SCHOOL PRACTICE IN COMMUNISM

This is a story of modern slavery associated with the forced labour of children. This practice remains common in today’s communist states, just as it was in Romania under the regime of the comrade dictator, Ceaușescu. Between 1985 and 1989, during our high school years, George and I experienced it fully, in both body and spirit, while fiercely resisting it. Here is our story.

Professional Internships and Practical Work

In democratic countries, such programs allow children to acquire the knowledge necessary to choose a professional orientation and to learn a trade. In communist countries, children were required to work like any ordinary laborer—but without remuneration. This was notably the case in Romania under Ceaușescu’s dictatorship. Industrial production quotas were systematically imposed, and high school students were required to meet them during hours officially allocated to this activity, known as “Industrial Practice” (commonly called “Practice”). In addition, children were also tasked with work in agriculture and construction, officially named “Agricultural Practice” (see 'Children, education, and forced labour' on the blog).

The Theoretical Component

Throughout high school, we studied “Machining,” including technical processes, procedures, and tools. The number of hours dedicated to this subject was among the highest. The overall average grade was a key criterion in determining students’ placement in the workforce after graduation—a decision made by the state, specifically the Communist Party, rather than by enterprises or the individuals concerned. In general, excellent results ensured placement in a prestigious company. Teachers were not true educators but engineers or foremen, often so incompetent that they had been directed to the school rather than to the factory. This, however, proved advantageous, as they facilitated our attainment of reasonable grades, shamelessly cheating on our behalf.

Cheating

Our preparation for “Machining” assessments could rival the launch of a new version of ChatGPT or the iPhone. We organized meetings in which we deployed an extraordinary intelligence—far exceeding that required to prepare for a presidential debate in France or the United States. Our analyses of potential assessment topics were so thorough that they could rival the best analyses of stock market trends in New York or Paris. We devised countless strategies for using and circulating cheat sheets among ourselves. The manufacture of these sheets was an art, with George as our lead expert. We also prepared copies in advance containing topics likely to appear on the assessment. Complex strategies were implemented to distract or misdirect the “teacher” so that we could use the cheat sheets and exchange our papers. On multiple occasions, the teachers found half the class’s papers nearly identical in text and handwriting. Fortunately, they were not particularly astute and accepted our convoluted explanations. When that failed, a discreet bribe resolved the issue.

“Practice”

Each high school, ours included, typically had at least two workshops set up like factory production halls, fully equipped. To meet production quotas set by the Communist Party, two weeks of “practice” were scheduled for every four weeks of school. If the first week of vacation coincided with the final week of practice, it replaced a week of school. Officially, experienced foremen, experts in training and mentoring young workers, worked with students in these workshops. In reality, they were often incompetent professionals or those sidelined by the system—Negulescu among them.

Who Was Negulescu?

He was one of the foremen at our high school and was responsible for Workshop No. 1. Our class was entrusted to him to become qualified machining workers, but he failed. This was not entirely his fault, as he was far from exceptional, even among the school’s teachers, who were hired more for their connections than their skills. He was small, thin, with a limited vocabulary, often making grimaces. Had he lived in the United Kingdom, one might have thought Rowan Atkinson had modeled Mr. Bean on him.

The Beginning

Initially, he gave us a tour of the workshop, presenting the machine tools, their operations, and the instruments used, called “cutters.” For the first term, he instructed us to tidy the workshop. This did not bother us, as we intended to feign effort. However, by the end of the first term, relations began to deteriorate: his demands for order and cleanliness became increasingly exasperating. While our colleagues made minimal attempts at compliance, Angelo and I deliberately did everything incorrectly, leaving the workshop in worse condition than before (ha! ha!).

Recovering the “Defective”

In the second term, Negulescu took us to the storage room for manufactured parts. There was an extraordinary quantity of defective pieces. He informed us that we were to “recover” them—that is, rework them to eliminate defects. Initially, we thought he was joking. He was serious, however, and we spent the first two weeks learning to use the sliding stone, files, and hammers. Then we were assigned the “defective”—a repetitive, exhausting, and ultimately futile task: even the most skilled among us failed to repair a single defective piece. Over time, fatigue set in, and morale declined. One colleague summarized the mood: “The last practice period killed half my neurons.”

