This is a story about modern-day slavery intertwined with forced child labour. Such practices continue to occur in communist countries, reminiscent of the situation in Romania during the dictatorship of Ceaușescu. Angelo and I, George, experienced this firsthand and stood against it while we were students at Mihai Viteazul High School in Bucharest from 1985 to 1989. This is our story.
In democratic countries, the purpose of apprenticeship programs is to equip children with the knowledge and skills they need to choose a profession and learn a trade. In contrast, communist countries use these programs to boost industrial production, treating children as workers without pay or rights (not that ordinary workers have many rights either). This was the reality in Romania during the communist regime, particularly under Ceaușescu, who set annual production targets for high school students during their "industrial practice" hours. Additionally, students were required to participate in agricultural work, known as "agricultural practice," which will be explored in a future article.
Teoria sine praxis sicut rota sine axis
Throughout high school, we were required to study a subject called "Machine Tools and Technology" (UTLM), which covered the technical processes and procedures for lathe work, the tools used, the parts that could be manufactured, and much more. We spent a significant amount of time on this subject—almost more than any other. The grades we received were crucial, as they determined our job placements after graduation; the state, specifically the Communist Party, decided where we would be employed, not us or the companies involved. This naturally put enormous pressure on students: good grades were essential to secure a "distribution" (the term used for the assignment process that determined job placements) in a better position. Furthermore, those who taught this subject were not qualified educators; they were often engineers or foremen so incompetent that they could not work in factories. Consequently, they were assigned to teach UTLM in schools. However, this situation worked to our advantage, as it made it easier for us to achieve good grades through copying and cheating, of course.
Copying as a Form of Study
We prepared meticulously for our assessments—papers (called "extemporals", in Romanian in original 'extemporale'), theses, or oral presentations. Our preparation sessions could have rivaled the launch of ChatGPT or the iPhone 16. The level of "intelligence" we employed far exceeded that of preparing for a French or U.S. presidential debate. We conducted such thorough analyses to determine when to present or be questioned and on which subjects, that our strategies could rival the best analyses of stock price movements on the New York or Paris exchanges. We devised countless clever strategies for using "helpers" without being detected, figuring out how to pass notes among ourselves, how to submit pre-written texts, and how to distract or divert the teacher's attention in order to copy without getting caught. Creating the "helpers" was an art form, with George as our number one expert. He probably knew everything by heart, as organizing, writing, and re-reading accounted for over 80% of the material retained. Our classmates Delia, Narcisa, and Magda produced countless pages covering the topics most likely to come up in our assessments or extemporaneous assignments. More than once, the UTLM teachers found themselves facing half the class distributing sheets with identical text and handwriting. Fortunately, since intelligence wasn't their strong suit, they accepted our convoluted explanations without a second thought. And when they refused to "look the other way," a discreet bribe usually solved the problem.
Practice During School
Generally, each high school had at least two "Workshops" designed to resemble the production hall of a factory, equipped with all the necessary tools. To meet the production quotas set by the higher-ups in the Communist Party, two weeks of "practice" were scheduled every four weeks of school. If the first week of vacation coincided with the last week of practice, the latter would replace a week of classes. On paper, experienced foremen who specialized in mentoring novice workers were supposed to guide the students; in reality, they were often either poorly trained or the ones who should have been dismissed (which was not an option in communism, where everyone was required to work). Negulescu fell into one of these two categories.
Who Was Negulescu?
Negulescu was one of the foremen at our high school, overseeing Workshop Number 1 in the basement. His main responsibility was to transform us into skilled turners—officially known as "chippers." Unfortunately, he utterly failed in this task. This wasn’t entirely his fault; his intelligence was quite limited, especially compared to other teachers at our school, who were often hired based on connections rather than knowledge or competence—a common practice during Romania’s communist era. Negulescu was short and thin, with a restricted vocabulary and a tendency to grimace. If he had lived in Britain, one might have thought that Rowan Atkinson modeled Mr. Bean after him, as they resembled each other remarkably.
