by Maria Genova
Nobody knew exactly how the Western films were smuggled into the country, but the quality was awful. We often watched a copy of a copy of a copy. The variation in genres was limited to bloody action movies, slapstick comedies and cheap porn. Compared to the respectable Bulgarian and Russian movies we were usually served; the Western videos were particularly mind-blowing. Especially the porn, because we never got to see naked people. Every time Anton brought along one of those tapes, we would watch the very revealing images wide-eyed and provide personalized commentary.
‘Those two are using a creaky bed. Probably also imported from Russia? She’s good looking, but he’s so pale, he looks like a corpse.’
‘Perhaps that’s why he can’t get it up. Have you ever seen a corpse with a hard-on? Oh, it’s flipped out again.
Anton grinned. ‘That is why you should never make your hobby your work. Look, a new guy had joined. Jeez, he’s all shiny with body lotion. Apparently, that’s not a waste of money in the West.’
‘It’s not here either, because you can’t buy any in our country.’
‘Ach, we’re not that pathetic. We can always rub ourselves in with vegetable oil,’ Anton suggested.
‘And then my mother will surely ask what happened to her vegetable oil. Will you stand in the queue for an hour to get another bottle?’
I had to laugh at my conversations with Anton, but I was irritated by the poor quality of the videotapes he brought along. Once he invited me to his house to watch Rambo. Whether it was the fault of his video recorder, I’m not sure, but there was no sound. That was weird: having Sylvester Stallone beat people up and firing guns without us hearing it. At a certain point, Anton came up with the bright idea of putting on the washing machine. That thing shook, rumbled, banged and made so much noise that Rambo no longer looked like a silent movie. It was a blessing that he still had such an old Russian washing machine. Ours was much quieter, but I immediately recognized the sound because our spin drier was the same Russian make. Even though I tried my best to ‘centre’ the washed clothes in the middle of the drum, the spin drier would rumble, rattle and bang each and every time. If I did not hold onto it during its spin cycle, then the machine would ‘walk’ from one end of the bathroom to the other and usually did not come back on its own.
Because many friends visited our house to watch Western video’s, I sometimes got the feeling that I was running an illegal cinema. When my parents went away for the weekend to our villa in the mountains, our city home would turn into a disco. Thanks to my father’s modern equipment they were all great parties.
Anton wanted to borrow the giant speakers for his birthday. It was Friday the 13th.
‘Don’t give him the speakers,’ Olga said. ‘A day like today can only mean accidents will happen.’
‘Nonsense.’ I retorted. ‘I don’t know who made that up, but there’s no truth in it. You are so superstitious that you believe you’ll have an accident if you walk under a builder’s ladder.’
‘It did happen once.’
‘Did you distract him so much that he fell on top of you with his ladder?’
‘Never mind, you don’t believe me anyway. Do what you want, but if your friends damage the speakers, don’t come running to me. I warned you.’
I thought about it. Friday the 13th. If you believed in that, then accidents will surely happen. My sister was born on Friday the 13th. She was very happy. And it was because she did not believe in superstition or religion, from which the unlucky number came in the first place. If you were not raised with religion, then you had no reason to believe that twelve apostles were better than thirteen at the Last Supper. Judas would have betrayed Jesus another time. The fact that Jesus was crucified on a Friday was just coincidence. And even if it wasn’t, why should that influence my life? It was unbelievable that so many people in the world paid attention this unlucky day. My father told me after his tour in America that even hotel rooms skipped the number thirteen and sometimes even an entire thirteenth floor.
‘And, are you going to do it?’ Olga interrupted my musings.
A little while later we carried the giant speakers through the park. How we managed to get these monsters at their destination without inflicting any damage was a miracle. Luckily, we didn’t damage them, otherwise my punishment would have been severe. Friday the 13th seemed to be my lucky day.
The party was great. The music boomed out the giant speakers and we unsociably let the entire neighbourhood enjoy it with us.
‘Maybe we should turn the music down,’ the host said at about 2 a.m., after the neighbours had complained. That didn’t work, because everyone knew how to turn up volume, even the police, who came to check on us at 3 a.m. We eventually sent them home happy with a bottle of whisky. The system of corruption worked to everyone’s advantage, just like the system of thinking everything over twice. Even at parties we didn’t say what we thought or thought what we said, especially when it came to politics.
We were prisoners in time and didn’t know for how long. The West watched passively from the side-line and washed its hands in innocence. England even managed to give the Romanian leader Ceaușescu a knighthood, even though he was the cruellest of all communist leaders. Not only did he have his political adversaries assassinated, but he also carried out a disastrous economic policy which made Romania the poorest country in Europe. My grandmother would tell me in disgust about the scenes she had seen travelling through Romania. Straight on arrival she was besieged as a ‘rich foreigner’ by begging children who tried to get anything from her: from pens to sweets. I could hardly believe that our Romanian brothers were in such dire straits, because all communist countries helped each other. The Russians tried to steer the mutual relations as much as possible. Of course, this meant that things could go wrong, because there were 90 million people in total from seven different countries living under the influence of the Soviet Union. Romania apparently had the bad luck of going unnoticed in a severe spiral of poverty.
