodă Church Move

After Schitul Maicilor, the next target was Mihai Vodă Church, an imposing building with thick walls and delicate decorations, witness to past centuries. In front of sceptical, rigid communist authorities, any idea of salvation seemed impossible. Yet Iordăchescu was undeterred. The plan was ambitious: lift, move approximately 300 meters, and rotate the church to fit perfectly in the new urban layout. The “stone dance” transformed translation into a display of precision and courage: concrete platforms, hydraulic jacks, lubricated rails, metal rollers—each element calibrated, each impulse controlled to the millimetre, like a mechanical symphony.

The move itself took hours. Walls shifted with near-incredible grace, engineers constantly checking stresses and vibrations, while residents and passers-by watched in awe as a centuries-old building floated like a castle on concrete waves. Every centimetre was calculated, every rotation synchronized with Swiss-watch precision. Ceaușescu hoped the project would fail, sending party activists to report every detail. One afternoon, Elena and Nicolae Ceaușescu came to inspect—finding the church already halfway moved. “Elena said, ‘Did you see? They did it!’ They had assumed we would fail—and they were convinced until the end,” Iordăchescu recalled, amused. Away from the authorities’ eyes, the site’s atmosphere was electric, like a football match.

2.8 Meters per Hour!

The expert team, attentive to every motion, was daily surrounded by press, photographers, and hundreds of curious citizens observing the historic monument crossing the boulevard. The site buzzed a clear message: “Attention, churches passing!” Dumitru Spiru Sterie, site chief, recalled for Flacăra magazine in 1982: “Nine years from retirement, and I can say I finish my career beautifully. I’m a solid, calm man… yet I jumped and nearly stopped my heart when—lifting the church over the presses, more than a meter above ground—someone dropped a metal bar on concrete! Our team reacted perfectly. During the four-day lift, no smoking, no talking, not even whispers during shifts. No one went to the restroom!” The entire operation lasted five months, with the actual move completed in three weeks—an incredible pace of just 2.8 meters per hour.

The success completely changed officials’ attitudes: propaganda media presented the project as proof of the regime’s care for historical monuments—the same regime that had destroyed twenty other Orthodox sites. In the end, Mihai Vodă Church was placed in its new location without significant cracks or structural damage, earning admiration from engineers worldwide and demonstrating that, in the right hands, history could be preserved even under a brutal, obsessive regime. Saving Mihai Vodă Church was not just a technical feat—it was an act of courage, inventiveness, and respect for heritage, a lesson in how human ingenuity can overcome rigid scepticism and restore the past intact and dignified.

The Man Who Moved the Synodal Palace

Winter 1985 witnessed an unprecedented spectacle in Romanian engineering: moving the Synodal Palace from Antim Monastery. The 9,000-ton building—including 1,000 tons of library books—had to be transported with millimetric precision, without evacuating a single object. Temperatures fell to -20°C, and blizzards threatened to turn the site into an unpredictable battlefield. Hydraulic jacks were strategically placed beneath the foundation, lifting the building a few centimetres while maintaining perfect balance, as special rails guided the massive structure along a fragile slope. Utilities—water, electricity, phone—remained connected through flexible systems, ensuring uninterrupted function. Workers felt every vibration as a sign of life; any error could compromise the entire operation.

The House is in the Air. It Floats!

The Institute of Civil Engineering monitored every millimetre; each hydraulic adjustment executed with surgical precision. Every moment demonstrated the balance between gravity and human skill. Spectators watched in fascination: residents and passers-by held their breath, trams slowed to preserve the spectacle, and official visitors, like Suzana Gâdea and Ion Iliescu, tested the building’s stability with glasses of water. “The house is in the air. It floats,” people whispered, convinced they were witnessing a miracle. And yet, everything was calculated and controlled: every piston, rail, and vibration anticipated and compensated. Under Iordăchescu’s skilled hands, the Synodal Palace gracefully crossed the slope, preserving structural integrity and historical symbolism—a true monument to Romanian courage and engineering.

Moving Saint John the New Church.

Epilogue

In the face of systematization’s juggernaut and a brutal regime, Iordăchescu proved that ingenuity can confront rigidity and that a city can be saved with patience, precision, and imagination. Concrete and stone were no longer obstacles but allies in a symphony of mechanics and courage.

Bucharest and all of communist Romania witnessed an engineering miracle: buildings floating, churches dancing on rails, blocks crossing the city with residents inside. Eugen Iordăchescu remains eternally the “conductor of immovable movement,” the man who showed that when courage meets science, even apartment blocks can sprout wings.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOxmeT2y76I