The First Days of Practice
Negulescu began by introducing us to the workshop, explaining the lathes, the operations they performed, and the tools we would use, referred to as "knives." After that, he asked us to tidy up the workshop, which didn’t bother us too much; we planned to pretend to work rather than actually put in the effort. However, as the first semester progressed, our relationship with him began to deteriorate. His constant demands for order and cleanliness started to irritate us. While some of our classmates made an effort to do things correctly, we approached it with a sense of humor. By the end of the term, the workshop was in worse condition than it had been at the start.
Recovery of Broken Parts
In the second quarter, Negulescu took us to the warehouse filled with previously made pieces. There was an enormous quantity, but all of them were defective. He informed us that we would have to "recover" these items, meaning we were expected to work on them to transform them from flawed parts into quality pieces. Initially, this requirement puzzled us, and we thought he was joking. However, he was serious. We spent the first two weeks learning how to file, use calipers, and wield a hammer. Armed with this "very useful knowledge," we were then tasked with working on the "scrap." The work proved to be repetitive, tedious, and ultimately pointless; even the most enthusiastic and skilled among us struggled to fix even a single part. As time went on, boredom set in, and the realization that we were working for nothing led to growing dissatisfaction among our classmates. This sentiment was best captured by Cristina, who remarked at one point, "The last practice period killed half of my neurons."
'Rebute' Instead of 'Rebates'
When discussing defective pieces, Negulescu mistakenly referred to them as "rebute" instead of the correct term "rebuturi." He unconsciously used the past participle of the French verb "rebuter," which led to endless laughter among us. He couldn't understand why we found it so amusing and often asked, "Why are you laughing?" In response, we would give him convoluted explanations that only confused him further. Watching his puzzled grimaces made us laugh even harder. Eventually, I even created a song about "rebates," turning it into a sort of anthem. In the photo, you can see Magda (on the left), Narcisa (to her right), followed by Aurelia, Tom, and Alice (in her arms).
Anthem of Flattening
As time passed, I forgot the lyrics, but we still remember the refrain: "From scraps to new pieces." I also recall our debates over the song's musical rhythm. We wanted a rock vibe, while our classmates preferred the sound of the popular disco group Modern Talking. Being in the majority, they won. As a result, we had to continue our futile efforts to recover the "rebates" while singing this anthem to their music. At some point, the realization hit us: the pieces were shaped like the letter H, and their defects stemmed from the uneven lengths of the two parallel lines. This meant that some pieces were too long, others too short, and some were even curved outward. To "recover" them, we had to file down the excessive length and smooth out the curved parts with a hammer. The boys filed while the girls hammered, as the pieces needed delicate handling due to their fragility. However, at some point, Cristina grew tired of hammering and asked her friend Bălășescu (nicknamed "Bălă") for help. Being a solid and strong boy, he flattened the piece with just two or three strikes—completely unintentionally. We can't remember who first suggested applying this technique to all the pieces, but the idea was met with great enthusiasm. This led to the organization of a contest for flattening the pieces. In the photo, you can see Cristina and Bălă in our classroom.
The Competition
The competition featured several teams, each consisting of two boys: one to hold the piece with pliers and the other to strike it with a hammer. The goal was to produce as many flattened parts as possible within a time limit of a few minutes. The prize? Probably the admiration of the girls. It quickly became clear that the "Bălă-Iulică" team, the strongest in our class, was in the lead. In a moment of desperation, we decided to feign bad luck. We proposed replacing the timer with our anthem, suggesting that the duration of the contest should match the length of our song. In an attempt to cheat, we tried to sing slower than the others. Unfortunately, the Bălă-Iulian (nicknamed "Gheghe") team had the same idea, and they won again! In the end, however, we all felt like winners!
Long Detention
When Negulescu realized what we had done, he had a nervous breakdown and refused to have anything to do with us. Unfortunately, there was no other foreman available to take over for the last few weeks of practice. As a result, the school management placed us in detention until the end of the year. However, the teacher assigned to supervise us also needed to cover his lessons, so we were essentially left to fend for ourselves. Each day, after taking attendance, he would leave for his classes, and we would promptly follow suit. It was June, the weather was beautiful, and we longed to stroll in the parks, go to the cinema, or play football. We weren't the only "winners" in this situation; there were others who had come after us and could no longer be forced to work on recovering the "rebates." This was simply because those defective pieces no longer existed, thanks to our contests.