Despite all the lies for a long time we did not doubt that communism was better than capitalism. On the television, they repeatedly stressed that a democratic government with several parties was unworkable and we saw how Western politicians would turn on each other and how governments would fall suddenly. According to the reports Western citizens were far from happy and as proof we would see images of protests and strikes. We didn’t have that, because there was no reason to protest. Our planned economy didn’t possess the weaknesses of capitalism, where competition led to over-production, bankruptcies and labourers being laid off. We were lucky to be living in an orderly and just society.
According to reports the grain harvest increased each year and the factories broke their production records time after time. Of course, we thought it strange that we never that those record produces in the stores, but it was needless to say that we were not allowed to ask any questions about that. We suspected that the Bulgarian government exported the grain to Russia. We didn’t know how they done it, but since Khrushchev had come to power the Soviet Union had a shortage of grain and even imported it from capitalist countries. ‘Do you know why the Russian party leader won the Nobel prize?’ was the question in a well-known joke. ‘He was the first man in history who sowed grain in Siberia and harvested it in Canada.’
It was unfathomable why the planned economy led to a shortage of simple products. In a time when astronauts could travel to the moon, we struggled to buy a good bar of soap or a decent pair of sunglasses. Only humour could soften our pain, because you could turn things around in a joke. A man had to choose between the communist and the capitalist hell. First, he takes a peak at the capitalist hell and asks what they do there. ‘We cook you in oil and we cut you up into tiny pieces,’ the answer was. In the communist hell, he got exactly the same answer.
‘What’s the difference then?’ the man asks.
‘The only difference is that in the communist hell they sometimes don’t have oil, and other times no knives.’
Not only oil was scarce, but also electricity. Because our government exported so much to our ´brother countries´, we often had to sit in the dark in the evenings. Very primitive, candles lit and holding philosophical discussions. This is only interesting if it doesn´t happen too often. I didn´t enjoy doing my homework to a measly light; it made me feel like a medieval monk. But that was no excuse for school not to make your homework. ‘You need to learn how to plan better,’ Comrade Taneva said. ‘You know what time the electricity will be cut off.’
That was true, because the times were published in the media beforehand and with a little goodwill I could take that into account. My parents managed better than me, because they left work earlier to cook and shower before the regime took effect. If they hadn’t finished their shower on time, then they had to finish in the dark.
Because the technicians were not that accurate with the switches, it often meant that people were stuck in elevators for hours on end, for example because they got in the lift at ten to six in the assumption that the regime took effect at six. Sometime neighbours would demolish the lift windows to get someone out who was panicking. Not through the window, that was quite small, but by pulling a certain switch. That way the elevator would go to the next floor.
People would look out their window to see which flat ‘went on’ first. At the first flicker, you heard people rejoice. If it took too long before the other homes were lit, you heard cursing from the football fans who were afraid that their favourite team would score during the electricity disruption.
The worst thing was that the electricity also went out during the last episode of one of the most favourite soap operas, which was equivalent to national mourning. A few smart guys took out their car batteries and manufactured a special connection so that they could see the end after all. The end was then passed on by word of mouth.
Fainted
I tried to avoid Dimitar at school and that was quite easy. I noticed that he had been without a girlfriend for some time, but it did not occur to me to think that was my doing. Dimitar didn’t approach me. Until I met him once on a ski slope outside the city. He followed me and I decided to ski straight through the woods. I saw a small path further on that went up the mountain and let myself go. It was only at the last moment that I noticed that there was a stream in the bend. I tried to jump it. I almost thought I had made it, until one of my ski’s hit a stone. I fell in the icy snow, luckily just across the water.
‘Are you okay?’ Dimitar shouted. He had managed to come to a halt without falling.
‘Fine,’ I hastily said, even though I felt pain all over my body.
I suddenly fainted backwards with my knees locked. I hadn’t seen it coming.
I woke in DImitar’s arms.
‘How long was I out?’ was the first thing that occurred to me to ask.
‘Not that long. I slapped you a few times and then you woke up.’
‘You slapped me?’
Apparently, I must have felt better to sound so shocked.
‘And a kiss,’ he added.
‘How dare you!’
‘Calm down, I can never seem to do the right thing. No slapping, no kissing, what is it that you want?’
I hadn’t thought about that, so I decided to leave it.
Dimitar and I skied to the mountain hut.
‘I have a room here,’ he said. ‘You can leave your wet suit to dry. And don’t think I have an ulterior motive. I might not be an angel, but I’m not the devil either.’
I agreed to go to his room. I took off my wet suit and wrapped a blanket around me. We sat in silence on the bed. Every second of silence seemed to be filled with tense expectation.
‘Don’t you think we could make a go of it?’ he asked. I didn’t sense any provocation in his voice and that reassured me.
