Except from”In Absentia Reports” by Georgi Markov, written between 1975 and 1978.
The news that Stalin is sick caused genuine excitement in all areas of our factory society (the author was working as a engineer in a factory). We were surprised: After years of being exposed to propaganda, hammering in our heads the idea that he, Stalin— the wisest, greatest, the bravest man in the world — was the sole point of our wretched existence, as well as the existence of our planet and even the universe, we automatically assumed that he cannot get sick, let alone die. In the wake of the news of his death one of the older carpenters said pointedly: “Stalin cannot die, you know! … Even if he dies, they will revive him… he is now 73 years old but he can start again at around let’s say 30!”
Since, according to the State Security (the Bulgarian version of KGB), as well as Kiro (the state representative which acts as a manager of the factory), our enemy might use this opportunity to strike, the security of the factory was again enhanced. Everywhere people were patrolling and here were unannounced inspections at night to check if they weren’t asleep. We were supposed to have a social event that evening but it got postponed. “Who dares to laugh now!” as Aunt Anka from the party bureau said. And it was true, no one dared even to smile, though there were at least a dozen people in from the factory had suffered because of the dying “comrade” and were secretly bursting with joy.
Party activists felt excitement that led to confusion. All of them felt that Stalin’s death can trigger changes, and there was nothing that scared them more than changes. Some party officials were literally waiting for Americans to take advantage and attack us. No matter how strong the discipline of the State Security public system was, with news of Stalin’s illness things started to squeak. Across ministries and committees the atmosphere was silent, filled with some sort of vague expectation. Even the most nervous employees with villainous reputation suddenly retired into their shells. A colleague of mine who was doing time at a political prison in Pazardzhik, told me that the guards were so confused that the even the biggest bullies of them began to fawn. The fact that Stalin could die introduced a new concept — that everything ends. Today this probably seems naive and ridiculous, but in those years, I believe, many people felt that they were doomed forever.
I was on duty at the night when the news about the Stalin’s death arrived and sometime around dawn I became a witness to a very memorable tragicomic event. Mr. Z who was a former officer in the royal army and a German graduate was a part of our group. He was a nice guy, but it seemed like there was some kind of political spot in his biography because State Security was often interested in him. Where and how he had managed to get drunk at that night I don't know, but at five o'clock in the morning in the security room I came across the following: my colleague was rolling on the floor, shedding crocodile tears and talking with a tragic voice:
“He is gone. He is no more… our father, our teacher our dearest man, comrade Stalin is no more.” And so on.
And our party boss Kiro, deeply moved, had had bent over him and was sincerely trying to comfort him:
- Calm down, comrade … You know, we are all hurt, my heart is broken too, but … try to calm down…
But our hero continued to roar:
- No! — He cried. — Who will replace him now?
- There will be someone … — Kiro said.
- No! — Mr Z. was shaking into tears — He is indispensable! How do you even dare to say that someone can replace him … Gone is the greatest, the wisest, the dearest. Our father, our teacher, our leader …
Workers from the factory began to gather around us and because of their hard sense of realism they had no trouble understanding that the scene that our colleague was playing, was a living mockery of the dead dictator. А sharp-sighted colleague of mine whispered to me that we must bring Z. out of the factory before he is seen by the director, who would easily guess what stood behind the drunken tears of this unexpectedly moved citizen.
As we were bringing him out, Kiro said to me thoughtfully: “What do you know! The death of Stalin shook even Mr Z. “
After several hours Sofia was full of black flags. The radio played funeral music. Mourning ceremonies were held. Armed party activists stood next to busts, bas-reliefs and portraits of Stalin. There was also activists on “Vitosha” street , which was called “Stalin” at the time and there were newspaper articles about how devastated the city of Varna was (which was also then called “Stalin”). At 12 o’clock, on the day of the funeral everyone was ordered to leave the buildings and stand still for three to five minutes, while the sirens from factories and locomotives, tram whistles and any other sound equipment rings continuously.
When we went in the yard of our factory, the weather was sunny but very cold. The mood was somewhat pompous and silly. At 12:00 sharp Manya stretched before us as a soldier and sirens of all surrounding buildings roared. But our own siren, which had not been used since the war ended, made no sound. Manya’s face flushed with anger, but she said nothing and continued standing.
At the same moment I saw that one of the workers, the 60-year-old Dimitar, was climbing the chimney to reach the siren which was at the very top of it. It was crazy for a man even to attempt to climb the chimney this way. But for our amazement Dimitar managed to reach its top and our siren roared, after all the others were already silent. I stood there and wondered — where does fanaticism takes you? I felt that with the same state of mind with which he climbed that steep chimney, Dimitar could commit terrible and reckless crimes. This combination of brutal force and no intellect had always made me shudder.
