Nadia Comaneci and the Secret Police: A Cold War Escape by Stejarel Olaru, translated by Alistair Ian Blyth
There is that little face: the face of a child. Brown eyes, contemplative eyes, eyes that stare at you emotionlessly, a little defiantly. Dark rings; she is tired, she could sleep for hours. Young Nadia looks as if she has been crying. She is a child. If you found yourself with responsibility for her, you would make her some hot milk, give her some cookies and put her to bed, not send her to train with the toughest coach there has ever been, or force her to have her photograph taken. The metal chains around her neck give away that she has achieved something momentous. The lettering declares her name: 'Nadia Comaneci'. If only it had been in gold leaf; that would tell a story. As you glance at the cover, you get the impression that the gymnast is wearing a golden crown, a laurel wreath perhaps, something to match the Romanesque features. Nadia could easily be posing for a portrait, one that you might find in the ruin...