‘I don’t know. I think you’re attractive, but I don’t want a relationship with a playboy. Maybe we should just accept that we’re not meant for each other.’
‘You are really attached to that image you have of me, aren’t you?’
I now knew he was not some reckless womanizer, but I didn’t want to admit that. His romantic side had made too much of an impression on me and I was afraid to fall under his power. I preferred to have control. I knew that Dimitar wanted to have sex, but I didn’t even want to admit to myself that I was also open to this at this point. Deep inside I was a prudish girl, because this was part of my upbringing. Sex was not discussed, the subject matter could not be found in any magazine, your parents told you nothing and the sex education at school was limited to information over the fertilization of an egg by a seed. That was very brief, but we didn’t dare ask any questions so as not to embarrass the teacher and also not to give ourselves a bad reputation.
Olga was the only one with whom I could openly discuss this taboo subject. I vividly remember the first thing she told me about this subject: that my parents had sex. As a thirteen-year-old girl I found this difficult to believe. My parents had a good relationship and still walked hand-in-hand like a couple in love, but still I thought they were too old to play dirty games in bed.
I was determined not to pay any attention to Olga’s chatter, until a school friend told me that she had caught her parents in bed. That was a sign that I had apparently missed something.
‘How am I supposed to ask Mum and Dad if they still have sex?’
My sister burst out laughing confronted with so much curiosity and naivety.
‘Just don’t ask, because they won’t tell you anyway,’ she advised. ‘Do you think they would tell you something like that?’
My sister was right: I had to think up a trick question to get an honest answer. Perhaps I should ask them how often they have sex instead of if they even had sex? After thinking it over for a while and practising in front of the mirror, I approached my mother.
‘Mum, how often do you do it?’ I asked very seriously.
She stood petrified like a mummy. It seems as if my question hadn’t gotten through to her. The long silence made me uncomfortable, but I didn’t dare repeat my cheeky question. My mother’s expression suddenly changed, as if she had just woken up in shock by a nightmare. She went completely mad.
‘How dare you ask about such private affairs?’
It was no use trying to explain that my question wasn’t meant to be personal, but that I just wanted to know if adults who don’t want any (more) children still had sex. My mother was so outraged that she even got my father involved. That was her trump card. Every time she thought it was above her to get into a discussion with such a small and brainless creature, she would get him to re-educate his foolish daughter.
‘Repeat what you just asked me!’ my mother ordered.
I had to choose between two evils. If I asked the question again, the situation would escalate further, so I decided to ignore her order and keep my mouth shut. I wish I had listened to my sister! When my mother realised that I had no intention of saying anything, she repeated the question herself. My father looked shocked, as if he wanted to say: ‘Did we really put that much energy into raising such a rude child?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ was his redeeming reply.
‘Get out of the room.’
‘And?’ my sister asked out of curiosity when I walked into the other room.
‘Just don’t ask. They’re both angry. And they said nothing. But I think I know the answer. They didn’t deny anything, so they do have sex. If they didn’t then they wouldn’t have been so annoyed.’
‘Okay, enough nonsense,’ my sister resolutely said and grabbed the telephone book to phone her boyfriend for the umpteenth time. If you didn’t know she was studying to become a violinist, you would think she wanted to be a receptionist. She never got bored with the telephone and she could stay on it for hours on end. The upstairs neighbours, who lived on the second floor of the house, sometime bonked on the floor in exasperation as a sign that they also wanted to use the line, because the duplex
line meant we had to take turns. But we were still lucky, because without the right connections you couldn’t even get a duplex line. You had to wait years to be connected. The upstairs neighbour also had a boyfriend she could talk to for hours on end, but we often used to throw a spanner in the works. The duplex box hung in our hallway and if we needed to use the line we simply pressed on a button to disconnect her. She probably didn’t even realise this, because disconnections occurred often.
A consequence of the taboo on sex were the numerous teenage pregnancies. In the big cities, the girls would carry out abortions and some even used it as a regular contraception. In the country, it was much worse: nearly the whole village would know that a girl was pregnant before she did. In the villages, a date was more or less tantamount to an engagement and although arranged marriages were not common, many diligent parents found a way to match their child to an approved candidate.
As a city girl, I luckily did not have to experience this, but in our villa in the mountains I heard poignant stories from my village peers. Our neighbour Wanja was only 17 years old and already married. She was terrified she would get pregnant. Contraception was an unknown phenomenon. There was no pill, a coil was not recommended for women who had not yet had children and the majority of men were insulted if they had to use a condom. Wanja had no other choice than wait for the unwanted pregnancy to arrive.
‘Why did you get married so young?’ I asked her one time.
‘Out of ignorance,’ was her surprising answer. ‘My parents had arranged a date with because he came from a good family. This was my very first date and I did not know what to do. We soon thought that we matched and proposed that we got married. Marriage? I thought I was too young, but he claimed that that was the only way I could prove that I loved him. And I didn’t want to lose him.’