Chapter One
Beginnings
To see far is one thing, going there is another.
-Constantin Brâncuși, Romanian artist
My drive to succeed was forged by my family and by growing up in Romania. I am told that both trauma and positivity can be passed down generationally. I believe that my optimism and my grit are in my DNA. Many people today are unable to trace their family history back more than a generation. If you can't, that's OK, you can build your own narrative. If you do know your family history, there is something to learn about yourself from the stories of your past. I learned that I came from a long line of survivors.
My family story begins with my grandfather Andrei Mangri. What happened to him is the foundation of everything my family is and everything I became. It is an immigrant story. I lived it myself when I picked up and started over in another country.
My grandfather was a Macedonian who grew up in Albania. He immigrated to Romania at the turn of the last century, as it was the land of opportunity for Eastern Europe. Bucharest, the capital, was even considered the "Paris of the East." My grandfather was a boy during World War I and lost everything, including his parents. As a young man, he went to Romania in search of a better life for his family. He brought with him his wife, children, and entire extended family, including his sister, cousins, and a beloved aunt who had supported him and who he would support for the rest of her life. They settled in the countryside near Constanța, a port city on the Black Sea. There he built a large house surrounded by many acres of farmland, raising animals and crops. He began to prosper.
When he served in World War II, my grandmother ran the farm. She managed it on her own, raising my mother and her siblings with the scrappy philosophy: Work hard, don't complain, figure it out. Today we might call this tough love. My mother passed these traits on to me, and in turn, I passed them to my daughter.
By the time I was born, my parents had their own home with a busy tailor business in the front rooms, just down the street from the rest of the family. The Macedonian community was very tight-knit, as immigrant communities often are. We dressed slightly different from the native Romanians and ate foods made with different recipes. There were always loud family gatherings: dinners, weddings, and celebrations with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. If you can visualize My Big Fat Greek Wedding, it was very much like that.
When the Communist Party gained control of the country in 1947, everything changed. It was as if the sun slowly dimmed across Romania: The light seemed to shift from gold to gray. The government seized private property from landowners. The land, the animals, the big family house my grandfather had built from the ashes of his own impoverished background were all confiscated.
He moved into the city of Constanța. There, on a smaller property, he built three houses for his extended family. These were soon confiscated too, the houses torn down and replaced by a row of concrete utilitarian government apartments. He and his family were assigned small apartments in a building nearby. His apartment was on the fourth floor, with no elevator. He was eighty-six at the time.
He lived until he was ninety-two. Working on a farm had made him physically robust. Walking up and down the stairs kept him agile late in life. But his mental discipline was his enduring legacy to us. My grandfather believed that you could control your own thoughts. Much before it was popularized, he meditated every day. He was meticulous about his clothes, his food, and his mindset.
By 1975, ten years after Nicolae Ceaușescu had come to power, the Paris of the East was gone. In its place were shortages of food, heat, and individual freedom. Winters were cold; we were told to wear our clothes to bed. There were harsh penalties for those who tried to protest or fight. People just tried to survive. Through this, my grandfather's ever-present komboloi (prayer beads) kept him steady. He would endure no matter what was thrown at him, even though the loss all around was palpable. He was like one of the mighty granite rocks that jutted out from the coast onto the Black Sea. He stood strong and immovable even when battered by a turbulent tide.
My grandfather and I had a special bond, two rebels at heart. He had a small old radio that he kept in a tiny in corner of his room. We used to close the drapes, lock the door, and listen to the Voice of America broadcast together. We were so isolated in Romania that this was the only way we could hear what was happening in the outside world; everything on our TV and radio stations was Communist propaganda. My grandfather and I used to huddle in that corner, listen to the broadcast, and talk. He would say, "Sia, I made a big mistake. I should have immigrated to America instead of Romania. You should go to America." I think he put that seed in my head, because from a very early age I knew I wanted to go to America. Later, when my husband said it would be difficult to be an immigrant, I didn't listen. My grandfather's words always stayed with me.
I am not sure exactly when it bubbled into my conscious thought, but through my grandfather's example, I began to understand that your mind, your heart, and your spirit are your fortress. No one else has access. You have control over what you think and how you react to challenges. I would need this mindset to sustain me as I made my way out of Romania. After my husband sought political asylum in America, it held me together when I was interrogated for hours by the secret police alone in a sterile room. Or when our home was regularly raided and ransacked by police, looking for anything they considered contraband-money, jewelry, silver, dollars, extra food. And when I waited three long and difficult years for a passport before I could embark on a plane to freedom.
My grandfather's ability to keep going taught me that no matter what is happening around you, only you have power over your mindset. Only you can decide what will give you meaning. And once you make that decision, every action you take, whether personally or in business, needs to move you toward making that life happen.
Believe in the Possible, Even in Impossible Situations
It was during this time of sweeping change in Romania that my personal world was also turned upside down. My father died suddenly in 1969. My mother, Victoria, who was only thirty-five at the time, was left with practical concerns. My parents were still quietly tailoring in our home even though private enterprise was no longer officially allowed. Now she wondered how she would be able to provide for us on her own.
"There's no time to cry," she told me. She sat on the edge of my bed, pulling her beige wool cardigan around her. I cried in her arms. We nestled in together. I looked at her face, usually rosy, now pale and drawn. Whatever despair she felt was locked away deep inside with no key. There were no tears. She refused to give in to grief. We had to get on with living. I stopped crying and sat quietly with her. Her uncanny strength was calming, inspiring.
