He awoke, confused by all sorts of presentiments which he could not discern.
The day was the same as the one before it. It rained, as it rained nearly every single day during that summer of twenty-five, and raindrops large as gems fell from the shed’s awning.
Milyo Kassabov thought he ought to construct some gutters, to keep the wood under the red bricks from rotting, then opened up his umbrella and went to his bookstore.
[Monday, November 24, 2014]
And it just so happened that on that day, Vladimir Nachev arrived in Stara Zagora from Sofia. His automobile—a polished Packard, with gleaming black paint and monstrous electric headlights piercing that June rain—pulled right up to the bookstore, and he entered wearing his ostentatious officer’s cloak. Two civilian huskies stood guard at the door, with their black blazers and hats pulled low over their eyes, like caricatures of American gangsters. Inside, Nachev courteously removed his cap and announced he would not beat around the bush.
“Mr. Kassabov,” he said. “I have not come to give you false hopes. Better that you leave any expectations you might have for Geo behind. I have ascertained from people in the know, that Geo has been taken out by rogue agents. Do not wait for him and do not look for him.”
With an aching heart, Milyo Kassabov recounted this conversation with the old Bishop who’d been to see General Valkov; the latter had told his eminence that he’d personally given orders regarding Geo, but hadn’t clarified as to the nature of those orders. When he spoke, he looked straight into Nachev’s eyes—with hope, yet on the verge of despair. But Nachev’s face had remained like a rock: nothing had moved.
“Well, perhaps it is I who is wrong, Mr. Kassabov . . .” and he replaced his cap, gave a polite salute, turned on his heels, and left.
Now alone, Milyo Kassabov felt such an overwhelming powerlessness and such a terrifying spite, that for the first time in his entire life, he braced himself on the edge of the chair behind the glass counter displaying postcards from Berlin. He had always stood while working inside his bookstore. Now, he sat as those same two black-blazered huskies outside ran back to the Packard—one nervously opened the door, while the other kept looking around—and Vladimir Nachev gathered the skirts of his cloak and dropped down heavily into the seat. The Packard jumped, hurled forward, and flew down the road toward the train station garden, its hefty tires tearing up the puddles with a silver hiss.
[Tuesday, November 25, 2014]
That summer—the summer of nineteen twenty-five—saw a large restructuring of the Bulgarian police. Edmund Heidenfeldt, general from the gendarmerie, arrived in Sofia all the way from Vienna to personally oversee the whole thing. No expense was to be spared. And that is how—in place of the uncouth disturbance comprised of yesterday’s raffish and idle louts, sorry-looking and forever soiled by wine and manja, gummy-eyed and unshaven hicks, impertinent illiterates who tucked their lame rifles under their armpits like sticks, who staggered around, scatter-brained, their hats always the wrong way, with cracked and dusty visors—after just a few rainy months, Heidenfeldt and Vladimir Nachev saw in front of them
[Wednesday, November 26, 2014]
a new formation of sterling assassins.
And that’s how it really happened.
[Wednesday, November 26, 2014]
Bulletin 3576
Sheytanov, Georgi Vassilev, b. 1898, Yambol. Convicted by judgment 735, from June 20, 1928, by the Turnovo District Court. Outgoing number 11773-1929 (A. 24923. 29)
—From the Central Bulletin for wanted persons, Sofia, 1929,
declaring Sheytanov was still a wanted criminal
Kina Sheytanova grew old in an instant.
She’d buried three children, had even sent her husband to the next world, and had still held herself together, but as soon as she learned that they’d taken out her dearest, her Odjo, as she’d called him during the entirety of his restless rebel’s life, when she got word in that rainy spring of twenty-five, she at once turned into a sorrowful, frazzled old woman.
She hadn’t yet turned sixty years old.