'Second-Hand' Workers
Working on the lathe was challenging, repetitive, and exhausting, requiring a certain level of dexterity. It was also dangerous, and we were completely unprotected. In Ceaușescu's Romania, safety measures and protective equipment were nonexistent. Accidents could occur at any moment, just as they had in the past, but these incidents were often covered up, and no one—except for the families involved—seemed to care. The authorities, including the high school management, were primarily focused on meeting production quotas set by the Party, showing little concern for our safety. After all, we were not considered qualified workers but rather "second-hand" labourers of low value. Fortunately, we were lucky, as no accidents occurred in our class—perhaps due to the overwhelming noise of the machinery.
Heavy and Very Heavy Metals
George and I started listening to rock music in early high school (stay tuned for an in-depth article on our metal adventures coming soon to this blog). Our interest began as a way to oppose the regime in our own way, driven by a desire to be different and to embrace our rebellious spirit. It's important to clarify that we weren't dissidents; such a stance was impossible at the time. Rather, this was our way of shielding ourselves from the onslaught of propaganda and imagining a freer world. Our classmate Cristin, who later became one of Romania's most well-known DJs at Uni-Fan Radio, played a crucial role in this journey. He introduced us to our first real rock song, saying, "If you want rock, listen to this," and then he played "The Final Countdown" by Europe. This happened the year the song appeared, in 1986, when we were in our first year of high school. In the second year I switched to 'heavier metal', migrating to stronger bands like Iron Maiden, Manowar, Judas Priest, Slayer and, a little later, Metallica. It seemed to us that the noise produced by the lathe sounded exactly like the guitar riffs in rock music. Our colleagues disagreed with us, but what did they know? It was obvious to us that they did not have the musical ear to understand the beauty of 'metals'. This was probably the reason why we were working hard on the lathe, producing 'rebates', while they were just pretending. Not that it would have made any difference if they had worked harder; anyway, we were all selflessly producing only defective parts. And we continued like that until we moved on to the electric guitar solos.
The Intrinsic Connection Between Lathe Knives and Jason Newsted
One day, either George or I (I can’t remember who exactly) managed to break a lathe knife, even though it was made from a harder alloy than the metal we were working with. We joked that the noise it made sounded like an electric guitar solo and debated which guitarist could have produced such a sound, ultimately concluding it must have come from Metallica's new bassist, Jason Newsted. Our classmates, however, were convinced it was just the sound of broken, meaningless metal. But what did they know about good music? They preferred disco, while we had embraced metal. Despite our differences, we all agreed on one thing: we needed to break more lathe knives so we could stop working on these "infernal machines," as Anca called them. To achieve this goal, we had to figure out how to "maneuver" Negulescu. But how?
Divide and Conquer
We cleverly diverted Negulescu's attention to prevent him from quickly realizing that the number of lathe knives was decreasing because of us. Taking advantage of the conflict between him and his colleague—the foreman in charge of the other workshop—I informed him of our suspicions that he was stealing tools during breaks. To make my claim more convincing, I also hid a few files, some bonfires, and bolt nails, in addition to the broken lathe knives, so they would show as missing from the inventory. After that, Negulescu began spending his breaks in the workshop, only venturing out during class. The best moments were when he sneaked out to drink, as he was a big fan of brandy, which our classmate Delia regularly supplied him to justify his absences. During those times, he would linger outside, leaving us unsupervised long enough to experiment with various ways of breaking the lathe knives without injuring ourselves. This, too, was an art! It wasn’t easy; we had to use both our muscles and our brains.
Lathes Drawn to the Deadline
Info: The lathe features a three-jaw clamping system that securely holds the knife in place while a metal bar is turned into a specific piece. As the number of knives dwindled, lathes became our favorite targets. With the enthusiastic collaboration of all our classmates, anything seemed possible. Some, like Delia with her magic "potion," busied themselves distracting Negulescu. Others brainstormed ways to break the lathes’ "jaws," their weakest link. Meanwhile, the rest of us worked tirelessly alongside them to achieve our ultimate goal: rendering the lathes unusable, all while maintaining the façade that our mishaps were simply due to our ineptitude.
