I’m telling you this, Buia continued, because we started to work at this gallery in autumn and the winter that came it was a pretty cold one. However the winter might have been in other places, here in Handal a horrible draft gets you. We used to get out from second shift wet through the skin. Our clothes started to froze. So it won’t cut us under our arm how it got frozen, we kept rising our hands according the cold that caught us on our wet clothes. When we got home our hands were horizontal, at the arms level. We were some frozen crosses. Not by a long sight were we able to open the door. We were punching out the door with the boot, we stand behind a step or two when our wives will get outside, they turned us so we could get inside the house and we won’t slip, in this way they could break off anything from us and they pulled us inside. For a while we were sitting in the tray so the umber won’t pour on the door mats because the acids it was made from would burn. After our arms would fall near our body, they would carefully undress us in such way that the frozen clothes won’t tear us the skin tied up to it.
Now I begin to feel the remains of those days when we used to become frozen crosses. It was a hard time, but probably it was the most beautiful time from my mine digger life. My woman, the woman I got married with, had four kids, from whom only one boy. I liked him a lot although nobody ever called me down for not treating my wife’s kids as a real father, I loved that boy the way I think I would have loved my own child. I cared for him as for my own being. He was austere in work, serviceable, fast in decisions and for his sake “I cut down from my yard” and built him a house near my own so he would be close, to have him near me all the time. He was everything for me; he would carry my name and my reputation after I’m gone. I liked to know him close to me, to have him near me all the time, that’s why I took him near me in my team and taught him the handicraft of mining. I used him anywhere I needed him because he was very austere, he learned fast and even at the engines he was very skilled and if we wouldn’t have a man at the compressor we used to send him to turn it on, to give us air. We didn’t have pipe lines so he lengthens it so we could make holes. He managed great in everything and everybody cherished him and he pleased everyone. He is a very special boy, Buia concludes.
On the bank of the river an old restaurant stud up. Ion, the other guest of Buia, makes a sort of an observation that shocked us too:

– Mister Buia, why does this old superb restaurant remains closed and it seems large enough, a real restaurant with different rooms, overgrown and people “drink a stirrup cup” or in “boutiques” where not even two people that clank a glass don’t fit? I don’t even want to talk about when you want to sit down….
– This restaurant has its own story. Besides the restaurant was also a badge one. Before telling you its story, a question will fit: “Why do they call the Moldavians by “wire” when as a historical tradition they are called “head ox” (after Stefan’s ox)?” But you will find the answers in the story I will tell you. Maybe my stories are too long, but also my step is heavy so you would forgive me if I have extended or I will extend with other things from our village. I know it’s not up to me to judge the things that the Savior made, but simply, sometimes I think that even for Him it was not easy to build this world, of humans, to make it functional and most of all to make people get at the certainty that only work can clear them out from slough, that only by working you can obtain wealth.
Whit this we got at the years after the second World War, when after so much death, diseases and adversities starvation came too, which made the ones with a few soul to loose it all, to become some famished dogs, which if they supposed you endangered it meal, it simply tear you to pieces. Moldavians became apart of the worst starvation. To save themselves, to save their children and ancestry they would sell all they could sell and leave for Muntenia or Transylvania after a bag or two of seeds. The trains were like grapes, but from those that travel above the carriage some got with no ticket. In fact, from where the hell should they get money for this too? All they had to give they gave for the seeds, which not for few times were also mildew. So, our Moldavians traveled most of the time above the carriage. But in each time during a fatality the hyenas that make goods from others disasters show up. At this time these hyenas were formed of gangs that were waiting for the train at the curves, at the going up where the speed was lower and they used to run a wire with its end curved in the Moldavians bags pulling it down from the carriage. Some could not leave their hope for life and “left” down including the bags, dieing or disabled for life.
After a while they “got” the trick and throw down with wood “the wire tentacles”. So they would not be surprised on the fact “they guardianship” by turns.

The one that was guarding alarmed the others by calling out: “The wire brothers, the wire!” From that time, from those events, the Moldavians are called “wire”. But starvation did not just root out the Moldavians, but also others from other lands. A rambling movement was started in the entire country. There was a sort of parents that banished their children from home by simply not having anything to give them to eat. At such state of need the demand fro employment turned up, that concluded with the beginning of the country’s reconstruction. Before and during “Hunedoara’s effusion” through that small village (Indoara) more than ten thousand people have passed. The rambling of some people was justified, others found the occasion to “hit” in a new place, and far from their families, relatives and they could afford everything. A unique character of that period was Simon, a man of 25 years old, the son of the restaurant’s boss, which you see and which was nationalized in June 11. The way of protesting, of Simon, against the government that took his source earnings, was to never work for the GOVERNMENT (in our case, at the mine). That’s how Simon started to haunt all over the country, living his life after his own will. It happened that Simon had the same name as his father. Simon was going by train, bus, obviously without ticket. If he got caught there was no problem. He showed up his ID and a protocol was being “tamed” to …his father. A period of time has passed and it was five years since the father didn’t see his son, he knew were he was only by the place from where the penalties came, that were during every week. These, the penalties, were matters that everyone from home knew, but about many things through Simon went through, his “activities” not even his parents knew.
The reconstruction started, that in fact was the organization of the building yard at the future “Casa a Scanteii” (Sparkling House), “Casa Presei” (The House of Press) today, and that was made after a soviet project of the “Lomonosov University” but at lower scales. But this didn’t matter to Simon. What he was interested in directly was that they still got fences and guards at the future place of construction, but they used to bring continuously bricks on that vast field. Practically, the brick factories would send all the bricks in here and if they could sell they would have sold also to private industries. Our man, Simon, was “resting his feet” on a column of bricks and from that immensity of bricks columns you could hear an agitation beyond description. At an instance a man with a cart gets close to Simon and from chit-chatting Simon sells the brick he was sleeping on with 35 lei cash/piece.