[Thursday, November 27, 2014]
In the very beginning of November, nineteen twenty-five, just about a week after the police lifted the curfew on the twenty-fifth of October, and everyone could once again move freely at all hours of the day and night, writer Anton Strashimirov arrived in town. He was to give ten lectures at the National University—in other words, speak inside the Suglasie salon, which reeked of floor wax and tobacco. Sofia University had been a point of pride and happiness for the city that year: even the eternally at-odds Yambolian newspapers Thracian and Tunja (specifically Tunja and not Tundja, according to multi-page-long rhapsodizing in the newspaper in defense of the latter spelling), buried the hatchet and stood side by side, of the same opinion. Otherwise, great battles were had by the editors of the two—one group drank only at the Kazacheto tavern, the others, only in Nova Bulgaria, and nowhere else. The Thracian, owned by publisher and editor Marangozov, appealed for a strong nation and a solid government, while the publisher of Tunja, Pavlov, and his editor, Assen Kurdjiev, seemed not quite sure of what, exactly, they were fighting for, but appeared to be heavily focused on the dirt in the streets and the pollution in the river.
In any case . . .
[Friday, November 28, 2014]
It wasn’t his first time in Yambol. He’d also been in nineteen twelve, when the community center’s management had spent a good amount of time debating as to whether even to organize his lecture, not to mention the question of actually paying him part of the proceeds. During those same times, Strashimirov had met a teacher in Yambol named Ivan Karanovski, but had not liked the man: Karanovski’s ideas on literature had been far too outdated. Strashimirov came in nineteen twenty-one as well, when that same community center invited him of its own accord, and in spring he gave six lectures inside the crowded salon. He saw Karanovski there again, and again had not liked him: the man had fallen even further back in time with his ideas and appeared mildewed. But the general interest toward his lectures was one-of-a-kind, and the community center Magi did not hesitate but for a moment: they invited him to speak again in the fall of that same year for a second round, and this time, all of the proceeds—three leva from the citizens, and two from the students—would be for him. That time he spoke about the distinctive qualities of Bulgarian family life, about the remnants of the Bogomil movements in the then-everyday life of the Bulgarian person, he spoke about the Bulgarian woman, as she compared to the women of France, Holland, Germany, Scandinavia, and the other Balkan nations, about the despair of being a young person in Bulgaria, and, finally, about the times of great moral decline according to the revelations of Arthur Rimbaud, Oscar Wilde, and Stanislav Pshibishevski.
This is why he liked Yambol—because the people here liked him too, and the community center paid well.
[Saturday, November 29, 2014]
Now his lectures were grouped under the common theme “Holy of Holies,” divided into six separate discussions, such as what is sin, for instance, under the shadow of Tolstoy, sadism according to Pshibishevski, contemporary marriage according to Ibsen—all things of that nature. Later, Thracian would write that his lectures had been lush and exemplary of a high moral pathos and national ideal, while Tunja under-scored the fact the discussions with Strashimirov had been a spontaneous fellowship between the celebrated author and his audience, who had followed his reflections with a heightened interest and hung, delighted, onto his every word: how truly great it was to have been witness to such responsiveness from people on questions of ethics and so forth.
That’s what the two newspapers in Yambol would write, but that would be later; on the second of November, a Monday, as soon as he stepped foot off the mid-day train from Sofia, the first thing Anton Strashimirov did was to tell the group of young people from the university welcoming him at the train station to take him to Sheytanov’s mother at once.
“First,” he demanded dryl
y when he saw their alarmed reactions, “I want to see the woman, and then we shall get to our business. Don’t get soft on me.”