“From Defective to New Parts”

Although the word "defective" is not funny in Romanian, for us it became an inside joke, sending us into fits of laughter. When he asked why we were laughing, we offered explanations so convoluted that he could not follow. Observing his grimaces, we laughed even harder. We even composed a song—a hymn—using “defective”. Time has erased the lyrics, except for the refrain: “From defective to new parts.” There was a dispute over rhythm: George and I favoured a rock beat, while our classmates preferred the disco style of Modern Talking, then popular. Being the majority, they prevailed, and we sang the hymn to their beat while continuing the “defective” work. This is likely when the “Idea” occurred to us.

Flattening Instead of Leveling

The parts were H-shaped with two defects: parallel lines slightly longer and curved outward. The excess length had to be removed, and the curved section flattened. Boys handled filing; girls gently hammered the fragile pieces. Cristina eventually grew tired and asked her friend Bălăşescu (“Bălă”) for help. With his strength, he flattened a piece effortlessly. I—Angelo or George—had the “Idea”: to do the same with all remaining parts, turning it into a competition.

The Competition

Teams of two boys participated: one held the piece with a clamp, the other hammered. The goal was to produce the most extra-flat parts in a limited time. The prize: admiration from the girls. The strongest team, Bălă–Iulian, consistently won. George and I attempted to cheat slightly: we replaced the stopwatch with the duration of our hymn and tried singing slower than the others. Bălă–Iulian did the same, and they won again.

Punishment and Escape

Upon discovering our actions, Negulescu refused to continue working with us. With no other foreman available, the school administration relegated us to a holding room for the remaining practice weeks. This decision backfired: the supervising teacher had to also teach classes, leaving us free to leave once he exited. In June, with pleasant weather, we spent time in parks, at the cinema, or playing football. We were victorious, as were those who would undertake practice in subsequent years—nothing remained for them after our “competition.”

Return Engagement

At the start of our second year, Negulescu found himself again in charge of our class, tasked with turning us into “worthy machining experts capable of producing perfect parts for the motherland” (excerpt from Ceaușescu’s speech). Shocked, he watched us enter, ironically claiming readiness to learn. We began sweeping the school yard as a supposed introductory task; he quickly abandoned this plan and resigned to teach us machine operation—the Party’s production quota could not be itself.

Apprentices

Machining was repetitive, difficult, and required dexterity. It was dangerous, and we had no protective equipment due to widespread shortages in Ceaușescu’s Romania. Accidents could occur at any moment. Authorities, including school administrators, prioritised production over safety. For the Communist Party and Ceaușescu, we were replaceable apprentices. Fortunately, no accidents occurred in our class, perhaps thanks to a metallic noise…

Metal and… Metal

We were required to work with metal, while George and I were fans of… Metal—specifically, the subgenre of rock music. Several months earlier, an unexpected encounter had introduced us to the world of rock music enthusiasts, the rockers. Events progressed rapidly, and by the beginning of our second year of high school, we had become devoted fans of Metallica (a story detailed in “Freedom and the Baton: The First Chronicle of the Rock Generation” on the blog). For us, the sound produced by a machine tool resembled the riffs of an electric guitar, particularly those of a bass guitar. This may explain why we worked diligently at our machines while our classmates only pretended to work. There was no practical difference, even if they had been more diligent: in any case, we were not producing only defective parts. Everything changed, however, the day we discovered the “guitar riffs.”

From the “Tool” to Jason Newsted

One day, one of us managed to break a “tool,” which was made of an alloy significantly harder than the metal we were supposed to work with. The resulting sound resembled an electric guitar solo, the kind that only Jason Newsted, Metallica’s new bassist at the time, could produce, in our view. Our classmates, however, claimed it was merely the sound of broken metal, devoid of any significance. But what did they know of good music? They favored disco, not metal. A verbal dispute ensued, yet both sides remained steadfast. The solution: break more “tools” to settle the argument. Upon reflection, we realized that this strategy also carried the potential consequence of rendering the machines inoperable—a prospect that thrilled us. Negulescu, of course, was an essential element of this plan.

