This month, my team is in the northwestern part of Bulgaria. We are working with a local church in one of the poorest cities in the country. Pastor Yavor is passionate about what he does and has taken the time to share with us the history and culture of this area. One of the things that he is passionate about is history and the fact that only few events in history are given the spotlight and that there are many tragic events that most of the world goes without knowing or remembering. Below is a historical fiction short story taken from a book that he wrote.
Marxist Chronicles – The Talking Bush
By Yavor Kostov
I decided to write this book, even though I knew that few might read it. Who cares about stories with unknown people or events that have happened deep in the past that at first do not seem to be important in this day and age. But the fact is that these stories are connected in the sick and broken present times and if many of us knew about it we would have goose bumps. The ideas forming our today’s world have spread their roots and caused incurable damage to the immune system of society, that can’t or maybe just doesn’t want to be able to see the truth. The readers of my book probably won’t be much but I still decided to write it. I’m obligated to speak when I have something to say. Even if I may be accused of egoistical motives for publishing the next couple of paragraphs, that kind of a reproach will not hurt me. For me it is most important not to be an enemy of my own conscious, not today and not in the future. That’s why I decided to write this book.
I’m not claiming that my idea came to me spontaneously; the idea was growing on me for years as I was living in the ugly, old, and yellow panel buildings. It was growing as I was seeing the damage caused by the cruel philosophy, guilty of destroying plenty of human lives including mine. The idea matured in the realization that the today’s generation is locked in the shiny but stinking jail cell, created precisely from the same godless self-lifting idol born by the fake idea of freedom, equality, and brotherhood. Conception that denies the idea of God and crowns in His place the lonely creation called man.
In my mind I already knew the title of the book “Marxist Chronicles”. I thought that if I write of the metastasizes that have covered today’s world; I would have to go back in the beginning of the spreading of this disease. That is why the title of the book is “Marxist Chronicles”. After this I reminded myself that the easiest way to influence people with my work is if I start revealing the big picture to them slowly – from the small, the close, and the known, to the thing that is big and extensive, and summarizes, and gives a conclusion to an understandable, realized, panoramic image.
But let’s end it with the introductory words that are about to change the first chapter into one annoyingly long preface. It’s time I begin the story of the Talking Bush. It was only logical that I start the story from my homeland and point it at the people with which we breathed the same air. And I moved into action.
I traveled to the village Makresh on the early train, during one sunny Friday. In my bag I carried an unpretentious notebook, two pens, and a voice recorder like the ones journalists use. When I was walking to the center of the village I had the weird feeling that I’m in a place that has a big embarrassing secret, kept safe because of the terror that had come because of it – an event that I had the responsibility to bring into deserved existence.
I talked with the man who had the information in him, he had been a witness of what used to take place in this village. I talked with him so I could hear the facts from a first person point of view. Grandpa Stoyan, dignified oldie, came into the eighty-fourth year of his living, was sitting on a bench in the middle of the center and by the smile that came up on his face I knew that he was expecting me. I introduced myself, and by the following handshake I knew that this man couldn’t wait to start talking. Maybe that was the way to take down this massive weight he had carried on his back for years. And yet I couldn’t stop myself so by an old habit I delayed the conversation, and instead I threw a couple of empty witty comments, and worthless findings, about the clean air, and the clean streets in the village.
“It’s clean of course” Said grandpa Stoyan and then turned back on the reason I came to the village: “It’s clean but only on the outside. But it’s actually very dirty, son. It’s been stained with blood, and I do not see how it can be cleaned up. Maybe you might help.” “You mean the events of 1944 right?” I asked, and right after that I realized that I don’t know how to act adequately, in front of this man who has survived so much. “Isn’t this the reason you’re here!” Said the old man, not insultingly but sharp, maybe so we can get to the point faster. “Excuse me, sir.” I said, embarrassed as I continued: “You’re right. Let’s get to the point. Are you okay if I start my voice recorder? I want to record you so I don’t miss a thing from your story. “Start whatever you want, just write the truth in the end, whatever it is. “That’s what I want as well. The truth to be heard.”
“Okay son. Should we begin?”