[Sunday, November 30, 2014]
The boys first paled from fear, then awe, and then nodded feverishly, and they all boarded the horse-drawn tram. The conductor whipped the two municipal horses and off they went from the station, over the German bridge, through the large park, over the other bridge across from the Turkish baths, and up by the Council of Officers. They got off at the stop at Coburg Square, which was flanked by the imposing covered market on one side and Vassil Krastev’s bookstore on the other, right in front of the Popular Bank and the large Singer store. They crossed the freshly paved Coburg Square, where, on this early afternoon, a crowd of men had gathered outside the Carmen ready-to-wear shoe store, owned by Robert Mefano, to look at the three new Opel automobiles parked there, and where the Modern Theater janitor brushed on glue to attached the placard for Douglas Fairbanks’ Robin Hood over one announcing The Thief of Bagdad. The boys proudly declared that the Modern Theater was a big deal. They announced that the Brothers Kachulev had already taken care of the distribution of Emil Jannings’ crowning achievement, The Last Laugh, and that the premiere of the exotic film The Doll and Maharaja would take place on the sixteenth of that month.
“The Brothers Kachulev,” they said, “are very serious people. They promised to put electric lights in front of the community center, because it’s really dark out there now and someone could fall and break his head.”
The most important thing was, they said, that the following spring—at the latest!—they would open a movie theater in Yambol—a co-op, because the construction of the coming Svetlina Theater was also making great headway, and so from nineteen twenty-six onward, Yambol would have two whole theaters!
“What a miracle,” Strashimirov grunted absent-mindedly. “Cinematography is dead! There’s not a speck of future in that profession.” And the boys turned red up to their ears.
Then they passed by the Jewish baths and went down the hill through the Jewish neighborhood, where the thinning Sheytanov clan had relocated from the Cargonne. As they descended down the precipitous little streets and stone stairwells, the icy, silver November sun—not yet winter, but not fall, either—shone right across from them and pierced the paling eyes of Anton Strashimirov, and the smell of smoke surrounded them. They arrived at the house and he crossed the yard, hunched over, walking under the bare apple trees, then by the fig tree with its velvet branches and leaves like cupped hands with their fingers spread, then under the vine, and climbed the wooden ladder to the second story. He was met by Penka—the sole surviving sister from the numerous siblings, all now departed. She recognized him, sighed, and invited him in. Anton Strashimirov took off his hat and stepped into the room with its air of apples and camphor, and saw an old woman: she was sitting on the edge of the couch and attempted to stand up, but Anton Strashimirov leaned down as if he were bowing and embraced her, kissed her on her dry cheek, and told her:
“Mother,” he said, “you gave birth to an incredible person. He carried himself like a real man.”
He said so, pulled back just a little bit, lifted one heavy, veteran leg, and stomped his heel against the hardwood floor.
“That’s the kind of man he was, Georgi.” He said. “Pity we couldn’t save him. The ignorant killed him.”
“Can I get you anything?” Kina came alive. “Can Penka make you some coffee, or bring you some jam?”
“Thank you,” Anton Strashimirov replied, “but I am in a hurry, I must check in at the hotel and then get to the community center. I don’t enjoy making people wait. But I will be here for a few days, and I will come again.”
He said this, then left.
Penka walked back with him to the crooked, steep street, where he was awaited by the lads from Sofia University, casting glances back and forth, and while the two of them strode on the cobblestone path, Anton Strashimirov recounted asking around Sofia about how things had gone down with Sheytanov. He told her her brother had likely been taken out by Macedonian factions, but it was very likely the order had come courtesy of General Valkov. He told her that this general looked like nothing more than an army staff rat, but in reality he was also a coward and a murderer.
“This man,” he continued, “when he wakes up, he hates the agrarians and the anarchists, but from lunchtime on, he hates the entire world.”
He also told her the other general, Roussev, was the opposite: all talk and swagger, but a louse at heart. And everybody else in that cabinet was nothing more than a horde of opportunists, apostates and Pharisees: not a cabinet but a camarilla. They all detested each other, yet clung to one another.
Penka’s face was sullen as she heard him out, but she did not interrupt. When she opened the gate, however, she looked him straight in the eye and said:
“I might be clothed in mourning, Mr. Strashimirov, but that is for my mother’s sake only. If it were up to me, I would never dress in black.”
Anton Strashimirov started and looked at her, confused, but she added, just as staunch:
“Have we seen Georgi’s dead body? Have we washed it? Have we thrown dirt in his grave? I haven’t!”
