Caught between the walls of Sight prison I remembered my father, his medalsand most of all his talent in reproducing the features of one’s face, making it easily recognizable with just a few lines. My dad had graduated The Art Academy but also the Military High school. Hence when the war began he enrolled and marched towards the Russian plains, reaching the Don during the terrible winter in ’42 when first signs of the German Army loosing the war started to appear. The cold weather and the hunger were killing the Romanian Army. As the horse meat was long finished, I imagined our boys were digging in the dirt hoping for a piece of food. They finally surrendered and my father was sent to war camp. When Ana Pauker visited them and tried to persuade them into forming the Tudor Vladimirescu division, my dad chose to say yes rather then ending his days in jail. The division reached the Tatra Mountains, and then the Romanians were sent back home as it seemed they were not the ones meant to get to Berlin. He died at 64 and buried with him a small piece of history as I was too young and too angry to listen to his stories. Stepping along the latticed corridors, I gently push the cell doors. I pass the bed in which Iuliu Maniu passed away and suddenly I feel guilty. From one room to the other, I search all floors but the rage and impotence still cry within and I realize nothing is ever going to be the same. The prisons are too many, the revenge is too much. The history is always written by the winners. All I could do was to contemplate the place where God was locked up more then 64 years ago.