I played the voice recorder and then I told the man “yes”. Grandpa Stoyan wanted to say something but then suddenly he stopped himself. His voice didn’t want to obey his will, and it was as if something invisible got stuck down his throat. But grandpa Stoyan didn’t give up, he began telling the story: “It began during September 1944, 17 September. Back then I was a little kid- 12 years old, but after what happened I could never forget this date, no matter how much I wanted too. With my brother Kosta we were watching the sheep in the field, my brother was two years older than me, he’s gone now. He couldn’t get better after that day. He survived a few more years, but do to his constantly sick state, he finally let go and died. As I said back then it was the two of us…”
My mind was focused on this old man. While he was talking I didn’t think he spoke like any old man who lived his whole life in the village, but like someone with great education and who’s wise enough to go through the difficulties of life. “Since a couple of days ago” The old man continued “the village went through events that my small mind couldn’t explain. My neighbors weren’t acting the same way as before. A couple of times I heard aunty Maria cry with a loud voice. She had lived her whole life in the house next to ours, and she was a close friend of my mom…
***
On first sight everything looked normal. The sun still rose on the east and showered with its golden drops the gray houses, the animals still reminded us of themselves with their many different sounds, they liked to produce, and the plants gave us generously from their matured autumn aroma. Only the people looked different; darkened, sad, and scared.
To 12 year old Stoyan the difference in the people’s behavior worried him, but this morning he decided that the escape from human presence will give him some peace. It was his and his brother’s turn to take the sheep out on pasture. He was about to experience a day without any of that heavy atmosphere in the village. They started herding the sheep in the morning, each carrying a bag with bread and cheese in it, while the herd was following them. The known animal smell distracted his dark thoughts in the beginning. But not so long afterwards he felt quite worried again about what was happening in the village. “Hey big brother, why is aunty Maria crying?” He decided to start the conversation. “Did something happen to unlce Boris?” “In the town hall’s basement.” Answered Kosta thoughtfully. “He was locked up two days ago, and not only him -they caught Kolyo Strashimirovia, Tosho Vutov, Velyo Mikov, and also Gospodin YordanTsanov.” Mentioning the last name made Stoyancho feel sick. “Gospodin Doctor!- Said Stoyancho while feeling terrified.- Who caught him? Why? The Doctor is… a good man. And know him ever since I first remembered. He was always good to me.” “You ask too much. You talk too much.- Kosta made an angry face, but then he gently turned towards his little brother.- “You watch your sheep, Stoyane. Everything in the village is going to be alright.” Stoyanchobelieved in the words of his brother, and felt how the fear inside of him started to expire. At least for a little while, because after about an hour, way after the sheep had already started feeding themselves, Stoyan had heard a noise that made him feel uncomfortable again. “What is this noise brother? Sounds like the sound of the sewing machine of aunty Petrana from Vidin. The machine that uncle Vanyo brought her from Australia.” “Austria-with a sad smile Kostacorrected his little brother.- but you are right, it really sounds like it.” The two boys sat quite for a long time, listening the banging of what sounded like a sewing machine, meanwhile the sheep were very concentrated in the act of eating. Later the weird noise suddenly stopped, and the following silence brought the kids back into reality. “I’ll go see what’s there – Kosta quietly spoke up his on his plan:-It’s right over there, all the noise was coming from the Wolf’s Vale. Twenty minutes that way and twenty minutes on the way back and I’ll be here, you’ll see.” Stoyancho got scared and tried to object, but then remembered that he was very curious as well, to know what actually the source of that weird noise is, that had come to his homelands.“You won’t be late brother, right?” “I won’t Stoyan, I told you.- Kosta patted Stoyan on the back.- come on don’t be scared, act like a man, you girl. I go there, I go back, and I tell you the whole story, but don’t tell anything to mom this evening, okay?” “I won’t.”