She said this, and continued to look him straight into his paling eyes.
“I am certain my bratche is still alive!” she sighed. “I don’t know when, but I know that one day he will return. He might be in Turkey, or in France, but he will be back, I can feel it. I would never go against my mother, which is why I’m dressed like this.”
Anton Strashimirov saw that her eyes were completely dry.
He shrugged and went out to the boys. He saw one of them smoking nervously and mumbled dryly:
“You leave that hobby alone, boy!” He then took off up the narrow streets and the white steps.
[Sunday, November 30, 2014]
Penka shut the gate behind him and went back upstairs to where her mother sat. The old woman asked who the man had been, who had stomped his foot, and who knew their Odjo.
“That was the writer, Anton Strashimirov.”
“Was that really him?” Kina exclaimed. “My God he got old! I couldn’t even recognize him.”
[Thursday, January 1, 2015]
At any rate, life went on and nobody cared to remember the year nineteen twenty-fiv
End Notes
p. 14
Ilianski Base: Located in Ilientsi, a site for many military bases. It was there that those murdered by the “rogue agents” were buried. It became a residential district in 1961, and today is an industrial and commercial region.
p. 15
Rogue Agents: Unidentified persons who were in charge of murdering political opponents, much like the death squads in Latin America. The authorities used the term to justify the multitude of unsolved murders in 1925. Political agents—army and police reserve executioners acting on behalf of the government—abducted people in the middle of the night, and tortured and killed them, using government buildings for the purpose, such as the Public Safety building, military establishments, and police stations, but sometimes killed people right in the street. The government never took responsibility for any of these goings-on, blaming instead so-called “rogue agents,” as though the persons were acting of their own volition rather than following orders.
p. 16
Sakarovs, Bakalovs, and Kabakchievs: Bywords stemming from the names of Nikola Sakarov, Georgi Bakalov, and Hristo Kabakchiev. They were representatives of the communist party whom the government detained, but never allowed into the hands of the “rogue agents,” probably because it considered them more collaborators than opponents.
p. 23
Denounce the agrarian union: In June of 1923, the coalition of bourgeoisie parties took down the government of the Agrarian Union Party. In September of that same year, the Communist Party led an uprising, which was brutally suppressed.
p. 29
Tsankov, Russev, and Vulkov: Professor Aleksandar Tsank
ov (1879–1959) was a Bulgarian economist and politician who served as prime minister of Bulgaria from 1923 until 1926. General Ivan Rusev (1872–1945) was the Minister of Interior in Tsankov’s government during his years as prime minister. General Ivan Valkov (1875–1962), was a longtime chairman of the Military Union; he also served as Minister of War from 1923 until 1929. Sheytanov mentions the three as a clear paradigm of a concentration of military power that has nothing to do with the people—the prime minister and his two generals.
p. 29
Aleksandar Stamboliyski: (1879–1923) was a leader of the Bulgarian Agrarian National Union, and a notorious anti-monarchist who lead the opposition to Tsar Ferdinand of Bulgaria. He became prime minister from 1919 until June 9, 1923, when he was ousted in the military coup. He was brutally tortured and murdered after attempting to raise a rebellion against Tsankov’s government.
p. 29
Georgi Dimitrov (1882–1949) and Vasil Kolarov (1877–1950): Dimitrov was the first communist leader of Bulgaria, from 1946 until his death in 1949; from 1904 to 1923 he was Secretary of the Trade Unions Federation. Kolarov was a member of the revolutionary committee that launched the September Uprising in 1923. In June 1923, when Stamboliyski was deposed through a coup d’état, Stamboliyski’s Communist allies, who were initially reluctant to intervene, organized an uprising against Aleksandar Tsankov. Dimitrov took charge of the revolutionary activities, and resisted for an entire week. But he and the leadership then fled the country and received a death sentence in absentia.
The Same Night Awaits Us All Page 25