Decembrance

Those who pass at Xmas, led away on those pull-tabs of radio news we hear between carols. Happy news. Purposely so. No more than five items per newscast, including a Santa siting and a longer than usual bio of someone who, if passing at any other time of the year, might not bear mention.

Death is part of that happy news, in the way that it can inspire a smiling sadness. The passing of a (benevolent) business person, a (charismatic) character actor (male or female), an inventor of a life-saving device.

Sometimes these deaths belong to unpleasant people, like Romanian leader Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife, Elena, who, according to their prosecutor (the no-longer-Communist-state of Romania), were accused of "genocide by starvation, lack of heating and lighting ... [and] the most hideous crime[:] ... suppressing the soul of the nation."

The Ceausescus were tried on December 25, 1989 and sentenced to death. Guards were ordered to take them outside, one at a time, and shoot them; but Elena protested ("If you want to kill us, kill us together. We have the right to die together!"). A guard asked -- and was granted -- permission to shoot them, together. When another guard tried to tie them up -- tie their hands behind their back -- Elena protested again ("Don't tie us up! Don't offend us! Shame! Shame! Shame! Shame on you! I brought you up as a mother!"), but they were tied up nonetheless and executed at 2:50pm.

Bucharest is ten hours ahead of Vancouver, making news of the Ceausescus' execution available to Vancouverites over morning coffee. That's when I heard it. Huddled over the gas stove at 441 Powell Street, waiting for the espresso pot to gurgle, the heat to kick in, hung over from a night of revelling at the Railway Club, where Jamey Kosh stole the show -- singing the lyrics to "Frosty the Snowman" to the tune of Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game". A night I shall never forget.