Sabotaging the Communist System from Within
Naturally, a major scandal erupted when Negulescu discovered the broken lathes, and we were immediately pointed out as the guilty party. To be fair, this was somewhat true! We defended ourselves vigorously, arguing that Negulescu was to blame for forcing us to work on the lathes before we had acquired the necessary skills. Since this could not be disproven, no sanctions were imposed on us. Regardless, we were already facing heavy penalties for our behavior during the May 1 demonstration (check out the article "The Great Escape from the Parade" on our blog). While we could have been made to pay restitution to the school, what would the school even do with our parents' money? In Ceaușescu's Romania, people had money, but there was little to spend it on, as most goods were scarce. For instance, to replace broken lathes, our high school had been placed on a waiting list that stretched back to 2001—this was during the conditions that led to the fall of communism in December 1989! As a natural consequence, the decision was made to send our class to another workshop for our "practice" during our third year of high school. In this way, we unwittingly contributed, in our modest way, to the sabotage of the centralised communist economy!
The 'Hidden' Workshop
In fact, our high school had a third workshop located in a rented building at a school several kilometers away. I referred to it as the "hidden workshop" because only the school administration knew of its existence—no one else did. I learned about it from the foremen who worked there; they were responsible for producing the number of items that, according to the Communist Party's plan, should have been made by high school students.
Thanks to this arrangement, our high school could claim each year that it met the production "plan" and fulfilled the mission assigned by Comrade Ceaușescu—something that, generally speaking, no other school managed to do! In the photo, from left to right, are Alice, Aurelia, Tom, and Magda, standing in a vacant lot behind Workshop 3.
Flaubert and the Failure of the System
There were two foremen: one about 30 years old and the other around 40. Both specialized in machining through chipping, or turning. The younger one claimed to be an "intellectual" and read French classics like Flaubert. However, he followed the text with his finger and often consulted an explanatory dictionary, probably to understand the meanings of certain words. Our classmate Cristina would always laugh when she saw him reading—what a true self-taught scholar! The older foreman was a walking encyclopedia of sports, boasting vast knowledge about countless athletic pursuits, though he only practiced them in conversation or from the comfort of his sofa. Together, they formed a friendly duo with whom I developed a good rapport from the start. They often urged us not to touch anything in the workshop, clearly conveying the message: "Don't touch anything!" Of course, they were well aware of our previous antics, especially since we had been sent there by the school administration in hopes that this duo would help us become more "responsible" and "hopeful citizens of our communist homeland." Of course, we were expected to learn the now-famous "machining by chipping." They had a reputation for being tough, but in reality, they were quite the opposite—more interested in easing our burden. They were perceptive enough to understand who they were dealing with and chose to treat us differently: with friendliness and by asking us "not to touch anything." In essence, they told us that we wouldn’t be doing anything in their workshop; they would handle everything themselves, manufacturing all the parts while claiming we had made them. They even promised to prepare the documents to show that we had acquired all the necessary skills. When I asked, "But what are we going to do?" the older foreman smiled and replied, "Sport." Reflecting on these events many years later, I can say that this dynamic exemplified why communism ultimately failed. It was a system rooted in propaganda and manipulation, built on lies and devoid of genuine rewards—a system that encouraged us to become chameleons, adept at navigating any situation just to survive. Good luck to you, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, as you try to turn in your graves!
'Oracol' Notebooks
But I didn’t just engage in sports; I also spent time writing and reading. Almost everyone had a notebook called "Oracol," where classmates were invited to express their thoughts on friendship, love, future professions, and countless other topics. I, too, was writing a science fiction novel titled "The Eagle," which became quite popular among my peers; they eagerly read the latest pages I had completed each day. In addition to writing, I participated in various sports: football, table tennis, and chess. I also enjoyed walks in the nearby parks, which were perfect for couples among our more fortunate classmates. And yes, I even tried my hand at rock climbing!