Divide and Conquer

We devised a scheme to prevent Negulescu from discovering our involvement in the disappearing tools. Knowing that he conflicted with the foreman of another workshop in the school, we suggested that the latter was stealing tools during his breaks while supervising us. To make our story more convincing, we had also hidden additional tools so they would be missing from the inventory. Consequently, Negulescu chose to take his breaks within the workshop itself, leaving only briefly during class hours for personal needs. Particularly advantageous were the times he went out to drink clandestinely (he was fond of brandy, which a classmate, Delia, provided to justify his absences). This gave us free rein to experiment with various methods for breaking the tools, a task requiring both physical effort and ingenuity. Near the end of the school year, Negulescu finally grasped what had occurred after discovering several out-of-service machines.

Machines Out of Service

For context, a machine tool has a three-jaw system that clamps the “tool” firmly while working the metal bar to produce a specific piece. We chose to attack the machines once very few “tools” remained to break. The plan relied on cooperation from our classmates: some distracted Negulescu in various ways (similar to Delia and her “potion”), others devised methods to disable the jaws, the machines’ weak point, while the strongest and most capable worked tirelessly alongside us to render the machines inoperable.

The Impossibility of Replacing the Machines

When Negulescu realized the extent of the damage, a major scandal ensued. George and I were immediately blamed. In our defense, I emphatically denied responsibility, arguing that the fault lay with Negulescu for forcing us to work without adequate training. With no evidence to the contrary, no specific sanction was applied. We were already facing severe punishment for our conduct during the May 1 demonstration (see “The Great Escape: May 1, 1987” on the blog). We were, of course, obliged to “compensate” the school, although no money was ever collected from our parents. Indeed, money existed but could not be spent, as there was nothing to purchase. Replacement machines, for example, were projected to arrive in ten years. During our third year, our class was consequently assigned to a different workshop.

The “Hidden Workshop”

Our school possessed a third workshop, housed in a building rented from a nearby middle school. We nicknamed it the “Hidden Workshop,” as few knew of its existence. Once there, we understood why: two foremen produced most of the pieces the students were supposed to make, enabling the school to report annually to the Communist Party that it had fulfilled its production quotas—a feat most other schools could not match.

Flaubert and the Failure of Communism

Two foremen specialised in machining worked there. One fancied himself an intellectual, reading French literary classics such as Flaubert, often laboriously following the text with his finger and consulting a dictionary. The other was a living sports encyclopedia with extensive knowledge of many disciplines. They were well aware of our previous exploits. Sent there to learn “responsibility” (ha!) and machining skills, they quickly realized our capabilities. From the first hour, they announced that we would do nothing: they would complete the work and fill out the documentation certifying our competency. Reflecting on this years later, one might say this exemplifies why communism failed: a system built on propaganda, manipulation, deceit, and the absence of real incentives. Yet it taught us adaptability, enabling survival in any situation.

The “Oracle” Notebooks

To pass the time during practice hours, we engaged in writing. Almost everyone maintained a notebook called “Oracle,” in which one could record reflections on friendship, love, career aspirations, and myriad other topics. My science fiction novel, The Vulture, began the previous year, reached epic proportions, and was highly popular among classmates, who read the latest pages daily. We also played football, table tennis, chess, walked in the nearby parks, and climbed, enjoying both recreation and camaraderie.

Football and Climbing

Our workshop was better secured than Fort Knox or the Banque de France: metal doors and reinforced window grilles. The girls began climbing the grilles while the foremen played football with the boys. Those less skilled in football joined them, leading to memorable climbing sessions. At one point, a grille collapsed but fortunately caused no injuries. We reinstalled it using cork supports, and as the year neared its end, no one noticed. We never considered the potential consequences of an improperly secured grille after our departure. We imagined the foremen muttering profanities while sending wishes to our families, given the “geniuses” they had produced. We fondly remember these moments, as well as our scaled escapes via fences.