The big brother put down the bag from his shoulders, gave it to the shivering Stoyancho, and as a joke waved a finger around his face: “And you better not touch my food, you hear me!- Then he smiled, and quickly headed to the Wolf’s Vale as if a glorious adventure was awaiting for him over there.” Not long after the excited young shepherd hid behind the upland ahead, and at that moment Stoyancho realized, that when separated from his brother, everything around seemed completely different. Even the sound, seemed completely gone out of the picture. The boy tried to listen, but at a certain point his ears grew tired of listening. The only thing that was with him at that moment was the terrible fear he had been feeling throughout this whole day, and the three dozen of sheep (not caring about his problems), the boy started counting the minutes until his brother’s return. He was constantly messing up while trying to count the time, getting mad at himself he decided multiple times to start over again. Not long after, he had no idea what time it was. In the Vale everything was completely silent. And then something happened. The fear grew bigger and bigger. “Mommy might beat me up, but I’ll see what’s going on with Kosta”, Thought the little shepherd, while continuing on with his rebellious motives: “Hopefully when I come back, the sheep will be alright. Even if it’s not, my brother is still more important to me. I’ll run fast. ten minutes until I get there, ten minutes until I come back, the sheep won’t even know I’m gone.”
The boy grabbed the two backs, and without further due he started running in the direction of the Wolf’s Vale. “Why are you laying like this brother?- yelled loudly Stoyancho, when he came close to Kosta who was laying on the grass.- “Get up fast, brother. I left the sheep alone and we need to get back right now. If mom realizes that we left the sheep she will beat us with a stick.”
But Kosta didn’t leave any signs that he is hearing whatever Stoyancho was telling him. So the little brother looked carefully into Kosta’s body and yelled with all his might. Kosta looked pale as if dead, with his eyes closed, it was only normal that the little shepherd would think he is dead.
Stoyancho grabbed Kosta by the shoulders, lifted him up and started shaking him with all his strength. “What is wrong you brother? Get up, please! Get up, and let’s get out of here!”
Kosta opened his eyes and tried to speak up, but his mouth was dry and he couldn’t make any sense or even sound clear, when he tried to speak. The laying kid finally sat up, and with his shaking hand he pointed at the Vale. The whole fight for getting his brother up took Stoyan took a few seconds, but for Stoyancho time had stopped.
He looked at the Vale but at first he didn’t notice anything unusual. The leaves were softly swinging by the weak wind. The sun was where it was supposed to be, above the sky, even though it seemed like it had gotten through its route way faster, and the bush were right where they were supposed to be. The bushes… Then Stoyancho saw the terrifying picture.
Even though the information arrived quite late until it transfers from the eyes to the brain, when that happened the boy yelled loudly, and for a moment his face looked just like his brother’s.
In the closest bush there was a decapitated human head. Every now and then there were still some drops of blood falling out of the head, the ground beneath it became a shapeless pool of blood. Stoyancho looked away almost instantly, but then he looked back at the disgusting sight. The head seemed familiar. The kid got closer to the bush, and a moment later he yelled with all his power.“Noo-o-o! Brother, this is the doctor! Gospodin Tsanov! Not the doctor! Noo-o-o…” Then before his eyes everything became white and quiet, and his ears were dying. Stoyancho lost balance and sat back. He started crying, and his body was shaking like never before. Out of the sudden the boy stood up, having this unbelievable flow of energy, and with a trembling voice he turned towards his brother. “Where is the body, Kosta?” “I don’t know Stoyane. Let’s get out of here!” “I just want to look into the Vale, if it’s there.”
Stoyancho made a few steps and reached the end of the Vale, after that it was going only downhill. He looked down and saw a view he could never forget afterwards. The bottom of the Wolf’s Vale was filled with the bodies of dead men. Body parts, head, arms legs, all twisted in some unusual ways. Which somehow comforted Stoyan, that at least these people didn’t die alone. Disgusting comfort. Stoyan woke up from the terrible stupor he felt, right when the hand of Kosta touched his shoulder.
“Let’s go back”
***
Later we realized that the men where brought here with trains and trucks from the whole region. The communists decided to do their job in the Wolf’s Vale, because they used the natural vale as a graveyard. They saved on a lot of digging. From the village of Makresh there were killed no less then 15 men. Their relatives tried talking to the mayor so they can bury their husbands, so the kids will at least know where the bodies of their dead fathers are. The mayor said:
“Why are you worrying about this? Do you want your children to be orphaned?” But they insisted and the mayor finally released the number executed men in the vale, and his words were:
“Even if I let you, you have to be crazy if you think you’re going to find them. In the vale there are 800 hundred people, where will find exactly you men?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, can you tell me more about doctor Tsanov– I interrupted the story of grandpa Stoyan. – from what you had told me, I thought that you knew him very well.” The grandpa looked at me, and I knew that his pain didn’t wear off even after all these years. He spoke up and the warmness of his voice, struck me even harder.