Soccer and Rock Climbing
Why not? Our workshop was better protected than Fort Knox or the Banque de France, featuring a sturdy metal door and solid grills over the windows. The girls came up with the idea of climbing the grill while the foremen played football with the boys, providing a perfect view of the match from above. The non-players joined the girls in these impressive climbing sessions—until, one day, the grill came loose from the wall and fell, luckily without injuring anyone! I managed to put it back in place, securing it with ivy; from a distance, everything looked as it had before. Since we were nearing the end of the school year, the foremen didn’t notice the "repair." We fondly remember those moments of climbing the grill, just as we recall scaling the fence to escape! We shudder at the memory of the moment when the precariously installed grill collapsed. But by then, it was no longer our concern, as it likely happened after we went on vacation. We can almost envision our instructors wishing us all the best, sending heartfelt greetings to us, our mothers, and to the families who brought such budding geniuses into the world. In the photo, you can see Andrei—the only student behaving sensibly, not hanging on the grill, and proudly showcasing his uniform. Magda stands at the bottom of the stairs, while Mihai is at the top. Marius is on the left, and Cosmin is on the right, both perched on the famous grill in their practice overalls. Andrei is also holding a pipe profile in his hand, likely a piece of scrap!
Jumping
From the first days, it was obvious that the schedule of 6-7 hours a day of 'practice' could not be respected neither by us, who started to get bored after a while, nor by the foremen who had parts to do in our place. So they allowed us to sneak out after 3 or 4 hours in the workshop. Since we couldn't go out the main door, we left through the back door; that is, jumping over the wall that surrounded the school. There was a place where the top of it was missing, and in addition a mound of earth had been made to facilitate the jump. But on the other side, the landing was made from a height of over a meter; so we had to be careful not to hurt ourselves. But it was nice, especially for the boys, because our fellow honorees asked to be held in their arms when they landed. And so we were leaving earlier, it's true, but strictly following the 'instructions'. In the photo, from left to right: Vali, Laura, Magda, Aurelia and Cătălin.
Survival 'Instructions'
Number one: Let’s not talk about what we were actually doing there. Number two: Avoid passing near the high school to prevent being seen at times when the teachers and principal thought we were hard at work in the workshop. As a result, by the end of our third year, the high school administration was firmly convinced that we had finally gotten our act together. It was a mistake to think so, and we made it our mission to correct this misconception right from the start of our fourth and final year. During our "practice" at the Fine Mechanical Enterprise in Bucharest—the factory where we were supposed to work after graduation—we witnessed a significant transformation. Before our arrival, it had been a thriving communist factory; by the time we left, it was a neurotically managed enterprise with a clear path to well-deserved bankruptcy! And it all began on the first day when I met the "big boss."
Prometheus and the Drunken Chickens
He was tall and pot-bellied, dressed in a suit and tie, complete with black sunglasses. Exuding confidence, he looked at us as if we were less than the dirt beneath his feet. We encountered him in the yard of the factory, where he was supposed to show us around, including the hall where the lathes we would be working on were located. In reality, he had no intention of doing that; he was there to talk about himself, proudly announcing that he was the Secretary of the Communist Party Organization at the factory. In other words, he considered himself the "master," a grand Prometheus standing before a flock of disoriented and clueless chickens—namely, us. He went on to list the advantages of maintaining a "privileged" relationship with him, all while shamelessly eyeing the girls' breasts and legs. When he attempted to touch one of our colleagues, we stepped in front of him, our stance clearly conveying a message: "Get out!" In response to his indignant expression and menacing glances, we only strengthened our defensive posture. Having faced the hardships and dangers of Retezat over the summer (see the blog post "Retezat 1988 – When It All Started"), someone like him no longer intimidated us. It didn’t take long for him to realize who he was dealing with, and he hurried off, muttering that a foreman would take care of us.
The Foreman vs. "Bălă-Iulică"
Almost 40 years old, short and stocky, he had the demeanor of a fighter, seemingly always on the lookout for someone to assert his authority over. In his eyes, we were the perfect targets. He hurriedly showed us the lathes, the knives, the parts we were expected to make, and the shed where we could find the necessary materials. Then he launched into a rambling, somewhat incoherent speech about the expectations of the Communist Party and Comrade Ceaușescu—blah, blah, blah. It was clear we had tuned him out by the second sentence. When he realized he was talking to walls and that no one was paying him any attention, he resorted to yelling. He had just declared that if we made any mistakes, he would put us in our place—his fist waving dramatically in the air—when the duo "Bălă-Iulică" stepped forward, each of them larger than the factory gate. They informed him they were available for a "private chat," and they meant it. The foreman looked at them in astonishment, and then noticed us approaching rapidly, reproaching the two for their boldness in stepping in front of us. Realizing who he was dealing with, he made the smartest decision possible: he hurried off. From the doorway, he announced that he would return later to evaluate our work. What work would he evaluate? Perhaps the chaos that was sure to follow.