The “Jumps”

From the outset, it was clear that the six- to seven-hour daily schedule in the workshop could not be maintained. Over time, boredom set in, and the foremen had other duties. They permitted us to leave “secretly” after three or four hours, using a makeshift exit: jumping over a one-meter-high wall, sometimes catching girls in our arms upon landing.

Instructions

We adhered strictly to the foremen’s instructions: first, never speak of our actual activities; second, avoid being seen near the school while supposedly working diligently. By the end of our third year, the school administration believed we were prepared to undertake our final-year practical training in a prestigious factory, where we might eventually work. On arrival, we immediately demonstrated how mistaken they were, beginning with the encounter with the “real boss.”

The “Real Boss”

Tall, portly, and dressed in a suit with dark sunglasses, he exuded confidence, regarding us with contempt. During our factory tour, he focused on self-promotion, boasting as the Party Organization head at the factory, claiming authority over all. He leered at female classmates, attempting to touch one, prompting us to intervene aggressively. After previous experiences in the Retezat mountains (see blog: “Retezat 1988: When It All Began”), he seemed insignificant. Understanding the situation, he left, promising a foreman would oversee us.

The Foreman

A short, stocky man in his forties resembling a wrestler, he sought someone over whom to assert authority—and we were ideal targets. After assigning workstations and tools, he delivered a rambling speech on Communist Party expectations and Ceaușescu’s directives. Predictably, we tuned out, and he resorted to shouting. The duo Bălă-Iulian, giants among us, intimidated him, after which he wisely retreated.

Once Again, a Performance in Extremis

No one monitored our work for the rest of the week. We produced high-quality work in the sense of our usual standard: many broken tools, some out-of-service machines, and numerous pieces fit only for scrap. Alarmed, the factory management confined us to a room for the remainder of the year, prohibiting any factory work. We complied, spending the remaining time outdoors, in parks or cinemas, marking our 'modus operandi' (Latin for 'our way to function'): attendance, then departure within minutes, tacitly approved by management, grateful not to have us interfering with workers.

The Sempai

Curious about real factory work, George and I explored the production halls, speaking with workers. We met the Sempai, assistant to our martial arts instructor, Sensei. During practice hours, we learned martial arts fundamentals, specific techniques, and values—antithetical to Communist Party principles. Martial arts had been banned under Ceaușescu, with karateka and rockers among the first to participate in the December 1989 Revolution. The Sempai, also a foreman, guided us through the practical examination.

Practical Examination

Ceaușescu and the Party sought not “intellectuals” but obedient workers. Even in a top-tier high school, most students were destined for factory work rather than university. A significant portion of the Baccalaureate grade was allocated to a practical examination: presenting a machined piece and explaining its fabrication. To the administration’s surprise, George and I achieved the highest marks, as our pieces were produced by the Sempai, who provided precise explanations we memorised.

Epilogue

The effort to transform us into highly skilled machinists failed spectacularly. Yet we acquired unforeseen skills, opposed to those expected. These abilities proved invaluable in adulthood, facilitating successful careers. Consequently, we extend a heartfelt “thank you” to Negulescu and the machining “teachers” (ha!).

Appendix

The Story of Negulescu

This account, told by the Hidden Workshop foremen, may not reflect actual events involving Negulescu. Nevertheless, abuses were widespread under the Communist Party, particularly during Ceaușescu’s reign. For example, a brilliant student was denied valedictorian for racial reasons, being “Gypsy.” This marginalized minority endured extreme discrimination under communism. Despite initial setbacks, the student eventually became a factory director, until discovered by Ioan Dincă, Ceaușescu’s close associate. Following severe punishment, Negulescu suffered psychological trauma and was hospitalized. Subsequently, out of respect, he was appointed a high school foreman.