On my way home I passed a bookstore, where I saw a book by Bogdan Botev and Stoyan Ninov, entitled “Always with Stalin.” Magazines and newspapers were filled with newly written works from Bulgarian poets and writers who declared universal grief over the new guest of the Lenin Mausoleum in Moscow, with their inherent pathetic tone. I don't remember anything from their gospel. At that time I still did not know that most of it was written as part of the procedure. (During communist times writers were often ordered to create works that serve propaganda purposes) Years later I would read a wonderful poem about the Soviet Union by Stefan Tzanev, which was banned by the State Security. It featured a vivid description of that day in March when at the same time two people were buried in Moscow — Stalin and composer Prokofiev. The poem said that while three million people were walking behind Stalin’s coffin, behind the coffin of Prokofiev there were only three. Since then I thought many times about that balance — three million to three. Three million have been going after the person who left us with the most ugly and disgusting deeds ever committed on this planet. Three people have been going after the person who left probably the most amazing music ever.
But that day I walked the streets of Sofia and I thought about what Stalin was for us. I remembered stories told by my relatives about mass executions near Pernik, about people buried half-dead in the dilapidated ventilation shafts of the Pernik mines. I remembered the State Security cars that cruised across the country at night and spawned horror among everyone, as some kind of contemporary vampires. I remembered about my friends being beaten in the left wing of the Central Prison. Remembered the endless stream of cases that took place at the top floor of the Courthouse, during which my classmates, locked down in the bunkers at Belene, received death sentences. I remembered this whole murderous, barbaric, filthy and vile campaign against our entire nation, carried out by hateful invaders and a handful of sellouts. Stalin was the man who turned Bulgaria into our well-organized Soviet prison. Stalin was the one who banished the happiness, lightness and freedom of my generation, who poisoned our future and made us slaves of the most primitive and brutal feudalism.
I don't usually hate and hardly ever hated deeply. But towards Stalin and his minions, I felt and still feel boundless animosity. There is perhaps nothing else on earth that I consider more degrading for the humanity than the existence of this criminal megalomaniac. Nothing more degrading than the fact that we were forced to worship him. To glorify this man was a horrible provocation against the mind and dignity of every more or less decent human being. It was an equivalent to self-humiliation. But years later I would ask myself — wasn’t Stalin just an excuse for the actions of thousands and thousands of real criminals and murderers who crushed whole nations in his name? Wasn't “Stalin” just the name of the disease, which unlike the plague and cholera mutated into a permanent epidemic and killed many millions?
There was really something morbid in all Stalinists I knew as Kiro, Dimitar and various officers of the militia and the secret police who were party activists. I’ve heard dozens of drunk-talk from former stalinists who said to me : “Well, you can say what you want about him, but the man had a fist of iron! I wish there were more people like him!”
And during the “Czech Spring” (a series of anti-communism riots) in Prague a bulgarian Colonel of State Security said: “Oh, how we need Stalin now!”
The theme of Stalin is perhaps the biggest theme of our time. It is hardly limited to the life and work of this horribly primitive villain, but extends to entire human societies and goes deep inside ourselves. Perhaps it is just a contemporary treatment of the eternal theme of evil, of Satan.
Just days after the death of dictator the excitement, at least at the surface, had died down. It was obvious that nothing had changed. Stalin was gone, but stalinism remained intact. If something was indeed changing, it was too far away and perhaps too slow. Stalin kept looking at us from every wall with narrowed eyes, haunting us with his presence, and thrusting us his cold breath. At a meeting, a friend of mine said with cautious optimism: “We lost Stalin, but we still have Comrade Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria (a ruthless war official who ruled Russia for a short time after Stalin’s death).”
It was a portentous reminder, because recently the name of Beria was often mentioned along with the name of Malenkov and Molotov.
I heard about a couple of very curious stories which took place in the circles of Politburo and the Central Committee of the party where various Bulgarian leaders were perplexed because they didn’t know which God they should worship (who will be the next soviet leader). Because of the fights in the Soviet Politburo in Moscow our Soviet-appointed leaders went through many funny situations, but their instinct for self preservation plus their innate servility protected them from any indiscretion. Because at the end, every dictator, large or small, wants the same thing: to preserve the status quo i.e. to prevent things from changing. And if changes are needed, he wants them to be carried out in such a way that essentially nothing changes. A few years after March 1953 we would still listen to speeches that call our party “Stalinist party.” To this day no book containing serious criticism against Stalin is published in Bulgaria.