Performance Again! Superlative
By the end of the week, no one came to supervise or check on us to see what we were working on or evaluate our progress. As a result, we produced exceptional "work" reminiscent of our second year in high school: a lot of broken lathe knives, several decommissioned lathes, and a mountain of worthless parts destined for the trash.
Horrified by our "performances," the factory management decided to confine us to a specific room for the remainder of the year, with strict instructions not to leave until the program ended—especially to ensure that our feet didn’t set foot inside the factory. We adhered to these orders diligently until we reached the gate of the main factory hall, after which we made our escape to friendlier places: parks, sports fields, or cinemas. And so, our routine continued until the end of the school year: we would arrive on time to report, only to leave a few minutes later. With the tacit approval of the enterprise management, who were delighted to be rid of us, it seemed we were also a nuisance to the factory workers.
The Sempai
Despite management's instructions, our curiosity about factory work got the better of us. We began to explore the production halls and engage with the workers. One day, I met Sempai—Sensei's assistant and our martial arts instructor—who was working as a foreman in the factory. From that point on, whenever we had "practice," we made it a point to visit him. Sempai shared his knowledge about martial arts, discussing their foundations, techniques, and the values they promote, which stood in stark contrast to those of the Communist Party. This difference likely explains why martial arts practice was forbidden under communism. To our benefit, Sempai also provided invaluable assistance with our "practice test."
The Practical Exam
Context: Ceaușescu and the Communist Party preferred workers over intellectuals—simple people who were easier to please and control. From a high school like ours, which was perhaps the best in the country, most students were expected to enter the workforce rather than pursue higher education. As a result, a significant portion of the overall grade for the baccalaureate was based on a "practical test," where we had to present a piece we created and explain the process. To the surprise of the high school management, George and I received the highest marks on this test. Our pieces had been crafted by Sempai, of course, and we provided the clearest, most professional explanations, thanks to his insistence that we memorize everything. At the end, standing proudly in front of our classmates, we couldn’t help but celebrate our success (only in the practical test, don’t worry!). We made sure to thank the two key figures behind our triumph: Negulescu and the Academy!
The Story of Negulescu
This is a tale recounted by the foremen of the "hidden" workshop. While we cannot be certain of its authenticity, it comes from two individuals who had no reason to fabricate it. Abuses of this nature were rampant in Romania during the Communist regime, especially under Ceaușescu. So even if Negulescu did not experience such mistreatment personally, countless others did. Once a brilliant student, Negulescu was denied the title of top graduate due to "racial" reasons, as he belonged to the marginalised Roma community. During that era, the discrimination faced by this minority in Romania was severe, and the racism perpetuated by the communists was more extreme than many examples we see today. After completing his studies, he was assigned to work in a factory, relegated to a position that did not reflect his qualifications. Nevertheless, through his skills and professional competence, he eventually rose to become the general manager of a large factory in the capital. Unfortunately, one day, Ioan Dincă, nicknamed "God" and one of Ceaușescu's closest collaborators, visited the factory and encountered Negulescu. In a fit of rage, Dincă ordered that Negulescu be stripped of his clothes, dressed in a dirty work overall, and sent to work on the worst lathe in the factory. His bodyguards swiftly carried out the order, even taking it upon themselves to give Negulescu a beating. The shock was so severe that Negulescu had to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital for several months before he could regain a semblance of his former self. Eventually, his friends and former colleagues came to his aid, helping him secure a position as a foreman at Mihai Viteazul High School in Bucharest, honoring the respect they had for the man he once was.
Epilogue
The process intended to turn us into highly skilled machinists or turners was a dismal failure for both us and our colleagues. However, I acquired unexpected "skills" that were completely contrary to what our teachers and foremen insisted we would need. Ironically, these skills proved to be incredibly useful in our future professional careers, leading all of us to notable successes. So, in the end, let’s give credit where it's due and extend a heartfelt "Thank you" to all our high school practice teachers, especially Negulescu, and to everyone who contributed to our learning at UTLM—whether they intended to or not!
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