"Anastasia, you'll help me in the shop," she said, simply.
"Mom, I'm only twelve. I don't know how to do this." I didn't feel ready for such grown-up responsibility.
"You're smart, Sia, I will teach you everything." She always spoke in such a forceful way that you believed what she said was true. Her confidence began to persuade me. I began to think that maybe I could do this. And then I remembered how my days were usually occupied.
"What about school?" I reminded her. She was quiet for a moment before replying.
"You'll work after school," she said simply.
We looked away from the other, staring into opposite corners of the small room. We were together but each alone facing the unknown future. I snuggled into her, laying my head down on her lap. I knew that nothing further would be said. From then on when I came home from school, I would sit behind a small table my mother set up for me among the sewing machines. My school homework melded with my shopwork. I was young but I could learn. It was the beginning of my business education.
Don't Let Limited Thinking Limit Your Opportunities
My mother was an entrepreneur at a time when most women didn't own businesses, in a country where private enterprise was forbidden. She always believed that anything was possible, and she never felt fear. This might seem quite amazing, but she was, after all, her mother's daughter: Work hard, don't complain, figure it out. Her father was the proud rock who would remain solid and strong no matter what came at him. Fear was not a part of the mindset she inherited, so it was not instilled in her. Our family believed there was an answer to every question, if you thought about it long enough. She would figure out a way for us to survive.
Her solution was creative and bold. She realized that despite living with rations, women still cared about how they looked. Her own mother had told her that during WWII, women had scrimped and scrounged their way to their red lipstick. There were no department stores at this time. Shoes and clothes had to be custom-made. Few people had the skill to create anything that looked at all fashionable. My mother still had the sewing machines in our front room and knew several women who could sew. She recognized there were some women in the community who were in the position to offer support.
My mother put the word out to the wives of high-ranking officials: She would keep them looking good in the latest styles. Ships docking at the port brought outside culture to us for the right price. Through her connections, my mother managed to get a smuggled, worn copy of Vogue magazine's Vogue Pattern Book, the fashion bible for American and European women. She used this as her inspiration and style guide. The old adage "Happy wives, happy lives" applied just as well then as now. The wives kept coming and my mother kept working. The officials ignored the business.
Every day when I came home from school, I would perch myself on the little wooden stool behind my worktable. There would always be a woman standing next to me waiting her turn to consult with my mother, her face animated with a sense of excitement and expectation that something out of the ordinary was going to happen. My mother would ask her to pick a dress from the Vogue Pattern Book. Then, style in hand, the woman would pose on a low podium in the middle of the room. My mother would study each woman's figure. She would walk slowly around her with the measuring tape, stopping every few inches to record a measurement, until she had completed a full circle. In the days before the "360-degree surround-view camera," this was how it was done.
Later, after the last client had gone home, we would talk about how to create the right fit for each woman. She taught me how to hand-sew a dress, about quality fabrics and fixings. My mother had an astonishingly good eye for someone who never had formal training, and she shared her secrets with me. She pointed out that a woman might have broad shoulders or a wider bottom, and would ask me to draw a pattern factoring in adjustments, such as shoulder pads or a shape skirt, to create the visual balance that would translate the essential style of the dress to that particular woman's shape. It was my first introduction to the concept of proportion that I would later study in more detail in art classes.
I found myself engrossed in drawing the patterns and as transfixed as my mother was by the transformations our efforts created. We could see how thrilled each woman was when she saw herself in her new dress for the first time. She would walk into the shop looking stern and careworn. We watched as the world-weariness disappeared and a joyful person emerged in front of our eyes. Laughing and twirling in front of the mirror, she radiated with delight. It was her movie-star moment in an otherwise drab day. There is an unmistakable look of confidence that blushes over a woman's face when she feels beautiful. It is contagious-a form of magic, a form of love.
My mother began to bring her hairstylist to the shop to consult with clients, expanding her services to offer complete looks for special occasions. Weddings were no longer the all-night elaborate celebrations they had once been. But even with strict government edicts closing parties down early, brides still wanted to look their best for their special day. The hours my mother spent at work mounted. Twelve-hour days were common.
Her only day off was Sunday, and that's when she went to the beauty parlor. Everyone worked six days a week, so Sunday was the only day working people had for that sort of self-care. It was the hair salon's busiest day, of course. My mother would take me with her. I loved this precious time together away from the shop and our everyday routine. I would watch the hairstylist sculpt and spray hair (the style had to hold for a few days). Sometimes, the manicurist would paint my nails. When my mother walked into the salon, her entrance always caused a commotion. Everyone knew who she was and wanted to catch her eye or have a conversation. My mother's clients clustered around her in between their beauty appointments. Even there, on her one day off, my mother would still be dispensing beauty and fashion advice from under the hair dryer.
"You work all the time," I would say to her, my constant refrain. Sometimes it was a whine. "Aren't you tired? Don't you need more rest?" I wanted more of her attention. Even though I was with her in the shop, I never felt that she really looked at me. Her clients were her focus.
"We have to pay the bills; we have to eat," she would reply, as if this should be completely obvious. Of course I could see that we were making do with less. Of course I knew our survival depended on her work. Somehow, it didn't seem like the only thing that drove her.
Copyright © 2025 by Anastasia Soare. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