“Son, do you know the Lord’s Prayer? – He asked me, and I wondered if he is changing the subject on purpose. Afterwards he asked me directly:
“You are young but have you heard of it?”
“Yes I know it– I answered boldly.
Grandpa Stoyan began speaking the words of the prayer with simplicity and purity, that didn’t leave a drop of doubt that Stoyan was a Christian:
“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And do not bring us to the time of trial, but rescue us from the evil one (because the kingdom is yours, the power and glory, until the end of times. Amen.)”
What followed was complete silence, and without any exaggeration, I couldn’t interrupt, and that’s why I let grandpa Stoyan speak up whenever he feels like it. He stayed quite for a little bit and then spoke up with incredible softness.
“The doctor taught me. He shared with me passages from the Holy Scripture, and with the others from the village, but his attitude towards me was different. He knew my father had passed away when I was five years old. That our mom had raised us by herself, and he chose to take care of me and my brother. But he was different to me than to anyone else, he wanted to help me become educated, but most of all help me believe in Jesus Christ.”
“And did he manage?” “I was only twelve, but I never forgot that man. He left a big whole in my soul. Do you know son, I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone before: they killed the doctor, they were terrible towards him, but they never managed to remove him from my memories. Throughout the next years I used plenty of my free time so I can go to that place. Next to the bush, where the head of the doctor was. The head wasn’t there, but the Bush kept on speaking to me, as if the doctor was still there. And do you know what he told me, son?” “No- I said quietly, but I desired an answer.- what did the bush tell you?” “The Lord’s Prayer, son. The prayer Mr. Tsanov had taught me, the doctor. Those are words that saved me during the years of the communist’s madness. I was approaching the bush been as quiet as possible, and I listened. And I always heard him. Every time I went near the bush I heard all of those great words, the promise– Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven– helped me dream and believe, that the communist lie will one day end, that God will rule and that one day there will be justice.”
Half an hour later I pressed the button of the small voice recorder and the recording stopped, I said goodbye to Mr. Stoyan, and I headed for the train station. I was walking with my backpack in which I carried a notebook, two pens, and a voice recorder the ones that journalists use, around the seemingly nice streets of the village of Makresh.Walking around the dry asphalt I knew nothing was as it seems on first sight. I knew I was knee-deep in river full of blood. The source of that river was the year 1944 the year that kept in the village’s darkest secret.
What I heard had impressed me a lot. A few decades ago this stop was the last stop in the lives of many forgotten but actually people who lived, from my dark homeland, and at that place on the same train station, this fact hurt me deeply.
I was a writer ever since I started learning the letters, and I always used words to express my emotions, desires, and revelations, but in that moment, I had no words to speak. In the beginning I didn’t know the reason for their betrayal, but when I got on the train, and I heard the wheels of the train sing their iron marsh, my mind cleared and I finally got it- I couldn’t find words because a couple of questions forced them to go back only to a life where they are full of content. The questions sounded in my head: why was that story about the Wolf’s Vale, forgotten, shrouded in fog, and untold? Is the people’s memory weak or was there another reason for them being silent, that stayed in the roots of this terrifying secret?
I looked through the window into the flawed soil, in which I was born and raised. Did I know the answers to those questions? Oh, yeah. I was sure I had the answers and they sounded true enough, so I can accept them as reality. But everything at its own time. Isn’t it true that the picture should be revealed little by little– from the small, the close, and the known, to the thing that is big and extensive, and summarizes, and gives a conclusion to an understandable, realized, panoramic image.
This story is that of an event that is not well-known, even by the locals who live in this area. Those who are aware either by having lost family or by having lived in that time don’t talk about it out of fear. Pastor Yavor wrote this fiction piece as a way of remembering this historic event and of raising awareness. We can’t go back and change history, but we can learn to better understand the present and to prevent more stories of the same.
I tried researching the killings of September 1, 1944 and could find little to nothing about it. I did however read about events later in that month and throughout that year. Over 20,000-30,000 Bulgarian intellects were killed by the Communist regime. This has had a devastating effect on the economy and culture, even today. In this area alone, poverty and mental illness are visible everywhere you look.
